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Only when the A's got to California in 1968 did they learn to win, to show character — characters, really, with Reggie and Rollie and Vida and the other, kookie, brawling, mustachioed, three-time World Series champs of 1972-74. Thereafter, the A's recapitulated the awesome-or-awful tendency of the Mack half-century but, praise Jesus, with shorter bad intervals between the good stretches.
Billy Martin, in a rehab pause in his fiery, five-time managerial marriage to George Steinbrenner's Yankees, brought the A's from last place to first in two years (1979-81); it was called Billy Ball and, when the A's won their first 11 games in 1981, made the cover of TIME. Martin accomplished the turn-around partly on the fleet legs of Rickey Henderson, partly by ignoring all bullpen strategy and letting his quintet of strong young starters pitch till they dropped. In 1980, when they finished second in the A.L. West, the A's notched a preposterously high 94 complete games (the Yanks, by comparison, had 29, 16 of them by Tommy John). The next year, they had 60 saves in a strike-shortened season of 109 games and made it back to the playoffs. The year after that, the starters' arms all fell off; none of the five was useful again, and the A's recommenced stinking.
They dominated again at the end of the decade, with glowering starter Dave Stewart, ace closer Dennis Eckersley and the Bash Brothers (Canseco and McGwire, just catchin' fire). And now they're back, at least into the post-season, with another kind of Billy Ball: Billy Beane's cut-rate conniving. Beane's success as an ace trader, earning four consecutive playoff spots for a team whose budget is less than a third of the Yankees', would earn him praise as the greatest General Manager the game has know — if only the A's could win a post-season series. If only Jeremy Giambi knew how to slide into home plate. If only the arms of the team's two best pitchers hadn't fallen off this year. If only...
Every opportunity carries with it an equal or greater curse. A's fans have to ask themselves: how do we want our pain? Would we rather suffer from low-level depression all summer, as our team wanders in the Texas or Tampa Bay wilderness, or advance to the playoffs and get a swift shiv to the ribs every October?
I'm thinking, I'm thinking.
THESE A'S
Michael Lewis' "Moneyball" made Beane famous this year. The best-seller showed how a small-market team, with a budget (about $50 million this year) less than what the Yankees pay just four players (Jeter, Bernie, Mussina and Pettitte), could Svengali its way to the playoffs four years in a row. The book tracked the A's 2002 season, in which Beane, as is his clever wont, traded from weakness to richer teams and got back players he could fit into his walk-and-hit offensive system. It's a terrific read, with excellent inside-baseball dish, and it made Beane look so much smarter than his fellow GMs that some suspected he'd be unable to pull off one of his patented mid-season talent raids. They were wrong.
So is the book. Yes, homegrown sluggers like Chavez, Jason Giambi and Miguel Tejada are players any team would, and will, pay zillions for. But what Beane preaches — work out walks, get on base, knock 'em home — the A's don't do particularly well. They were 9th in on-base percentage, 10th in RBIs, 4th in walks; in all these categories, the Yanks and Red Sox were first or second. The team's offensive mediocrity and their tortoisity on the basepaths lost them the last three games. And in the at opening-game thriller, the A's won by doing something they famously eschew: bunt.
No, Oakland's recent success does not derive from its batting talent. It is from the three phenomenal young pitchers — Hudson, Mark Mulder and Barry Zito (another A's Z!) — whom the team drafted and developed. In 2001, they, Ted Lilly and Corey Lidle became the first starting five in decades who each had an ERA below 4.00. Even more startling: that same year, the Golden Three's combined salary was less than $1 million.
Seeing this trio mature and endure has been among my greatest pleasures as an A's fan. And when one guy goes down, another one steps up. This August, we lost Mulder, out for the year with a bum hip.) His loss might have broken the team's spirit, given them an excuse to go doggo. Instead, it inspired them. It especially spurred Lilly, previously an anonymous fifth starter, but down the stretch unhittable.: The A's won 10 straight after Mulder's injury, overtook Boston in the wild-card race and then Seattle in the A.L. West, and cruised to the division title. Another great run.
Before the Red Sox set-to, Beane puckishly predicted that this could be the first division series that neither team won — that the A's and the Sox could attack each other like Go-bots and simultaneously knock each other's heads off. It almost happened: literally, to Johnny Damon, when suffered a concussion after a centerfield collision; and reputedly, to Mulder, who some said was involved in a bar brawl during his Boston visit. But we know which bot was left standing, which one self-destructed and was annihilated. I know; I saw it. The ache in my forever-fan's gut punishes me enough; I will skip the description and the self-flagellation.
It happens I was in Miami when the axe fell on the A's season. Having witnessed the execution, I was in no mood to watch the autopsy. So I flipped off the TV and walked outside with my portable radio. I sat by a posh swimming pool (if I'm going to be miserable, let me be miserable in posh surroundings) and listened to the end of the Monday Night Football game: the Tampa Bay Buccaneers vs. the Indianapolis Colts. In a bizarre comeback unprecedented in NFL history, the Colts plundered the Bucs' vaunted defense to score 21 points in the last four minutes and force the game into overtime, where they took advantage of a disputed call to kick an easy field goal. Colts win, THEEEEEE Colts win!
Let me be happy for somebody. And in baseball, let me root for someone. C'mon, Yanks — play like champions!