The trick to parking in Oakland for a ball game is timing. Show up
less than an hour from game time, and you are funneled into the $10
lot. Arriving at 9:30 for a 1:00 game means that:

a) You have time to dip into San Francisco, a more enjoyable experience when their juiced-up team is away; and

Oakland may be a bit of a hellhole, which is another reason why
the A’s are departing for Fremont and their Cisco Field plans, but at
least they set up mass transit to drop you off where you want to be.

So
advantage is taken, and prior to the game, Matt and I went into SF for
breakfast, [note: those Mary Tyler Moore / Full House-esque shots are
not available for the blog] with intention to return at 12:30, having
left the car in the free lot. Meaning there’s more money for beer and
food.

Coming back from the overpriced hippie metropolis, the signage
tells you two things about the teams that play in Oakland: the Raiders
lie, and the A’s just play ball. [Since I don't care about basketball,
I say nothing about Golden State.]

But what a day for a ball game – 80
degrees, bright sunny day, and God-bless-you-Rick Magnante, free tickets
on the third base side.

From a ball fan perspective, it can’t be beat;
from a watching former-C’s perspective, it sucks, because only Nick
Swisher is in the game for the A’s (what with ‘99 C Eric Chavez being
injured), and only Garrett Anderson is left from the 1995-98 Triple-A
Angels affiliate of the C’s.

Patience, however, is rewarded when, in order, Travis Buck comes
up in the 7th to pinch hit and collect the go-ahead RBI, Kurt Suzuki
comes in in the 8th to catch for Huston Street, and Dan Johnson bats in
the 8th in order to become a defensive sub for the top of the 9th.

Good
guys win a very close game 2-1, and then it’s back to SF for the
evening, where Matt and I happened to be in a bar when Mr. Juice-man
hits #755. Ignoring the delusion of the bandwagoneers, I simply relax
in my beer and enjoy the evening; the rolling-in fog being symbolism
for the collective myopia the city has for their hero.

Today was designed to be a bit tight. We have to drive the 90
miles back to Oakland for a 1:00 game, then flip right around and come
back to Sacramento for the nightcap to our NoCal experience. That was
expected; what wasn’t was the 54 degrees, rain and low fog hovering
about the Bay area. Naturally, we are sitting in the most exposed part
of the stadium, the part that cheap bastard Al Davis made Oakland build
so as to entice a petty old man to bring his team back where it
belongs. [ L.A. Raiders? Sounds more like the Key West Pirates or Fire
Island Bears.]

Anyway, what’s going through my mind the whole time is that ‘I
should have called the A’s before the trip’ to try and get a group
photo with Messers Suzuki, Buck, Chavez, Johnson and Swisher. It’s not
that it would have likely happened, but it would have been a plausible
attempt.

In theory, the game was supposed to be a pitching match-up of
stupendous proportions – Haren versus Lackey. That idea is quickly
undone by the ineffective hitting and fielding of Marco Scutaro. I’m
always amazed how a fellow can ground into so many double plays but
seemingly not be able to convert them on his end.

Throw in a shoddy
relief appearance by Kiko Calero and you get an A’s loss, totally
wasting a Dan Johnson 2-run homer and some fine backstop management by
Kurt Suzuki. Dejected at seeing our first home team loss, Matt and I
left back for Sacramento.

California: 10 lanes that don’t move.

We got back with about 30 minutes to spare, just being long enough
to park in Old Town and walk to the park. This evening promised to be a
home run festival – the howling gale that punished us in Oakland is
blowing out of Raley Field. We were not disappointed; former C Gregorio
Petit ("Greg Small" to Tiger Williams) and journeyman Dee Brown both
crushed balls deep over the fences, propelling the Rivercats to a 6-1
victory.

Special moment was before the game, when Mike Madsen came over
to where we were sitting and posed for a bunch of photos, and
apologized if we were there the night before because he claimed to have
"stunk up the joint."

"That’s not the point," we told him, "We’re just
happy to see you guys before you hit the big club and can’t do this
anymore." He seemed touched by the positive sentiment, wished us luck
and then alighted into the dugout.