The A’s, the Expos, and the passage of time

“‘White elephant.’ Noun. A possession that is useless or troublesome, especially one that is expensive to maintain or difficult to dispose of.” – Oxford Languages.

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When I was a kid first falling in love with baseball, in 2004, the storied Montreal Expos were just winding down, en route to Washington, D.C., where they found a new home.

I recall the sombre eulogies and pervasive sense of melancholy, but as an innocent pre-teen, most of the real meaning – along with the political and commercial underpinnings – eluded me. I just thought the Expos had a cool hat, and I liked Orlando Cabrera, so their relocation seemed odd. 

Ever since, the Expos have loomed somewhere in the ether, beguiling with an ineffable aura of elusiveness. Inexplicably, I’m still yet to buy that iconic red, white and blue Expos hat, but I wore an Oakland Athletics cap today. The correlation? Well, these kindred ballclubs now belong to the same dusty echelon of bygone baseball mythology. This evening, you see, the A’s played their final game in Oakland after 57 years by the Bay. And Oaktown joined The 514 as a figment of my baseball imagination.

With one last mundane out – a routine ground ball off the bat of Travis Jankowski, snared by third baseman Max Schuemann and whirled across the diamond to Tyler Soderstrom – one of the most instantly recognisable sports teams in the world was uprooted from its passionate community. Just like that – an abrupt full-stop after decades of freeform poetry.

Baseball’s Last Dive Bar has poured its final pint. The Coliseum has turned off its creaking lights. The bleachers have finally been silenced. No more games. No more cheers. No more memories. 

In contrast to my nascent Expos ignorance, I’m fully aware of Oakland’s sorry baseball demise. I get it now, and the whole thing sucks. Yes, I’m a Yankees fan, but I have an appreciation for all baseball teams, and the A’s have always had a special place in my heart. By default, they have become the ‘second team’ of most baseball romantics, who admire the countercultural proclivities of a sporting ruin that got old before its time.

The A’s have always had a distinct identity – an iconography, stitched in green and gold, that evokes the cryptic majesty of a latent sporting juggernaut. There has always been a human relatability to the A’s, both in charismatic triumph and exasperating despair. Even as its custodians neglected their duty, this team – and it’s downtrodden fans – had a pulse, a thread of rebellion, a meaning that will echo through time.

This was the team of Reggie and Rollie, Catfish and Vida, McGwire and Canseco. Of Rickey and Eckersley, Giambi and Chávez, Stewart and Braden. Of Moneyball – Billy Beane, Brad Pitt, Jonah Hill, et al.

This was the team of white cleats and vivid knee-high socks. Of big hair and handlebar moustaches. Of attitude and swagger, style and groove. Of underdogs who never let convention destroy a dream.

This was the team of colourful flags and homemade banners, caustic drums and makeshift vuvuzelas. Of outcasts and renegades, pirates and contrarians. Of blue collar salt and alternative community.

This was the team that brought four world championships and six pennants to the Bay Area – more than the San Francisco Giants, vaunted neighbours to the west. 

This was the team so many loved.

That such an institution should be lost – packed onto pallets and shipped to Las Vegas via Sacramento – is bafflingly surreal. I still struggle to comprehend it. All sense has dripped from the hour glass. 

Understand – mine is not the clichéd outrage of a snooty British mind blown by the mercenary manoeuvring of North American sports. I know these things happen. Teams come and go. Franchises relocate. I have even seen, from afar, the Raiders and Warriors abandon Oakland, no less. It is all part of the ecosystem. But baseball is my greatest love, and a key part of that – a team I have known for 20 years – is shifting to the past tense. That speaks to a confusing world changing around me.

Of course, various modules of the beloved Athletics identity will survive the move to Las Vegas. The iconic colours will likely remain in some fashion, but their meaning will be diluted, and the heritage hewn in those shades will never be transplanted. My cap may even remain current, barring a total rebrand, but it will only ever signify Oakland to me. Las Vegas should get its own look.

Some say the Athletics are supposed to be in flux – that this is but the latest episode for a vagabond franchise that has searched, in vain, for a suitable, permanent, long-term home for 70 years. Certainly, one must consider the bygone pain foisted upon Athletics fans in Philadelphia and Kansas City, from whence the white elephant travelled, but that does not lessen the heartbreak of Oakland denizens today. Many things can be recreated in the desert, but the passion of those fanatics cannot.

This week, as the A’s staged their final homestand in Oakland, beleaguered team owner John Fisher issued an apology letter to fans, explaining that his group made every effort to secure a long-term future in the city. “I can tell you this from the heart: we tried,” he wrote. “Staying in Oakland was our goal, it was our mission, and we failed to achieve it. And for that, I am genuinely sorry.”

And while jilted A’s fans will understandably disregard such platitudes as hollow public relations filler, there has been a byzantine process – political and commercial, legal and civic – that led to this point. There have been more failed stadium proposals than possums sightings in Mount Davis, and multiple generations have failed to find an adequate resolution. Blame can be apportioned in spades, but those loyal fans – those poor souls who lived and died with this team – are exempt. Their legacy is one of tireless devotion, and it must never be forgotten.

Indeed, over the years, we have heard a lot about the people who never went to Oakland A’s games – the 35,000 who left empty seats at the Coliseum each night. We have also heard a lot about the people who fled the Oakland A’s – the superstars who found fortune elsewhere, via trade or free agency. But now, in their waning hours of need, we should focus on the people who stayed. The people who are still here, refusing to leave that hulking concrete edifice for the final time. The loyal and lonely. The fierce and fanatical. The human and heartbroken – forever told their city is second-rate, forever devout, nevertheless.

In a sporting universe of homogenous commerce, being an Oakland A’s fan still meant something – right to the dying day. Something esoteric, sequestered and fatigued, granted, but something, still. Something primal, beyond wins and losses, dollars and cents. Beyond owners and executives, players and heroes. Something innate and indescribable. A refusal to sacrifice your sensibilities, even when big business and politics conspire against you at every turn. A contrarianism. Forget those who will never understand.

To be an Oakland A’s fan was to be proud of your city, and its bedraggled team, no matter what.

To be an Oakland A’s fan was to forego any remote semblance of hope and linger in a dim existential twilight. 

To be an Oakland A’s fan was to find meaning in things condemned as meaningless.

John Fisher quashed all that. And while I understand this is a business, and it is his prerogative to move his corporation wherever he sees fit, I just think it is a horrid commentary on capitalism that one multi-millionaire can decide, against the tide of public opinion, to pick up a beloved sports team and plonk it down 550 miles away.

As fans, regardless of our rooting inclinations, we must be wary of such wanton destruction. An attack on one of us is an attack on all of us. Today, the Athletics, but tomorrow, your team? Do not take permanence for granted. We are all at the whim of capricious owners who prioritise profit. Remember that. It is a rule of engagement.

I watched Oakland’s final ballgame today, that famous green and gold cap upon my head – a token of respect in a time of mourning. When Tyler Soderstrom caught that final out, straddling first base, I placed the cap gently in a wardrobe for posterity. Only an Expos hat can keep it company. I will buy one soon – a nod to the teams that time forgot.