A year out of Oakland, A's fans feel familiar anger

It wasn't impossible to believe him. He was helping his friend, A's owner John Fisher, out of a bind, and he was doing it by offering him a rent-free ballpark in Northern California, which allowed Fisher to stay somewhat local and keep most of his $67 million in annual local television revenue. But beyond convenience, Fisher's soft landing in a minor league ballpark after the team's 57-season stay in Oakland made a measure of twisted sense; he was bringing his team to a sports-hungry major metropolitan area that seemed eager to show Major League Baseball it should be considered for an expansion team, or, should Vegas fall through, the A's themselves.

But as the team's first season in Sacramento nears its end, it's clear that many of the problems that plagued the franchise in Oakland have made the trip 90 miles east. Attendance is lower than it was last season, and the lowest in the big leagues despite Tampa Bay having less capacity at George Steinbrenner Field. Game-day employees, who work for Sutter Health Park but are under the A's oversight, say the team's Big Brother approach to management has taken a toll on morale. And many season-ticket holders, who lined up to purchase the most expensive tickets in baseball (according to Gametime, a ticket service site that tracks prices and sells tickets), were left confused and furious after a series of ticket specials and discounts rendered tickets to games they couldn't attend nearly worthless.

This account is based on more than a dozen interviews with season-ticket holders, Athletics employees and business representatives from the West Sacramento area. Some employees, fearing retribution, were granted anonymity to speak freely about their experiences. The team contends that the season has been a success, that the quick transition from Oakland to Sacramento presented hurdles that will take time to clear. And while it's undoubtedly a massive undertaking to play major league baseball in a minor league stadium, especially one that is still occupied by a minor league team, it was an undertaking the A's chose willingly. Other big league teams have played in minor league ballparks, as the Rays are doing this season, but each instance has arisen from an occurrence -- such as COVID, or Hurricane Milton peeling the roof off Tropicana Field -- that was out of the team's control. The A's could have continued to play in the Oakland Coliseum, as awkward and uncomfortable as that might have been, but the team deemed a lease proposal from the city to be unreasonably expensive and therefore a nonstarter.

"In Sacramento, the ballpark experience has been what we had hoped," team vice president Sandy Dean says. "It's intimate, very fan-friendly and special. We think the attendance and especially the reception from the greater Sacramento region has been very positive. We hear that repeatedly in fan surveys."

However, the honeymoon seems to have ended before the wedding, when the A's alienated the most prideful locals by choosing not to include Sacramento in the team's name, opting instead for the geographically unencumbered "Athletics." There is a Sacramento patch on one jersey sleeve, a Las Vegas patch on the other. The most prominent signage in the ballpark is a "Visit Las Vegas" sponsorship.

"As we have talked about on a number of occasions, out of respect for the interim nature of our time in Sacramento, we chose to be known only as the Athletics," Dean says. "We felt it was respectful of the fact that we are here for a finite time."

It is, in almost every aspect, an unprecedented situation. The A's haven't drawn an announced crowd of 12,000 fans since July Fourth, in a ballpark with a capacity anywhere from 12,500 to 14,014 (not even the team can say definitively). They reached 10,000 twice in a 24-game stretch ending in August, and crowds at games featuring marquee teams have an inordinate number of fans cheering for the visiting club. It was once considered possible, back when Ranadive stood on the podium flanked by beaming local politicians, that the A's could sell out most or all of their 81 home dates; they have announced seven sellouts: opening night, three games against the Yankees on Mother's Day weekend and three against the Giants over the Fourth of July weekend.

Despite many union- and MLB-mandated upgrades, opposing players have routinely criticized the setup at Sutter Health, most notably the inaccessibility of the clubhouses behind the wall in left and left-center. The most fervent critic, however, was the man the team touted as a symbol of the team's new willingness to spend money. Pitcher Luis Severino signed the biggest free agent contract in Fisher's 20-year ownership of the A's (three years, $67 million) then repeatedly complained about the setup. After his first start at Sutter Health, he said it felt like spring training. Later, asked why he pitches better on the road, he said, "Because we play in a big league stadium on the road."

