As you may or may not know, depending on whether or not you are a baseball fan, the Oakland Athletics have played their last home game in Oakland. Ever. Due to anemic attendance and inability to work out a new stadium deal, the Athletics announced earlier this year they would be moving the franchise to Las Vegas, ironically following in the footsteps of the Oakland Raiders, who moved to Oakland a few years back.
For the most part, baseball was happy to get out of Oakland and leave the Bay Area to the San Francisco Giants. The Giants have always been more popular and have a wonderful stadium on the San Francisco waterfront. It also doesn't hurt that they have won three World Series is the last 15 years, so attendance is not an issue.
But the A's have a small problem in their planned move to the desert. Las Vegas did not have a baseball stadium suitable for the Athletics or Major League Baseball, so they are going to build one. As any contractor will tell you, it takes a while to build things and the intricacy of building a stadium adds time to the building process.
The Athletics have said it will take three years to build a stadium in Las Vegas. But having burned their bridges in Oakland, they need a place to play for the next three years (at least). In another ironic twist, the Athletics are going to head up I-80 an hour or so and for the next three years call Sacramento home, playing in the stadium of the Sacramento River Cats, home of the Giants Triple-A club. One last parting shot at San Francisco.
Earlier this morning I was on Twitter, or maybe it was Instagram, I really can't remember, and it really doesn't matter. But what is relevant is the video that I watched, which conjured up memories of an event that happened to me some 19 years ago.
The video was taken after the A's last home game. A member of the grounds crew had a shovel and was shoveling dirt and putting it in the cups, baggies, hats, whatever would hold the soil, of the Oakland faithful who wanted to take part of the Oakland Coliseum home with them. I would imagine the treasured dirt from the infield or batter's box will find a place of honor in an individual's library or den or man cave.
Flash back to December 2005. The St. Louis Cardinals have had a new stadium under construction and are going to move into it in time for the 2006 season. Thus 2005 would be their last season in "Old" Busch Stadium before moving next door to "New" Busch Stadium. Do you follow me?
A week or two after Thanksgiving Marilyn and I went to the old hometown to do some Christmas shopping. It was an easy 200-mile drive from our home in Pocahontas, Arkansas heading north on US 67. The trip generally took about 3 hours and 45 minutes.
While in the Gateway area, I told M I wanted to go downtown and see what was left of old Busch Stadium. After all, I grew up there, probably going to (I am not exaggerating) 300 or so games in its 39-year history.
When we arrived, a chain-link fence surrounded what once held Busch Stadium. There was only a sliver of the upper/lower deck still standing. The rest was a dirty pile of rubble. The rubble was a lot of dirt, rock and piles of concrete which once made the stadium. I got out of the car and stood next to the fence. Several men my age stood near me. We acknowledged each other's presence with a simple nod. No words were spoken. We simply went back to our solemn, gaze, each alone with our thoughts of what we had witnessed over the past 39 years.
After being transfixed by the scene in front of me, my concentration was interrupted by a construction worker in his yellow vest and white hard hat, who wandered into our area on the other side of the fence. The other side where this baseball temple once stood.
To this day I do not know where the courage came from, but I called out to the worker. "Sir," I was able to get out, "sir, could I have one of those pieces of concrete?" I meekly pointed to one of the 30 or so pieces nearby. He stopped, looked at me and they at the pile. He shrugged, and said, "sure, I guess." He actually asked which one I wanted; I mumbled it didn't matter.
He reached down and picked up a nice chunk of concrete that was flat on one side and handed it to me. "Will this do?" I held it in my hand as if it were the Holy Grail. "Yes, thank you," was all I could get out, never taking my eyes off the prize I was holding.
Then a funny thing happened. The other four or five men standing near me, who had been watching me with a hint of jealousy and awe suddenly found courage. "Can I have one too," they asked, almost in unison. Dutifully, not saying a word, the worker picked up the cherished pieces of childhood and handed one to each of my newfound brothers. Smiles suddenly appeared on our faces. We were all, in a word, "giddy," because none of us expected to leave this hallowed ground with anything but memories.
For 19 years now my piece of Busch Stadium sits proudly on a shelf of a bookcase in our library at home. One man's rubble is another man's treasure.
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