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Language barriers, culture shock, isolation: How NHL's loneliest players cope

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Language barriers, culture shock, isolation: How NHL's loneliest players cope

Alexandre Carrier looked over at the stone-faced new guy to his left on the Gatineau Olympiques bench and noticed that he had another teammate’s stick in his hands. Ever the helpful sort, Carrier politely pointed out Yakov Trenin’s mistake. Trenin turned his head, stared at Carrier for a moment, and responded.

“Yes.”

Confused but also curious, Carrier then asked Trenin another question, one in which “no” was the only possible answer. Trenin again eyed him, expressionless.

“Yes.”

“I’m like, OK, he has no clue what I’m saying,” Carrier recalled with a laugh. “This was going to be a work in progress.”

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Trenin was 17 years old when he left Russia to pursue his hockey dreams halfway around the world in North America. He had done his homework, too, taking classes to learn some rudimentary English so he at least could have a hope of understanding his coaches and fitting in with his teammates. The whole situation was terrifying.

Then he showed up in Quebec.

“I didn’t know they only speak French there,” Trenin said. “I was preparing for English and I get there and they all speak French.”

Trenin can laugh about it now, nearly a decade later. His English is excellent, and he’s in his fifth season with the Nashville Predators, with perpetual teammate Carrier owning the stall just across the Bridgestone Arena locker room. But when Trenin first showed up in Gatineau, he was the only Russian on the team — quite literally a stranger in a strange land. He knew nobody. He didn’t understand anybody. It was hard to make out the words the coaches were saying in team meetings. It was hard to communicate with his teammates on the ice. It was hard to fit in, to make friends, to hang out with the guys.

Carrier and the other Olympiques did their best to make Trenin feel welcome. They coaxed him into a volleyball match after a practice. They invited him to the movies “even though he didn’t understand a thing,” Carrier said. They spoke to him in their own sometimes-broken English, and Trenin — who was still new to that language and not very comfortable in it — found it easier to understand them than native English speakers because he found their accents similar to his own.

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“You can’t really have a big conversation with him, so you try to just do stuff with him to make him feel part of the team,” Carrier said. “Just get him out of the house.”

Hockey is a global sport, and every time you walk into an NHL locker room, you’re liable to hear three, four, five different languages being spoken at once. Inevitable cliques form, too. The Russian players will have their locker stalls clustered together. The Czech guys on every team will all hang out away from the rink, piling into Bistro Praha for a taste of home when they roll into Edmonton. The Swedes and Finns are taught English throughout their childhoods and are usually at or near fluency, but they still congregate together and hide their conversations from prying ears by speaking their native tongue.

But not everybody has that social safety net. Sometimes, you’re the only Russian in the room, the only Czech, the only Finn, the only native French speaker. And whether you’re a teenager in juniors with no command of English or a 30-something trilingual NHL veteran, it can be difficult to be the only one from your country in the room. It’s isolating. Lonely, even.

“Sometimes, you just want to talk in your native language,” said 34-year-old Evgenii Dadonov, a 10-year NHL vet and the only Russian in the Dallas Stars room. “I can talk English, but I act a little different in Russian. I’m myself more. I’m not thinking too much when I talk and relax. In English, I’m always thinking and it’s harder to relax. It’s just something you deal with over here.”


Few players command a locker room the way Pierre-Édouard Bellemare does. He’s a big personality with a big voice, a big smile and a big laugh, and he’s everybody’s favorite teammate. As one of just two NHLers from France (Columbus’ Alexandre Texier is the other), he speaks flawless French and English, and he is fully conversant in Swedish, too. Teammates headed for summer vacations in Paris pepper him with questions and requests for restaurant recommendations. Others regularly chirp him about how “bougie” and “arrogant” the French are, and he gleefully gives it right back.

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Approaching his 39th birthday and on his fifth NHL team, the Seattle Kraken, there isn’t a room in the hockey world in which Bellemare couldn’t fit in.

“I can come into a team really easily, talking to the Swedish guys or talking to the French-speaking guys or talking to the English-speaking guys,” he said. “It’s been my superpower.”