The Athletics are as close as a major league team can come to existing in a vacuum. Because it is common for no local reporters to travel with the team, a situation the A's do not control and is as much a reflection of the current media landscape as the baseball team, fans have limited insight into the personalities of the players and day-to-day decisions of the club. There is little to no advertising in the local television market outside of the network that carries the games, and online ads still feature Mason Miller, the closer who was traded to the Padres before the July 31 deadline.

For season-ticket holders such as the Arden Park Dads, the first ominous sign came on the morning of April 7, when their text chain was set aflame by one of its members, Brian Zambor, whose language roiled in a malevolent sea of expletives. He had just read an email from the Athletics announcing the first in what would turn out to be a series of ticket discounts. It was 10 games and three home contests into their first season at Sutter Health Park, the day the team would begin its second homestand with a series against the Padres, and the email announced discounted tickets as low as $12.50 apiece.

The Arden Park Dads and their families were among those who bought into the A's Sacramento hype; five families with kids hopped up on sports went together to purchase six season tickets down the right-field line shortly after they went on sale. They wanted five tickets because they fit the size of each of their families, but they were told they could only purchase even numbers. They wanted the seats to be in sets of three -- front and back -- but were told they needed to be in a continuous row. Whatever: Big league baseball was coming to their neighborhood, and they were in. Like most season-ticket buyers, they knew they wouldn't attend every game but assumed they could resell unused tickets for face value or close. They purchased the cheapest available season tickets: $50 per seat, $300 per game not counting a $30 parking pass. It penciled out to roughly 16 games per family and nearly $5,000 each for the season.

When Zambor went online to see where the discounted seats were located, what he found ratcheted up his anger. For $12.50, the A's were offering better seats than his, many of them between his section and the first-base dugout.

"I sent a message to our dad text group: 'You've got to be f------ kidding me,'" he says. "You're undercutting our seats and giving people better seats than ours for that much less? How can you do this?"

Nineteen days later, on April 26, another email from the Athletics: a two for $20 ticket deal. Lawn seats beyond right and right-center field, Sutter Health's version of bleachers, began the season at $70 apiece. Within weeks, the team was selling them for $25 apiece on game days, and several Athletics employees say ticket reps routinely meet those with lawn tickets as they enter the ballpark and usher them to reserved seats to make crowds look bigger on television.

"Two for $20 -- that's when I knew this was really messed up," says Kevin Flanagan, who purchased two season tickets ($8,100) with his fiancée in the same section as the Arden Park Dads. "I started going online, looking for groups and venting. This is totally wrong. How are they getting away with this?"

Dean, Fisher's closest advisor, says, "The A's, like I think all the teams in the league, will occasionally have a limited-time flash sale or promotional offer. Season-ticket holders have the benefit of good seats for the whole season, plus access to exclusive events with players."

Zambor is a Mets fan who went in on tickets with the Arden Park Dads for the same reason many in the Sacramento region did: He loves baseball and was intoxicated by the remarkable and rare opportunity to have a big league team just down the street. And maybe, just maybe, the team's temporary residency would lead to an expansion team, or to the A's remaining permanently if the still unannounced financing for the $2 billion-plus ballpark in Las Vegas falls through. He knew the history of the A's and Fisher, who pulled the team out of Oakland after 57 seasons, spending the last five seasons at odds with the fan base, stripping the team of its recognizable stars, raising ticket prices and letting the Oakland Coliseum rot before leaving town.

"We know what we're getting into, but it's like they're not even trying," Zambor says. "Why wouldn't you want to put forth a little bit of effort? We know the devil we're dancing with in Fisher, so just embrace the opportunity. We know it's not permanent, but can't you at least try? This is a great sports area, and it would be so easy to do this right. But at every turn, every decision they make is the wrong one."

