OAKLAND, Calif. — Lawrence Butler is used to alter. A fixture in the baseball world that never really knows what city you are in or what day of the week it’s, rightfully comes with the territory. Unfortunately, and as expected, Oakland Athletics fans have seen more shake-ups in and out of town – not due to a trade, which is the typical path for young players in Alameda County. This time the entire team is gone.

On Thursday, the final day of baseball at the Oakland Coliseum, the 24-year-old outfielder went 1-for-4 and scored a run. A solid day to win, all emotions aside – which is not any small thing even for a debutant who has the world in front of him. For players like manager Mark Kotsay, who played for this city and park from 2004 to 2007, those feelings can’t be hidden.

If you were being attentive to the Athletics simply because front office ineptitude over the past few years has made them the saddest laughingstock in the league this side of Chicago’s South Side, nobody would doubt you. It’s only a shame that Oakland specifically did not have more time with a man who embodies every part the league wants in a personality.

“I think for people who have been here the longest, it’s more emotional. I mean, I know a lot of employees are probably going to lose their jobs and be looking for jobs,” Butler said after the 3-2 victory over the Texas Rangers. “I mean, there’s a lot of long, hard-core A’s fans who have just, you know, been here forever from the beginning, I feel for them.”

Over the last six seasons, all six of his skilled profession, he has played for 10 teams in the event you include the Arizona Fall League but not the major leagues. Leaving was never the hardest part, but you’ll be able to’t help but think that in a really perfect world, Butler is strictly the form of player Oakland would retain, develop, and turn right into a star.

He looks and dresses like several necessary person of that age. He isn’t a robot with no visible personality. In April, he met with MLB Network sportscaster Siera Santos at Quad Studios in New York to record some on-camera scenes. He described his admiration for musical artists Tupac Shakur, Biggie Smalls, Beyoncé and Whitney Houston.

“You can have a song that is special to you, or you can have a song that just draws the audience to your attack. It might push you to do something special on the field,” Butler says simply. “I think music has a big influence on baseball.”

It sounds so easy, so obvious, so easy, but sometimes that is what you wish. Talking to players about their personal preferences in almost anything related to the arts may be an especially time-consuming process. Guys don’t need to disclose any personal motivational secrets they’ve, or they’re afraid the unsuitable confession might go viral, and while you stack 25 of those guys on top of one another in a club, you are in for a sleep that turns an all-sane person right into a bore.

Butler can never be taken for square footage. Whether it’s oversized sunglasses, vibrant accessories, or an all-around game, his outfit feels familiar when he’s wearing his kelly-colored Oakland tees. That’s because the Athletics were a team back in the day that weren’t afraid to combine up their personalities. In some ways, that is where the series’ identity lies, somewhat than the latest incarnation dropped at the bay by hated team owner John Fisher.

The kid, who goes by the name Z4law on Instagram, is the closest thing we have seen to the style and charisma that the A’s of the ’70s and ’90s dropped at the game. Vida Blue, Rollie Fingers and Reggie Jackson franchise. The band that brought Bash brothers Jose Canseco and Mark McGwire, the Hendersons and countless other names plastered on the limitless concrete partitions of the Coliseum arena.

In short, exactly the sort of player you might construct a team, league or city around. The form of player who puts their butts in the seats and the balls in the stands at the plate. This all is smart as a product of the Marquis Grissom Baseball Association in Atlanta. And while you see him after games, giving style tricks to his teammates in front of everyone and generally having a superb time, it’s hard to breathe a breath of fresh air.

Despite all the nonsense MLB puts out attempting to make the game more fun and diverse blah blah blah, I do not understand why Butler is not the league’s newest darling. It’s all there and we have not even talked about baseball. That’s what it’s all about to some extent.

Ask many black individuals who were kids back in the day and they’ll let you know that those high fives and that whole attitude were the reason they liked the game in the first place. When you set a bunch of fellows in white shoes against the soul and core of a spot that has change into cultural legends like Digital Underground, MC Hammer, Keyshia Cole, Too Short, En Vogue and Tony! Toni! Toné!, all of it makes an excessive amount of sense. But no, as a substitute we’ve a culture of doom and dismay, with owners crying that fans aren’t showing up because raw sewage flows through the last dugouts in the big leagues.