But back in 2006, Bellemare was a scared 21-year-old on the phone with his mom back in France, trying to hold back the tears because he hated walking through those doors. He had left France to play in Sweden’s second-tier league, one of the first Frenchmen to do so, and the transition had been soul-crushing. He had the skills and he had the work ethic, but he couldn’t communicate with anyone. He didn’t speak a lick of Swedish or English at the time. About the only Swedish word he knew was the one for French people, and he heard it often, usually under his new teammates’ breath as they laughed among themselves about the new guy.

The team in Leksand sent Bellemare and some of the Finnish imports to a professor’s house a few times for some basic lessons, but it was pointless, because, “At that time, I didn’t understand s—.”

“My first couple of months in Sweden were terrible,” Bellemare said. “Everybody was like, ‘Why are we bringing in a French guy? France has nothing to bring in hockey.’ This is how they saw me.”

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If not for Bellemare’s mom, Frederique, his hockey career might have ended right there. But Frederique told him to embrace the challenge, that he was in Sweden not just to further his hockey career but to broaden his cultural horizons. So Bellemare broke through the language barrier like he was the Kool-Aid Homme. He learned both English and Swedish simultaneously, and shockingly fast — mostly through subtitles on movies and TV shows, as so many other international players do to hone their English once they get to the NHL.

“I was kind of in a panic mode to learn the languages,” Bellemare said. “I learned both languages really fast because I had no choice. The brain is such a wonderful thing. When you’re in a panic mode, he knows, he recognizes and suddenly you get abilities to learn a little bit faster. Nobody spoke my language, right? So I had to learn fast.”

Bellemare had to overcome more than just the language gap, though. The French had that “bougie” reputation in Sweden, too, and he had to overcome that resentment. The funny thing was that the Swedish league was the bougie one compared to what Bellemare had in France, where he was one of the country’s top players but was hardly making any money. In Sweden, he had free gear and free food. He had three hours of ice time every day instead of one. It was a hockey paradise compared to what he had in France.

So that became Mom’s advice: “Show those guys that they’re the ones who are all spoiled.”

“Once I started learning the language, they saw and said, ‘OK, this kid is trying,’” Bellemare said. “I became the hardest-working kid, and the happiest kid because I was in a sick locker room every day, with all this stuff I didn’t have back home in France. And all along, my mom was like, ‘How cool is it that a year from now, you’ll be trilingual?’ I was like, ‘That ain’t gonna happen.’ But it did happen!”

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All these years later, Bellemare’s wife is Swedish and his kids, ages 6 and 4, already are bilingual, and “really close” to adding French to their repertoire.

“Like I said, it’s been a superpower,” Bellemare said, beaming. “Even though it was terrible at first.”

Unlocking the human brain’s massive potential isn’t the only silver lining that emerges from that kind of isolation. Rookie center Waltteri Merelä is the only Finn on the Tampa Bay Lightning roster, and while he admitted that he’d love to have one or two more in the room, it’s forced him to go beyond his comfort zone and make friends he might otherwise never have made.

Early in the season, Merelä and his wife learned that they live in the same neighborhood as goalies Jonas Johansson and Matt Tomkins, so they started hanging out. Now their wives and girlfriends have become close, too.

“When it’s just you, you kind of need to go find the guys that you’re going to hang out with,” Merelä said. “You don’t have that one guy you’re always hanging out with.”

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Bellemare says he hasn’t experienced the animosity, othering and xenophobia in the NHL that he faced in Sweden. In his experience, the European players in the NHL typically bond over their cultural overlaps rather than focus on the divisions. There are Finns who played in Sweden, Czechs who played in Finland, Slovaks who played in Russia, Russians who played in Germany, and on and on. By the time they get to the NHL, many Europeans have a history with their new teammates, or at least some shared heritage to bond over. Which leads to a lot of good-natured chirping, particularly when a tournament like the World Junior Championship is going on.

The Swedish-Finnish rivalry is as heated as it gets, and that allows a rookie like Merelä to walk into the room and start giving it to a future Hall of Famer like Victor Hedman.

“Yeah, I can talk s— with him,” Merelä said. “But he’s always talking s— to me about Finland. It’s fun, it’s just a normal thing. It helps make you a part of everything.”


English is the universal language in hockey, the skeleton key to communication between nations. Many Europeans come to North America fluent, but nearly all can speak the language a little.