The Arden Park Dads are quick to point out the great times they've had at the ballpark, and they say their discontent has nothing to do with the product on the field or the people who work at the ballpark.

They know the game well enough to know the baseball decision-makers in the A's front office, when given half a chance, have always cooked up something decent, in a pantry-challenge kind of way. The team had a gruesome 1-20 stretch in May and June, but a strong second half and the emergence of a lengthy list of exciting young position players such as Nick Kurtz, Jacob Wilson and Lawrence Butler has created a hushed optimism.

And Zambor says the A's have responded to the complaints of season-ticket holders by giving them occasional field access for batting practice, something he calls "pretty cool."

Clem Lincoln, the group's unofficial leader, tells the story of a fan who was sitting behind him and his 11-year-old son one night in June. The fan told everyone within earshot that he played against A's outfielder and budding star Tyler Soderstrom in high school not too far down the road. Lincoln's son, infused with the innocence of youth, turned around and asked, "Was he any good?"

When we meet in a brewpub in Sacramento, Zambor is wearing a Keith Hernandez T-shirt (the front reads, "Nice Game Pretty Boy" -- a George Costanza/"Seinfeld" reference) and says he and his wife, also an avid baseball fan, have decided the ideal retirement would involve moving to a town with a low-level minor league team where he could fulfill his dream of being a play-by-play announcer.

But Zambor's face still manages to retain its amazement as he recounts the long-ago email advertising two tickets for $25. "I want to stress that we weren't trying to make money off this," he says. "We're all fortunate enough to be able to afford it, but we just thought we could break even on the games we couldn't attend. That didn't seem to be too much to ask, given how they were hyping it." Instead, the only ticket his group has been able to sell for more than face value was opening night, when Zambor sold one of his tickets for $75. "I've had more luck selling the parking pass than the game tickets," he says, laughing. One of the Dads donates tickets he can't use to local nonprofits after deciding that he could make out better financially with the tax write-off without the hassle of selling his tickets for next to nothing.

On May 10, Flanagan -- the non-Dad -- wrote an email to his ticket rep:

I know that I'm not the only customer to be speaking out, but the season has been extremely frustrating with many regrets. I have worked in sports ticket sales before and I never had the feeling that I was underselling the event I did. Being a season ticket holder for the Athletics is embarrassing to the point that I regret telling my friends or coworkers. I cannot give away tickets, I cannot easily sell games I can't make it to (at market rate-especially on SeatGeek), and I feel ignored by the team sales staff.

The exchanges continued, with Flanagan wondering if there were any sweeteners, like a one-time suite upgrade, that the team could offer to customers who bought in at the beginning and were left feeling undercut and ignored. The ticket rep, who did not respond to a request for an interview and has since left the organization, told Flanagan he would have something for him the next time he attended a game.

When Flanagan got there, he texted the rep to let him know he was in the park. Shortly afterward, a ballpark employee came down the aisle carrying a plastic bag filled with old giveaways -- caps, T-shirts, a rally towel -- and handed it to Flanagan.

"It was all stuff I already had," Flanagan says. "And that was the extent of it. That's all they had. I looked at it and thought, 'Oh, man, I wish you hadn't given me anything at all.'"

We're talking on Friday, June 20, and Flanagan is trying to sell his tickets to that night's game against the Guardians. He put them on SeatGeek, the official reseller of MLB, the week before for $22 each, less than half of what he paid. The app will give sellers a recommended price point based on sales of similar seats.

"Usually, when they haven't sold and I go back and take a look, the value has changed a lot," he says. "Let me check on these." A few moments pass and Flanagan says, "OK, here it is: It's telling me a recommended price of $6 to $8."

The silence hangs in the air.

"I feel like everyone is laughing at us," he says. "I don't even bring up that I'm a season-ticket holder anymore. It's embarrassing to admit. It's hard for me to get past how excited I was at the beginning and how let down I've been by the organization."

