Un-tarped upper deck has room with a view
Thoreau would have loved the upper deck at the A’s ballpark, now that the tarp has been removed.
On Sunday, with about 300 fans sprinkled in the Coliseum’s 12,000-seat top deck, there was plenty of room to stretch out and enjoy pockets of Walden-like solitude.
(The 300 is my estimate. If Sunday’s game had been a presidential rally, I would peg the upper-deck crowd at closer to 30,000.)
Thoreau once mused, “I would rather sit on a pumpkin and have it all to myself, than be crowded on a velvet cushion.”
I assume Thoreau would have cut off the pumpkin’s stem.
Along with the uncrowded seating, Thoreau would have dug the top deck’s laid-back, above-it-all vibe.
A fan named Danny waxed poetic, saying, “You can see the hills. There’s a great ocean breeze. You can smell the ocean.”
I didn’t have the heart to tell Danny he was downwind from my Old Spice after-
“It’s very serene, although sometimes you get stir crazy.” Concession worker in the upper deck at the Coliseum
shave. Hey, nature is nature.
I took in Sunday’s Tigers A’s game from the top deck, which is finally tarp-free again. Back in 2006, new owners John Fisher and Lew Wolff covered the top deck, reasoning that if you cram the fans together down below, you liven up the place, because nothing says “exciting baseball” like 5 acres of green tarpaulin.
The fans complained, noting that the big tarp ruined the ballpark atmosphere, and ownership sprang into action ... 11 years later.
New A’s President David Kaval is now calling at least some of the shots, and he has a weird belief that fans are people who deserve some consideration in return for their donations to the Fisher fortune.
On Sunday, 6 stories high behind home plate, a man named Michah was treating his wife, Ashlea, and friend Shomari to the game, as Ashlea’s birthday present.
“You can see everything!” Michah said.
Well, not everything. The once-magnificent view of the Oakland hills is blotted out by Mount Davis, which recently was voted the secondmost-annoying mountain in history, behind Mount Vesuvius.
Ashlea was enjoying her birthday present, and the affordable price tag ($15 tickets), although she did observe, “I don’t understand why three hot dogs and three beers is 50 bucks.”
At least folks on the top deck can get their snacks pronto. Zero waiting in line at restrooms or concession stands!
“It’s very serene, although sometimes you get stir crazy,” a snack-stand worker told me, and I wondered whether she was familiar with the old saying, “If you’ve got time to lean, you’ve got time to clean.”
The laid-back upper-deck atmosphere caused me to ponder, Thoreau-like: Does this deck lure the mellowest of fans, or are the folks here simply buzzed on sunshine, elbow room, baseball and altitude sickness?
Taking a midgame break from the sun, I ambled down to the new Shibe Park Tavern, an airy space named as an homage to the home of the old Philadelphia A’s. In a corner museum-type display, a surprising discovery: Connie Mack, who managed that team for 50 years, bore a striking resemblance to Bob Melvin, the current skipper. Google ’em both and tell me I’m wrong.
Another coincidence: Connie Mack was short for Cornelius McGillicuddy. Melvin’s nickname is BoMel. Melvin is only 43 years short of Mack’s tenure, but I don’t like Melvin’s chances of passing old Connie.
Now back to the top deck, and the elevator walls are a wrap-around mural of the Coliseum during a long-ago World Series game. The top deck is crammed to capacity for that game, a wild place. This day, however, it’s a mellow pumpkin patch.
On days like this, the upper deck is a great place to kick back and soak in the musical selections of ballpark DJ Mark Arrieta, who, unlike most brain-dead sports-venue song-selectors, goes old school and new school, something for everyone. And on Sundays, the Coliseum also rocks to a peppy, traditional organist.
The organist played “Hotel California,” which is the A’s ownership’s theme song — “You can check out any time you like, but you can never leave.”
The top deck is a familyfriendly place. No drunken louts, and, despite earlier reference to the old dope ramp, no whiffs of wacky tobacky. It is a great spot for a kid to take in the whole scope of the game.
“I think it’s amazing,” said a wide-eyed fan named Kevin, age about 12, attending his first major-league ballgame. “But I’m still hungry.”
I asked him what he’d had to eat.
“An orange,” he said. I reported his parents to the child-protection authorities.
You know who wasn’t hungry? The seagulls. The Coliseum’s top deck is an all-you-can-strafe buffet for the big birds, who begin perching on the upper railing in the fifth inning, their happy hour.
“The A’s are going to have to figure out a solution,” said a fan named Alex, as the birdie Luftwaffe swooped and pooped. “People aren’t going to want to buy tickets if they’re getting crapped on.”
But then, isn’t that the very definition of an A’s fan?