“The first few years, you just hang out with the Europeans,” said Buffalo’s Zemgus Girgensons, the only Latvian on the Sabres roster. “If you all don’t talk that great of English, you can talk to each other and help each other learn. You just manage, and try to learn English as fast as you can.”

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In the rare instance when a player doesn’t speak any English at all, teams will sometimes go to great lengths to help them feel comfortable — especially for a potential star player. When the Blackhawks signed Artemi Panarin and brought him over from Russia for the 2015-16 season, they also signed Panarin’s buddy and SKA Saint Petersburg teammate Viktor Tikhonov, who grew up in San Jose, Calif., and speaks perfect English and Russian. Tikhonov could play, but he was brought over more to be Panarin’s friend and guide to America than he was to provide scoring depth. Once Panarin had his feet underneath him, Tikhonov was rather coldly traded to Arizona.

Some friends of the SKA Saint Petersburg program went so far as to set up Panarin with an interpreter, Andrew Aksyonov, who, along with his wife, Yulia Mikhaylova, were Saint Petersburg natives who had been living in Chicago. The couple picked Panarin up at the airport, took him into their home and showed him where to get groceries and the like. It was supposed to be just until Tikhonov arrived, but they became close, and the Blackhawks even hired Aksyonov to serve as Panarin’s interpreter.

Anything to make a player feel more comfortable because anxiety off the ice easily can spill onto the ice.

And that anxiety is real. Defenseman Nikita Zaitsev, now the only Russian in the Blackhawks room, said the hardest thing when he first came to North America, leaving Moscow in the KHL for Toronto in the NHL at age 25, was English slang and hockey vernacular. His English was quite good, but he kept hearing words he had never heard before, lingo that’s commonplace in the NHL but gets lost in translation. So he leaned heavily on the other Russian in the room, winger Nikita Soshnikov.

“You just want to confirm something, make sure you’re hearing the right thing,” Zaitsev said. “It can be hard. Sometimes you just want to talk to somebody in Russian. You need that. It’s always going to be hard, especially that first year.”

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The culture shock, of course, goes beyond the language. If you come from a small town in Russia or Czechia or wherever and you land in, say, New York or Los Angeles or Toronto, it can be overwhelming. Merelä, for one, is grateful he ended up in Tampa — a real city, yes, but a more manageable one, with a laidback vibe.

“We don’t have really big cities in Finland,” he said. “There are a couple of OK ones, a couple hundred thousand people, but nothing like (North America). So this is probably one of the best places to play. You can figure it out pretty fast and it’s not that big. It’s easy to live here and the weather’s good and all the people are nice. Maybe if I went to some other place, it wouldn’t have been as good.”

Joining a new team is never easy. Joining a new continent is something else entirely. There’s so much to navigate, so much to absorb, so much to learn. And doing it while feeling isolated and alone is almost hard to fathom. So, in Girgensons’ words, “You manage. You figure it out.” Eventually, your new home becomes simply home, and teammates and friendships transcend borders and languages.

But still, even after fully assimilating into North American life, it’s always nice to have someone from back home at your side.

“It’s less of an issue now that I’ve been here a while, but it’s still easier to talk to somebody that speaks your language, and who you can talk to about the news going on in Russia,” Trenin said. “When (the team) brings someone from your country, it’s exciting. You stick together.”

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Then he smiled.

“Even if you don’t really like them.”

(Illustration: Sean Reilly / The Athletic; Photos: John Russell, Bill Wippert, Christopher Mast / NHLI via Getty Images)

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From Tom Hanks to Dame Lillard, mourning the Oakland A’s: ‘It’s pretty heartbreaking’

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From Tom Hanks to Dame Lillard, mourning the Oakland A’s: ‘It’s pretty heartbreaking’

By Cody Stavenhagen, Sam Blum and Stephen J. Nesbitt

Before he was one of the most famed actors of a generation, Tom Hanks was a boy in the Bay Area. He could see the lights of the Oakland Coliseum from his family’s home in the Lower Hills.

The A’s moved to Oakland when Hanks was 12. When he looks back now on 56 years of fandom, Hanks’ mind goes to Game 3 of the 1972 World Series, Oakland’s first time hosting a World Series game.

