28-05-2025
When the majors and minors collide: Buying a ticket and spending a night with the A's
WEST SACRAMENTO, Calif. — It's been a while since I've walked up to a ticket counter at a Major League Baseball stadium.
Then again, that wasn't really what I did when asking for the cheapest seat inside Sutter Health Park, about 30 minutes before a game last homestand. Because, after all, this isn't really a big league ballpark. Even if one of MLB's 30 clubs calls it home for now.
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Natural disasters and a once-in-a-lifetime pandemic caused the Tampa Bay Rays and Toronto Blue Jays to play real games in minor-league ballparks over the years. The A's are spending at least the next three seasons in Sacramento thanks to an entirely man-made catastrophe, resulting in their sharing this 14,000-seat minor-league park with the San Francisco Giants' Triple-A affiliate, the River Cats, in a city that has mixed emotions regarding their presence.
Plenty has been written and said about the A's plan to play here for at least the next three seasons, possibly four, possibly more, as their stopover on the way to a hoped-for ballpark in Las Vegas. But I wanted to take in the minor league ballpark experience for myself. Outside the press box. Without the credential. So for the Los Angeles Angels-A's game on May 21, I walked up and bought a ticket to sit among people doing the same, all with their own perspectives on the matter.
'I don't like it, I don't like that they're here,' said Vince Rivera, a fan walking the concourse in the now-iconic 'Sell' shirt. 'I live close, but I don't like it. I would rather be in Oakland. I would rather make the trek out to Oakland. It doesn't feel right. It's a minor league stadium.'
So, yeah, there's no getting around that fact. From a medical cart malfunction when the New York Mets were in town, to Philadelphia Phillies ace Zack Wheeler calling the mound 'terrible,' to A's manager Mark Kotsay not challenging a potential run-scoring play because he couldn't see down the left field line, this is not exactly the ideal baseball environment.
At the same time, the atmosphere is lively, and, if you take away the ugly dynamics, actually pretty cool. The lawn is full of people spread out like it's spring training. Kids run around in the playground attached to the ballpark beyond the right field wall. As the national anthem plays and the first pitch is delivered, the brutal heat settles into a calm and comfortable evening as a breeze drifts in off the adjacent Sacramento River. It is Major League Baseball like you've never experienced.
But it's hard to shake the feeling that it's not like it should be experienced.
'It offers its own unique set of challenges that we're trying to embrace and deal with as best we can,' said All-Star designated hitter Brent Rooker. 'And kind of make the best of the situation over the next three years.'
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It didn't feel like a ringing endorsement.
Still, just like the fans and the players, I resolved to make the best of it. My 'seat' cost $25. But it wasn't really a seat. It was on the outfield lawn. I quickly realized my mistake: I had no blanket, towel or chair. Holding my chicken tenders, fries and a beer — hey, The Athletic said I could expense it — I stood, unprepared as ever.
As the Angels took an early lead, and the A's quickly took it back, I walked around the park, people-watching, trying to figure out the makeup of this crowd. Were they locals willing to adopt a franchise that refuses to fully identify with its new city? Were these displaced fans from the Bay Area still supporting their team by making the trek? Were they people like me, just captivated by the novelty?
Sometimes you could tell just by looking. A bright white Athletics jersey? Probably a new fan. A clearly broken-in kelly-green Jerry Blevins uniform? Most likely someone who's been around the block.
Others, you had to talk to to find out.
I asked one season ticket holder, wearing Sacramento A's shirts, where he and his son had gotten their gear.
Etsy, they said.
That made sense. While perusing the team store, I noticed that only a few items even have 'Sacramento' on them. None refer to the team as the 'Sacramento A's.'
That has been a sore spot for the A's hosts in Sacramento. The Athletics aren't using the city's name during their residency here: Instead of being the Sacramento A's, they're simply the A's. Only a measly jersey patch on the sleeve signifies the Sacramento connection, and it's matched by a Las Vegas patch on the other shoulder, plus 'Visit Las Vegas' outfield advertisements that work hard to balance it all out.
Not coincidentally, the 14,014-person venue has regularly had empty seats. A years-long A's season ticket holder drives from Napa, 90 minutes away, to every home game and back. Her seat is just to the right of home plate, about five rows up, and costs $170 per game. Similar tickets on the secondary market sell for under $100, depending on the game.
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'I support the team totally. There's a lot that's said, but it's about (owner John) Fisher. I want to come,' said die-hard fan Joyce Wilson. '… People that are trying to sell, they're practically having to give them away.'
Therein lies evidence of consternation from potential fans. The demand isn't matching the supply. A tiny, mostly filled ballpark can mask the issue, make it look like the team is popular. But even my $25 ticket was an overpay. A quick glance on the secondary market that night showed actual seats available for under $20. It's a small difference that is reflective of a wider issue.
That night it was decently full, with an announced attendance of 10,094, but the home team hadn't given fans much to be excited about. The Angels jumped on A's starter J.P. Sears for two runs in each of the second, third and fourth, and by the middle innings the game was getting out of hand. The A's were facing their eighth straight loss, and it was hard not to feel like their home environment had something to do with it. The clubhouses and batting cages are beyond the outfield wall, and cannot be accessed easily by players. The lack of an upper deck impacts wind and sun patterns. The trappings of the big league lifestyle can only be so replicated.
'The field's not the best,' said A's starting pitcher Luis Severino. 'The stadium is not the best, or has the accommodations of other stadiums. It's what we have, we have to be comfortable with what we have. We have a good record on the road versus at home. It's not easy.
'It's not what we thought it was going to be, but it's what we have right now.'
As the game waned, the crowd thinned. It was a long night, and a weeknight, after all. The game went nearly 3 hours and 20 minutes. Only the diehards and the happy Angels fans stuck through until the end. It was in this vacuum that the once-dormant resistance showed itself.
The final season in Oakland was filled with all the vitriol and apathy of a fanbase getting royally screwed over. But on this night, a few 'Sell' shirts, and a singular fan yelling 'sell the team' twice in between pitches was the only form of protest.
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At times, you could almost say the plan worked. It's not ideal to play in a stadium with a giant River Cats logo atop the ballpark the most visible signage. Some elements of the minor league experience cannot be papered over. But it also just felt like another night at the park.
Then, in the bottom of the eighth inning, the chant started.
'Let's Go Oakland' filled the humid West Sacramento evening.
I didn't partake in the chant myself, but I could appreciate the message. I grew up in New York City going to Mets games, loving my team, feeling the loyalty. Heck, I'd spent the first three innings that night following, in pain, as my New York Knicks collapsed in Game 1 of the NBA's Eastern Conference Finals.
Fandom is a love you embrace, but can't truly explain. Even in this new city, new park and new existence, fans were still hurting. And being in the thick of it, I could feel it too.
This didn't seem like it was about the A's coming back from a three-run deficit. The eventual eighth-straight loss in what would become an 11-game skid was merely a backdrop, secondary to the message.
This was about a fan base that still loves its team, will always love its team, even if it isn't loved back. The fans feel connected in a way the decision makers that got them to this point have yet to understand.
And in this tiny minor league park, just one person yelling can permeate the stadium and penetrate the television broadcast. This many yelling in unison made for a powerful message.
The A's left the Coliseum to reset their franchise and get a fresh start. And in that moment, with each passing 'Let's go Oakland' chant, I came to better understand just how far that goal actually is from becoming reality.
