OAKLAND ATHLETICS
Anybody Have Billy's Number? He's Gotta See This Kid

Every Spring for maybe a decade I've been writing these Oakland A's season previews. As a childhood fan whose first favorite ballplayers were Campy Campaneris, Sal Bando and Billy North — what great names! — it has been a privilege to ramble on about the Green and Gold each year in print, especially since resident genius Billy Beane makes sure they are always competitive. And this year is no different: Having developed two new aces in Harden and Haren, they really could go all the way.

This year, though, something is different. Ennui is in the house. Haven't poured over the minor league stats of the rookies. Never idly surfed Southwest's website to check what it would cost to dart to Phoenix to catch some spring games. Ignored the Bay Bridge series. Not only didn't I watch opening night, I can't even remember why.

Maybe it is a certain exhaustion with seeing each new hero — Tejada, Hudson, Zito — move on seemingly more quickly than the previous year. The rehabilitated slugger Frank Thomas was the latest to win my enthusiasm before slipping to richer pastures. What a season he had! And certainly the news the A's were planning to move to Fremont was a big downer for me personally, since it will make it much harder for my son and me to get to games.

Ultimately, though, when a relationship sours, we have to look at ourselves first. Work is certainly a distraction; I've got a new career that is making me crazy busy. I'm also five years out from a divorce that took away my main ballgame buddy, my ex-wife. My son, meanwhile, is too young to happily last more than a chocolate malt or two. Going to less games every year erodes the emotional connection to the team.

The good news is that, barring a disaster like a team moving away, a childhood sports love is always there for you if you want to take her out for another spin. My baseball obsession has ebbed before: When launched into the whirl of college life; when living abroad; when the team became stale and steroidal in the mid-90s. And the other day I got a glimpse at how I might soon be renewing my vows with Oakland's baseball team — my ex acted on a bizarre impulse and signed up our 7-year-old for tee-ball at the Y.

Oh, the beauty and the horror! Picture the scene: A windowless gym on a Saturday morning. Parents not sure how to act, slouch or sit along one wall while two college studs run our K-2 little 'uns through a fast-paced set of drills. "If you let the ball get to the wall you have to do five push-ups!" the lanky Cal kid cheerfully broadcasts. Whaaa?! Can these kids even do push-ups?

I glance over at my guy, standing in short "left field" with his brand-new mitt. He is waving at me and making funny expressions I can't understand; he either wants me to talk the teachers into letting him hit with the metal bat we brought or he wants to leave, ASAP, and never come back. I pretend not to see him and duck out into the hall, but not before I see a future Bonus Baby crack a ball off the far wall. What the hell! That kid looks like he's in fifth grade, easy. Is nobody checking IDs here, or what? This is an outrage.

Unfortunately, I don't smoke so after a drink of water and a few minutes of watching a contorting yoga class through the glass--people don't seem to appreciate this, by the way--I am compelled to re-enter the gym. Ben is up at the tee for his two swings. Please Lord, let him hit it! He smacks the tee about two inches below the ball. Damn! Better start saving for the therapy he'll need now. Should I run out and tell the coach he hits it better on the fly, since his softball ringer mom has been flipping him pitches lately? No, no, don't get involved.

Should I start smoking? I can see this next stage of parenting--the Spectator Years--may demand it.

After the tee is re-set, Ben gives another cut. Contact! The ball scoots across the hardwood and past several scrambling tykes. My seedling watches it bounce away like he's Bonds admiring a Bay shot. "Run, run," the coach shouts, jarring him from his proud reverie. Then he takes off like a shot--for third base. After running the bases backwards, he trots over to me like he's just put in a good day's work in the fields. "Let's go, Dad. I'm ready."

So clearly he's the next Ricky: Fast, arrogant and clueless. You should have seen him beat that fifth-grader when they finished with some suicides! (I did make him finish the practice.) I project him as a line-drive hitting centerfielder for the A's in 2020. And don't worry: I'll make sure he gives a real hometown discount when his rookie contract expires.

Hmmn. Maybe I should order one of those season ticket packages? Better call my guy at the A's office tomorrow. After all, now that I'm a schoolteacher me and the boy have got a lot of summer afternoons to fill. Hopefully if he sees the direction they run in The Show, he'll figure it out.

You know what? I think I just found the cure! Go A's!!!!