“When the A’s were in the World Series, the world came to Oakland,” Hanks wrote in an email to The Athletic. “Not San Francisco. Oakland.”

Hanks watched the TV broadcast and peered out the window as storm clouds rolled in. “A freak storm that featured the stub of a funnel cloud, like a tornado forming,” he recalled. First pitch was delayed as the Coliseum and the Hanks house were soaked with rain and pelted with sleet. That the game was postponed only extended Oakland’s moment at the center of the baseball universe.

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​​The A’s won three World Series while Hanks was in high school. He went to “Hot Pants Day.” He witnessed Willie Mays’ final at-bat. He served as a Coliseum vendor, selling popcorn in the stands and sweating profusely on Opening Day when Vida Blue dazzled (“phee-nom”). Those A’s and the memories they gave him remain imprinted in Hanks’ memory. “Vida Blue. Joe Rudi. Mudcat Grant,” he wrote. “Campy Campaneris. Sal Bando. Ray Fosse. The original Reggie Jackson. Thank you, boys!”

Now the team Hanks loves is leaving Oakland. They’ll play their final game at the Coliseum on Thursday afternoon, then head to Sacramento and, sometime down the road, Las Vegas. The sense of finality has hit the same for so many A’s fans, from the diehards in the right-field bleachers to Hanks himself.

In the last days of the Oakland A’s, The Athletic contacted former A’s and notable fans — athletes, actors, musicians and politicians — to hear their favorite A’s memories and what it’s like saying goodbye.

Those short on time sent short missives. Milwaukee Bucks star Damian Lillard, who wears No. 0 in part to represent Oakland, replied, “It’s devastating for Oakland. Another sports team gone, another loss for the entire Oakland/Alameda (East Bay) communities. It’s sad to see the entire Coliseum complex empty.”

Los Angeles Chargers coach Jim Harbaugh lived his boyhood baseball dream coaching first base for the A’s in spring training. “That’s one of my most cherished memories, no doubt,” he said.

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Others elaborated in conversations that went down memory lane and often alternated between therapy session and anger management. For so long, Oakland at least had the A’s. Now there will be nothing left.


Hanks throwing out the first pitch before a Yomiuri Giants game in Tokyo in 2009. (AP Photo / Koji Sasahara)

“How in the world,” Hanks wrote, “does Major League Baseball turn inside-out one of the most storied franchises in the history of the game? The Oakland A’s — not the East Bay Athletics or the California Golden A’s — the Oakland A’s could have/should have been the Northern California version of the the Cubs in Wrigley, the BoSox in Fenway, Pittsburgh’s Buccos on the Allegheny, Cleveland’s Guardians on the shores of Erie — beloved ball-teams with eternal hope every Opening Day until the millennium comes.

“I don’t blame that loss on the city managers of Oakland, nor the taxpayers of Alameda County. The owners and baseball blew the lead.”


Before Tony La Russa was a Hall of Fame manager, he was a light-hitting 23-year-old infielder who made the A’s Opening Day roster in 1968. He appeared in the first major league game at the Coliseum, with 50,164 filling the stadium, and roped a pinch-hit single to left field in the ninth inning.

“Coming to Oakland,” La Russa recalled, “they came in with a lot of (hope for the) future. And you’d put their history against anybody’s during that period. I think everyone that’s been a part of this is a combination of sad and angry.”

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That’s a common refrain from former A’s.

Dennis Eckersley, the Hall of Fame closer who had 320 saves and won a World Series win with the A’s, moved back to the Bay Area a few years ago. If he hadn’t, Eckersley said, “it wouldn’t hurt so much. But the closer we get, where we’re (living), it’s gotten uglier inside. I’ve taken it on. Like, you can’t throw it all away. Whatever happened happened, memories and that sort of thing.

“But still, it hurts. I used to think, ‘Oh, no big deal. They’re leaving.’ But, oh my God, it’s the end! It sure does feel ugly inside.”

Rickey Henderson grew up in Oakland and became one of the most celebrated players in franchise history. Dave Stewart was a dominant postseason presence, winning World Series MVP in 1989. Both lamented the departure to the San Francisco Chronicle in March, though they placed more emphasis on the city’s role rather than on A’s owner John Fisher.

