A Team of One's Own

By Ariane Conrad Hyde

I wasn't always an A's fan.

Five years ago, I had never watched a professional baseball game. Sure, I recognized the tune of "Take Me Out to the Ballgame," but I couldn't have recited the words, no matter what depended on it. I was supremely disinterested in news of any organized sport, let alone news of a specific team. And I found the sight of fans decked out in team regalia, and reports of friction between the fans of competing teams, not just baffling, but ridiculous.

I was never a sports person. I have never been on a (sports) team of any sort, although I have always enjoyed activities like biking and swimming well enough. Ping pong and badminton, vastly underrated "ball" sports, have counted as my only games. And that wasn't for lack of exposure. Granted, my family modeled neither sporting nor an interest in sports during my formative years: I don't even remember playing catch. And the Superbowl, World Series, and NBA Playoffs were non-events in my home, growing up.

However, during my school years, I was subjected to Fizz Ed classes multiple times per week, 30-some weeks of the year. Participation -in soccer, field hockey, basketball, softball, volleyball, even tennis- was mandatory at my rather upper-middle class private school. But I was apparently surrounded by magnetic fields that kept balls out of my reach when I was supposed to make contact with them, and that hurled balls into me when my back was turned.

Those compulsary whiffleball and softball games did serve to impart upon me a rudimentary grasp of the vocabulary and rules of bat and ball games, so when a family member invited me along to a game for which he had extra tickets a few years back, I got the gist of it. With a beer in one hand and a sack of popcorn in the other, I even enjoyed myself. I caught up on family gossip and scanned the audience (as I then called it) for folks of interest. It seemed to me that a live baseball game could provide a sunny alternative to the bar scene; this was something I could appreciate.

When, sometime after that, my partner suggested we go watch our very own East Bay team in a home game, I agreed. That first game at the Coliseum didn't make me into a fan. Don't ask whom the A's were playing that day, because I won't know the answer. There was no blazing illumination, no heavenly orchestra trumpeting how right this is. Instead, I found myself thinking: those outfits don't flatter a man's body as much as the droves of salivating female fans will have you believe. Or, beer sure is expensive here.

It was just a nice time. Once or twice I spaced out, confused the uniforms, and cheered for the other team's hit or run. (That wasn't our team, my partner whispered discreetly to me, blushing on my behalf.) "Our?" I might have thought to myself. That particular affectation of team devotees, the use of inclusive pronouns, was something I still found uncomfortable. I quieted, watched more carefully, and cheered only when the people who were decked out in green and gold around me did.

That same year, the A's made it to the playoffs, and there were games in Oaktown against Boston. I was at one of those. Now, there's nothing like being surrounded by drunkard fans who insist on dissing the city you have chosen to call your home, to make you stand up for yourself, your city, and... well, your team. To their singsong chorus of "let's go, Boston!," Athletics' fans rhythmically responded: "Red Sox suck!" And my voice joined in.

There it was: my thunder and lightning moment: the nirvana of my fandom.

For someone who generally eschews groupthink, there are only a few opportunities in life to feel the rush of belonging, agreeing, and trusting within a large, varied and unfamiliar crowd of people. Stagediving at a concert and having your body conveyed by dozens of absolute strangers is one of those instances. Raising your voice in unison with the cheers and jeers of fellow fans is another.

All of a sudden I found myself asking who was up next, then studying their faces on the monitors. I developed an affinity for certain players, and began calling them by affectionate diminutive forms of their names: the kookie and exuberant Byrnsie, amazing Miggie Tejada, dependable slugger Dye, golden-fingered Chabi... Then I discovered our bullpen, falling hard for Foulke, the fierce closer who would soon leave us and (almost single-handedly, from my perspective) break Boston's curse. (I now understood what people meant when they talked about the Curse.)

(For the loss of all of the stellar aforementioned players, with the exception of Eric Chavez, I would like to take several moments of silence.)

And so I became a fan, a term which, of course, was derived from the word fanatic in the late 19th century, and which for me, personally, has meant:

-I learned that the most effective thing I can yell over a loud crowd in my soft voice is the word Alright!, which carries nicely.

-I got so I can tell if the pitch is a strike without consulting the scoreboard, at least most of the time.

-I learned all the words to that infamous song, sung during the 7th inning stretch.

-I bought my partner an A's cap, and myself acquired a shirt with Athletics branded across the chest.

-I felt a twinge of jealousy when I arrived only to find that the bobbleheads had been swiped by early birds.

-I knitted a green and gold striped scarf.

-I developed my own cheer for one of our pitchers and one day heard someone near me in the stands chiming in.

-If possible, when I haven't been at the game, I've watched it on TV. And if I couldn't get it on my TV, I listened to it, old-fashioned style, on the radio, picturing the plays and the players in my head.

-I finally started using "we" and "us" and "our" to refer to the ballclub and its accomplishments, as in the sentence: We are not only the best team in the league, we're the best team in the nation, and we may be the best in the world.