When you see it up close along with your own eyes, it breaks your heart. Never mind that the city has lost three skilled sports teams in five years, which is an actual shame. Butler is the closest thing to real pride in Oakland in YEARS, and for the next few years he’ll be stationed in West Sacramento, where few people will find out about it.

In his first full MLB season, Butler hit .265 with 22 home runs, 57 RBI, 18 stolen bases and recorded 3.1 wins above substitute in 124 games.

“He’s that particular guy, if you were running an organization that you wanted to put a lot of marketing money into, someone who’s personable, who can play and, you know, and who has a good rapport with the fans” – Trent Henderson, son of the late outfielder Dave Henderson, who played for the A’s from 1988 to 1993, said Thursday at a postgame fan event where fans gathered after the final break. “He would be the perfect franchise guy.”

There are, after all, countless the explanation why Thursday was such an oddly depressing yet cathartic day. In The Bay, fans are too indignant with Fisher to take into consideration the greater picture, which is fair. But when you see the individuals who show up at the tailgate and have supported and boycotted this band in various forms over the years, it is easy to guess why a scoundrel like Fisher doesn’t prefer it. This man sees no a part of himself on this culture.

There’s no way Fisher ever shared the bag together with his homies and faded. He has no idea who rapper Del the Funky Homosapien is, let alone “Mr. Dobalina.” If rapper Dru Down himself – the son of funk musician Bootsy Collins – had taken the field with crazy curls, Fisher would have had no idea. Meanwhile, after the game, as players and team staff collect dirt to maintain as souvenirs, the stadium’s public address system blares through the Luniz team speakers I actually have a remix of “I’ve Got Five On It”.when Richie Rich drops the iconic line “” and the bottom bowl screams “OAKLAND” in unison because that is what you do when that happens.

Fisher has no idea why grown adults wear gold grills during their game – which is ironic. It’s sad that in a city with as much culture as another major city, the MLB commissioner’s office didn’t fight tooth and nail to maintain this team there because diversity is clearly a priority. Instead, a gaggle of other owners cowardly allowed a miser to spoil certainly one of the best franchises the game has ever seen.

“I believe it’s just a bit of s— and not good for business because this area may be very profitable. And in the event you have a look at people like his friend, like (Golden State Warriors majority owner) Joe Lacob, right, you will find individuals who understand how much money there’s in the Bay Area and how much we’re already spending. It’s not like everyone here is just broke, and half the individuals who come to the games will not be just from Oakland,” Sacramento Kings announcer Gary “G-Man” Gerould said after the game. Nearby, women of their 60s were taking photos while sitting on the back of an SUV’s open tailgate. “He would somewhat go somewhere where he thinks people will spend more cash. You can easily get people here to spend even more cash. If you give us something, fix the lights, give us one player, right, like us, you could have players like Khris Davis who come back to the team and take pay cuts simply to play with us? Yes, Negro. But I do not know who of their right mind goes to are available and play for a minor league team for a minor league salary in a minor league stadium in the hottest city in California, outside on AstroTurf.

That said, Butler has had a monster 12 months. This 12 months he played TWO home games that resulted in three runs. He drives for a reason. He comes from a pedigree and a gaggle of friends of other young players who’re also not afraid to be themselves. The first time I met him, we were sitting with friends and family as his minor league season ended and everyone went home to look at Atlanta Braves center fielder Michael Harris II the 12 months he won Rookie of the Year in 2019. There was a conversation about how playing video games is a savior that keeps a tight-knit group of friends. If you realize, you realize.

Thursday was a day filled with confusion. So much potential, a lot love, a lot passion, and it’s all thrown away because a bunch of wealthy guys are too scared to get up to some moron who doesn’t know the difference between a swipe and a zipper. You haven’t got to be an A fan to get indignant about this.

Meanwhile, there’s a portal to the past and the future, containing every part the game expects from young players. Exactly the potential star that Oakland needs, night after night, without the opportunity to really connect together with his fan base.

“It was the biggest variety of fans I’ve ever played in front of in my life. And to have that atmosphere, to have them behind you, you realize, to make a noise each time someone comes on base, or during an enormous strike, I’ll definitely keep in mind that,” Butler said before the team squeezed into their buses – even after tying the home game — because the organization was concerned about potential outbreaks of violence after the tilt. “I mean, just like any other offseason, you can’t take the offseason off just because you had a good season. You have to come in, work harder and try to do better next year. ”

But for the fans of that day, there might be no next 12 months.