“It’s disappointing to see the A’s leaving,” Henderson, a special assistant to the A’s president, said. “But we’ve gone through so much with all the teams. The city, there’s something they’re not seeing. When you have a city that had three big-name professional sports teams, and you can’t keep any of them, something’s wrong.”

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Eckersley took his 5-year-old twin grandchildren to the Coliseum last weekend. They got a kick out of the big-head mascot race between innings. It dawned on Eckersley that they, and so many young fans like them, will never have a chance to build their own memories at the old ballpark where he spent so many great seasons. He’ll tell the twins, “Remember when we went that one night?” And he’ll hope they do.

“Sometimes it helps people to be mad,” added Eckersley, who said he’s especially sad for the stadium workers he’s seen there for decades. “I’ve got that tendency where I get pissed off and just don’t want to deal. But it is what it is, and it’s sad. And I’m going to feel it. And I do.”

For La Russa, Thursday’s finale will bring him back to standing there for the home opener in 1968. He was there when it all began. Now he’s forced to watch it end.

“It’s hard to get through,” La Russa said. “The franchise had a great history and deserved a better fate.”

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Last week at Oracle Park — home of the San Francisco Giants — Green Day stepped onto the stage. Lead singer Billie Joe Armstrong paced up and down holding a microphone close to his face. He touted the band’s East Bay roots, its eternal connection to the Bay Area. And then …

“We don’t take no s— from people like John f—— Fisher, who sold out the Oakland A’s to Las f—— Vegas,” Armstrong said. “I f—— hate Las Vegas. It’s the worst s—hole in America.”

Armstrong was born in Oakland and raised in Rodeo. He attended last season’s “reverse boycott” at the Oakland Coliseum. He is an investor in the independent Oakland Ballers, and earlier this year during a show at Toronto’s Rogers Centre, he posted a video of himself spray-painting over the A’s logo inside a stadium tunnel. He painted a “B” over the “A” and crossed out the word “Athletics.”

Armstrong declined an interview request. “Nothing more to add,” his publicist wrote in an email. (A few days later, at Oracle Park, Armstrong evidently had more to add.)

A long list of musicians with Oakland roots have stayed loyal to the team’s last remaining major pro sports franchise. MC Hammer (real name: Stanley Burrell) grew up dancing, singing and performing outside the Coliseum. He caught the eye of then-owner Charlie Finley, who hired the young Burrell to work as a bat boy. Legend has it Jackson first gave Burrell his “Hammer” nickname because he resembled Hammerin’ Henry Aaron. Years later, per a Rolling Stone cover story at the peak of Hammer’s fame, A’s players Dwayne Murphy and Mike Davis gave Burrell a loan as he worked toward releasing his first album.

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The Bay Area rapper Too $hort (real name: Todd Shaw) often posts photos of himself in A’s gear on X, and recently posted on the site that he grew up selling sodas at the Coliseum. “Day one fan over here,” he wrote, “no bandwagon!

Adam Duritz, lead singer of Counting Crows, moved to California as a child. His father had been a fan of the Philadelphia A’s. The franchise was in the midst of its 1970s golden era, and Duritz was hooked. He cut school, took BART to the Coliseum and sat in the bleachers with a $2.50 ticket. (He learned recently that Counting Crows drummer Jim Bogios did the same.) By the late 1980s, Duritz was going to 50 games a year. He saw Henderson break the stolen base record and watched Nolan Ryan twirl his sixth no-hitter. Duritz identified with the underdog A’s in the Moneyball era and cherished every minute.

Now living a much different life, Duritz still gets nostalgic any time he walks out of a tunnel and into an open stadium. Green grass. Green seats. The sense of awe. “It reminds me of the Coliseum when I was a kid,” he told The Athletic last week, “and you could look up before they built Mount Davis, you could see the hills behind it.”

A few weeks ago, Counting Crows was on tour with Santana. Karl Perazzo, Santana’s percussionist, walked into Duritz’s dressing room one day and said, “Hey, I’ve got someone for you to talk to.” La Russa was on the phone. “It was just very cool for me as a huge fan,” Duritz said, “to talk to him for a little while about those days.”