Flanagan's email exchanges ended with his ticket rep writing, "If August comes and you still feel like your season ticket membership was not worth it! In August you may opt out during your 2026 season ticket renewal opt-out window."

"When I read that, I said some very choice words," Flanagan says. "Many of them expletives."

THERE WAS ALWAYS a reason it would get better. Attendance would rise when schools went on summer break, or when the weather warmed after an unseasonably cool spring. Those things happened, and a sustained and unexpected run of mild weather allayed fears of sun stroke summer. Still, nothing changed in West Sacramento. A four-game series against the Astros in mid-June -- school was out, the weather was good, a first-place team in town -- drew crowds of 8,766, 8,315, 8,803 and 8,670.

The A's sold potential season-ticket buyers on the idea that scarcity would create demand. "They pitched it as a unique opportunity to have MLB in Sacramento and that it would be an investment," Lincoln says. "They didn't make any promises but said, 'It's only 14,000 seats, so supply and demand will be a thing. From a sales standpoint, they said you need to jump on these now because the season tickets will sell out. And they did."

The A's stressed that season-ticket holders would be protected from dynamic pricing, meaning they would pay the same for every game and not face an upcharge if they decided to purchase single-game tickets for the more attractive opponents such as the Yankees and Giants.

"I feel like we're to blame," Zambor says. "Honestly, I feel foolish. I can't believe I fell for it, knowing who we were dealing with. I just could not wrap my head around the idea that they could screw this up any more than they already have. And they have, in glorious proportion. It would have been so easy for them to embrace this community and watch it embrace you back, but Fisher is salting the earth here, just like he did in Oakland."

"I would just say we're pleased with the interest we've got in the team," Dean says. "In general, we feel the fans are enjoying the benefits of the ballpark, the staff and the opportunity to see Major League Baseball."

Lincoln was the Arden Park Dad who gathered his friends and sold them on the wisdom of season tickets. "This whole thing was my wonderful idea," he says sarcastically. "I thought for sure they'd sell out every game. Boy, was I wrong. And I thought Sac would fully embrace them. Boy, was I wrong. I'm a glass half full guy: What a memory this could be, what a great moment in history, what a unique experience to have access to. And there have been times when it has felt like that, but to then be treated so poorly is so disappointing."

Lincoln wasn't alone in his optimism. At the news conference announcing the team's move, on a rainy day in early April of last year, hopes were Everest-high. Fisher spoke for 140 seconds, mused about the prospect of watching Aaron Judge hit homers against his team in a small ballpark -- a premonition that came true on May 10, when Judge hit two -- and then relinquished the stage to Ranadive and local dignitaries, who were unanimously amazed at their good fortune.

The CEO of the Greater Sacramento Economic Council, Barry Broome, was caught up in the excitement of welcoming the A's to Sacramento. "The only thing I ask of the Fishers," he said at the time, "is when they win the World Series in the next three years, they put that parade right in the middle of our town."

Sacramento has already proved itself to be a "big league city" -- however that is defined -- through its enduring support of the Kings, another franchise with historically shaky management and subpar performance. But the A's, temporary or not, were seen as a major boon for the region's psyche and economy.

"It's been wonderful having the A's here," West Sacramento Mayor Martha Guerrero says. "There was a lot involved in this, and it happened in a short period of time. The priority in the first year was elevating the standards from minor league to major league. We focused on things like a traffic safety plan, how to get people in and out safely. We did our part to make sure it all got done, and now we need to take a look at what we can do for the next round. How do we expand on that progress? We're learning as we go, as I'm sure the A's are as well."

ANGER AND FRUSTRATION travel, apparently, at least when they're directed at the A's organization in general and John Fisher in particular. Ninety miles is nothing when it comes to this brand of vitriol. It is perhaps the most durable aspect of this long-running saga.