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Duritz, who followed the team’s elongated stadium saga, briefly hoped the A’s could complete their plan to build a ballpark at Howard Terminal. More than anything, he felt as powerless as any other A’s fan.

“It’s completely outside your purview as a fan,” he said. “You do feel that distance too, because, like, one day it’s gonna be fine, and then it’s not, and then they have a plan, and they don’t, and I’m kind of used to that with sports in the Bay Area.”

Duritz says he will still love the A’s even when they are gone. But there are parts of him that loathe Las Vegas, and parts that miss the A’s colorful characters from bygone years, and parts that wish time could be frozen when he was a kid sitting in the bleachers at the Coliseum.

“Well,” he said, “it’s pretty heartbreaking.”


Over the past five decades, A’s fandom has reached far and wide, even to the highest level of public office in the United States. President Barack Obama is an outspoken Chicago White Sox fan, for which Theo Epstein offered a “midnight pardon” when the World Series champion Chicago Cubs visited the White House in 2017, but long before he ever supported the South Siders Obama had another favorite team.

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“I didn’t become a Sox fan until I moved to Chicago,” Obama once said on a Washington Nationals broadcast. “I was growing up in Hawaii, so I ended up actually being an Oakland A’s fan.”

Obama was 11 when the A’s won Oakland’s first World Series in 1972.

Two thousand miles away from Obama in Honolulu, and not far from Hanks in the Lower Hills, two girl friends from Mills College were in the back of a convertible as it cruised along Grove Street in Oakland that night.

“We just rolled down the streets honking horns,” Representative Barbara Lee, from Oakland, recalled. “Yelling, screaming, applauding and congratulating the A’s.”

The celebration continued as the A’s captured back-to-back-to-back World Series titles. The A’s became a source of booming public pride. As Oakland emerged as a center of Black culture, its baseball team was led by Black stars such as Jackson, Henderson, Stewart, Blue Moon Odom, Bill North, Claudell Washington and Blue, who Lee came to know through activism work.

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“In many ways, Oakland is a city that has always exemplified Black excellence,” Lee said. “Black culture. Black power. Leadership. The A’s were a part of that milieu. It was our team. There were so many African-Americans who saw these players like I did — as icons and heroes — and were proud.”


U.S. Rep Barbara Lee represents Oakland, and is a longtime fan of the A’s. (Courtesy of Barbara Lee)

Last year, as Lee ran against former 10-time MLB All-Star Steve Garvey in a U.S. Senate special election primary, she was endorsed by Henderson, Stewart, Dusty Baker, Shooty Babitt and Tye Waller, all of whom played or coached for the A’s.

As the A’s and the City of Oakland haggled over stadium deals for years, Lee occasionally welcomed A’s executives to her office in Washington D.C. for conversations about how to keep the A’s in Oakland. “It was a long process,” she said. “It was a grueling process.” And, in the end, a hopeless one.

After the A’s announced their intentions to relocate to Las Vegas, Lee introduced a bill, the “Moneyball Act,” requiring that the owners of a relocating club compensate the city they left. But the Oakland A’s could not be saved.

“It still hasn’t settled in,” Lee said. “That’s just how difficult it’s been for me and for a lot of people in Oakland. The Oakland A’s are us, and we are them. You feel in many respects abandoned.”

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Lee recited the five stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression …

“I don’t know if I’ll ever get to the fifth,” she said.

Acceptance.


When Hanks was in Los Angeles last year to promote his novel, a former A’s employee in the audience at the Wilshire Ebell Theatre asked Hanks if he would buy the A’s to keep them in Oakland.

“I haven’t done that well, guys,” Hanks joked.

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That didn’t stop him from airing his frustration.

“We’ve lost the Raiders. The Warriors moved to San Francisco. Now they’re going to take the A’s out of Oakland,” Hanks said. “Damn them all to hell.”

That sentiment is shared by fellow actor Blake Anderson, star of the show “Workaholics.” Anderson grew up in Concord, in the East Bay. He shrugged off so many rumors of the A’s relocating that he eventually became numb to them. A’s fans were “strung along and teased” for so many years, Anderson said, and all that false hope led to a feeling that they’d lost the A’s long before they left.

“With Oakland fandom,” he said, “you just know what it’s like for teams to evacuate.”

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There are two reasons Anderson became an A’s fan.

The first is Henderson. As a kid, warring factions within Anderson’s family would try to sway him toward the Giants or the A’s. Then Henderson came back and won MVP.

“Nobody was cooler than Rickey Henderson, man,” Anderson said. “That sold it for me. I was such a young, impressionable kid, and there was so much more swagger on that side of the bay.”

The second reason was Will Clark. But not that Will Clark. Anderson had a youth baseball teammate with the same name as the Giants first baseman. Anderson was not a strong hitter, and he remembers stepping to the plate and hearing his teammate say, “Here comes another strikeout.”

“It was f—ing Will Clark, dude,” Anderson said.

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Needless to say, he was all in on the A’s. In high school, he and his friends waited at the exit of the players parking lot at the Coliseum. His favorite player, Terrence Long, autographed the bill of Anderson’s black A’s cap. Then came Jason Giambi, whose walk-up music was the nWo Wolfpac theme song.

“We’re like, if we yell, ‘nWo for life,’ he’s going to stop the car,” Anderson recalled. Giambi hit the brakes and signed.

Anderson was 5 when the A’s won the 1989 World Series. He doesn’t claim that one.

“I don’t feel like as an A’s fan I got my championship,” Anderson said. “That was going to be my crowning achievement as a fan, living through one of those. That’s where I get super bummed out. I was always imagining being like those Cubs fans who waited 100 years and were like, finally, we can hoist the trophy.”

Only one emotion has surprised Anderson throughout this A’s saga: He still cares. He told himself he’d stop following, but he couldn’t. He’s grown to love the newest cast of A’s — Brent Rooker, J.P. Sears, Lawrence Butler, Mason Miller. He likes that they didn’t throw this season away. “I felt pride for the team again,” he said. As the team heads to Sacramento, he’s sworn to invest in the A’s at least until these guys disperse.

Anderson drove from Los Angeles to Oakland to watch Wednesday’s game with his mother, step-father, brother and a high-school buddy.

“I’ve got to go before it’s gone,” he said beforehand.

Anderson didn’t get tickets for the final game Thursday, but since he’d already be in town, he said, “maybe I’ll just BART in and kick it in the parking lot.” Those lots were where he made some of his best memories, where he met friends, where they shotgunned beers, where they reveled and toasted the green and gold.

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Anderson wondered how he’d feel on the A’s last day in Oakland. He’d felt almost every emotion at the Coliseum before. He was there when Jason Isringhausen clinched the AL West in 2000. (“Nothing matched that kind of joy.”) He was there when Derek Jeter’s flip turned the 2001 ALDS. (“That was our year.”) But this would be different. Not euphoria or anguish. Just emptiness. Anderson figured he’d take a few laps around the old place, remember the good times, then give the filthy cement floor a kiss goodbye.

— The Athletic’s Evan Drellich, Chad Jennings and Eric Nehm contributed to this report.

(Illustration by Meech Robinson, The Athletic; Photos: Michael Zagaris / Oakland Athletics / Getty Images; Andrew D. Bernstein / NBAE via Getty Images; Lachlan Cunningham / Getty Images)

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White Sox team owner acknowledges 'failure' of historically awful season, vows turnaround

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White Sox team owner acknowledges 'failure' of historically awful season, vows turnaround

Chicago White Sox team owner Jerry Reinsdorf issued a letter to fans on Sunday amid the team’s season finale against the Detroit Tigers.

The White Sox set the modern record for most losses in a single MLB season with 121. It was the cherry on top of a rotten season.

Fans lash out at White Sox owner Jerry Reinsdorf during the Baltimore Orioles game at Guaranteed Rate Field in Chicago, May 23, 2024. (Kamil Krzaczynski-USA Today Sports)

Reinsdorf thanked fans for what little support they had for the team and said there were “no excuses” for a “failure” of a season. While acknowledging the changes that are ongoing in the baseball operations department and the success of its farm teams, Reinsdorf vowed improvements were coming.

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“Whether said out loud or written in a statement, words are easy. I understand we need to show our progress through action, and I commit to you that everyone associated with the White Sox is focused on returning this organization to the level of success we all expect and desire,” his letter read.