"It's a team that just got here and everybody knows it shouldn't be here and knows it's going to leave," one A's employee says. "Nobody wants to emotionally invest in a team they know isn't going to stick around."

The A's will spend at least two more seasons in Sacramento. They have begun selling season-ticket plans for next season, and the prices have not changed. Zambor and Flanagan say they aren't renewing, and they don't know of anyone in their section who will. "I'm not only not renewing," Flanagan says, "I'm not going to be a fan moving forward." If the team sells fewer season tickets, there will be fewer single-game tickets available on the secondary markets at deflated prices, which might lead to even smaller crowds but more fans paying full price. There will also be fewer home games; the 2026 schedule includes a six-game June "home stand" at Las Vegas Ballpark, home of the A's Triple-A Aviators.

There are changes ahead, Dean says. The team will hold "Sacramento Saturdays" throughout the 2026 season in an effort to "celebrate Sacramento." After fans complained there was a lack of Sacramento-branded merchandise sold at Sutter Health Park, and what existed sold out almost immediately, the team says it now has 20 Sacramento items in stock. "We've heard a lot of positive feedback," Dean says, "but as an organization, there are things we can do better."

The bitterness from the team's Oakland exit lingers. Fisher, who did not attend a game in Oakland last season, has made occasional appearances in West Sacramento. He was booed and cursed as he walked through the stands behind home plate during an August game against Tampa Bay. Fans wearing the now-ubiquitous SELL T-shirts attempt to evade security long enough to position themselves to be captured in the background of the team's pregame and postgame television shows. "Let's go Oakland" chants, which have traveled the path from encouraging to mocking, frequently bubble up in the stands.

Those working at the ballpark are employees of Sutter Health Park, not the Athletics, and they work for the A's and the River Cats, the Giants' Triple-A team. (Attendance at River Cats' games has dropped 22% from 2024, the biggest year-over-year decrease in minor league baseball.) One game-day employee, who says he was designated by his crew to speak for the group, said workers began attempting to trade out of A's games early in the season to work more River Cats' games. He said minor things, like not being provided shorts by the A's but being chastised for wearing a pair with a visible brand logo, add up. "You do this for fun," he says of his $16.50 per hour second job, "and it's not fun. The A's make sure it's known that you're being watched every minute. Everything feels monitored, and there's stress that's put on you. You're always being pulled aside and told, 'That doesn't fly for A's games.' I know the rules are different for MLB games, but it's like harsh parenting."

Says Dean: "The Kings and the River Cats are responsible for running the day-to-day operations of the ballpark, with our support. It's been a good partnership. It's hard for us to speak to the specifics of how River Cats' games are managed. I'm sure there are differences."

There are unique challenges that come with navigating the game-day experience for an organization with such a fraught recent past. The game-day employee says an edict came down early in the season requiring anyone who works with the team's elephant mascot, Stomper, to be on the lookout for anyone wearing SELL shirts or pro-Oakland paraphernalia such as shirts inscribed with "I'd Rather Be At The Coliseum." The team felt it became necessary after several fans made it through the line either wearing the shirts or removing jackets that revealed them while posing with Stomper, then posing them on social media.

"Stomper got in a little bit of trouble for that," the employee says. "It wasn't Stomper's fault, though. Stomper can't really see."

After that, the employees who surround Stomper are responsible for scouring the crowd around the mascot. "If you see someone halfway through the line with a SELL shirt, call it off," the employee says. "Make up a reason, like, 'Oh, sorry everybody, Stomper has to go back now.' It doesn't seem like it should be part of anyone's job to watch out for shirts that tell us to go back to Oakland, but that's where we are."

Where they are -- the team, the fans, the employees -- isn't far removed from where they've been. There will be at least two more seasons of this: playing in a city that feels slighted, in front of a dwindling number of distant and discontented fans, waiting for something better. The franchise represents the perfect metaphor for the patches on their sleeves. A little bit here, a little bit there, a little bit nowhere.