SHOHEI OHTANI MOVES CLOSER TO BATTING LEADER LUIS ARRAEZ IN TRIPLE CROWN BID

Bryan Ramos flips his bat

Chicago White Sox’s Bryan Ramos reacts to striking out against the Tigers, Saturday, Sept. 28, 2024, in Detroit. (AP Photo/Paul Sancya)

“Above everything else, I am a fan, a fan of baseball, of Chicago, and of the White Sox. Every loss this season – every blown save, every defensive miscue, every shutout, every sweep – hurt. It was a long, painful season for us all. We recognize, on a daily basis, that it is our responsibility to earn your trust, attention, time and support. We vow to take that approach daily as we put the work in this offseason to be better.

“We owe it to each and every one of you.”

Chicago’s 121st loss came Friday night against Detroit.

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It’s been a downward spiral for the White Sox in recent years. After going 93-69 in 2021 and making the postseason, they followed up with 81 and then 61 wins. This season, they have just 40.

Andrew Benintendi shakes hands

Chicago White Sox’s Andrew Benintendi celebrates scoring with Lenyn Sosa against the Tigers, Saturday, Sept. 28, 2024, in Detroit. (AP Photo/Paul Sancya)

The team has been 11-32 since they fired manager Pedro Grifol and replaced him with interim manager Grady Sizemore.

Fox News’ Ryan Morik contributed to this report.

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This week's top 25 high school football rankings by The Times

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This week's top 25 high school football rankings by The Times

A look at the Los Angeles Times’ top 25 high school football teams in the Southland heading into Week 6.

Rk. SCHOOL (Rec.); Result; Next game; Last week’s rank

1. MATER DEI (4-0); idle; at Santa Margarita, Friday; 1

2. ST. JOHN BOSCO (5-0); idle; vs. Orange Lutheran, Friday; 2

3. MISSION VIEJO (6-0); def. Chaparral, 51-10; vs. Long Beach Poly at SoFi Stadium, Friday; 3

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4. JSERRA (5-0); idle; vs. Servite, Friday; 4

5. ORANGE LUTHERAN (4-1); idle; at St. John Bosco, Friday; 5

6. CORONA CENTENNIAL (3-2); idle; at Eastvale Roosevelt, Thursday; 6

7. SIERRA CANYON (2-3); idle; at Chaminade, Friday; 7

8. SERVITE (5-0); def. St. Paul, 33-14; at JSerra, Friday; 8

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9. OAKS CHRISTIAN (3-2); idle; at Oxnard Pacifica, Friday; 9

10. MURRIETA VALLEY (4-1); def. San Clemente, 35-25; vs. Norco, Thursday; 10

11. GARDENA SERRA (3-2); def. Los Alamitos, 42-7; at Loyola, Friday; 11

12. CHAPARRAL (4-1); lost to Mission Viejo, 51-10; at Vista Murrieta, Friday; 12

13. OAK HILLS (5-0); idle; vs. Hesperia, Thursday; 14

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14. LEUZINGER (5-0); def. Hawthorne, 61-0; vs. Inglewood at El Camino College, Friday; 17

15. SANTA MARGARITA (3-2); idle; vs. Mater Dei, Friday; 15

16. INGLEWOOD (5-0); idle; vs. Leuzinger, at El Camino College, Friday; 18

17. SIMI VALLEY (5-0); idle; vs. St. Bonaventure, Friday; 19

18. LOS ALAMITOS (4-2); lost to Gardena Serra, 42-7; at San Diego Lincoln, Saturday; 13

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19. SAN CLEMENTE (3-3); lost to Murrieta Valley, 35-25; vs. Coronado, Oct. 11; 16

20. DOWNEY (4-1); idle; at La Mirada, Friday; 20

21. NEWBURY PARK (5-0); def. Ventura, 43-14; at Santa Barbara, Saturday; 21

22. YORBA LINDA (5-0); idle; vs. Villa Park, Thursday; 22

23. RANCHO CUCAMONGA (3-2); idle; vs. Upland, Friday; 23

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24. VILLA PARK (4-1); def. Mira Costa, 18-0; at Yorba Linda, Thursday; 24

25. SAN JUAN HILLS (4-1); idle; vs. Corona del Mar, Friday; 25

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