Through speeding train windows the landscape dissolves into flashing images that zip from left to right or right to left, depending on where you sit. Traveling from Fremont to Hayward, and then on to San Leandro, the skyline squats noticeably lower. New-model cars deteriorate into salvage. It's a public transit stop-action-animation journey into a different Bay Area, worlds away from faux-hippie tourist traps and photo-op lookout points. You are now entering Too Short's territory. Welcome to the East Bay. Welcome to the home of the Oakland Athletics.

All angular gray concrete, the stadium I still refer to as the Oakland Coliseum (formerly Network Associates Coliseum; currently McAfee Coliseum; ultimately to be known as Your Name Here Coliseum) would likely be an eyesore in just about any  neighborhood. Unfortunately the 40-year-old structure complements its surroundings all too well. The stadium is flanked on one end by the antiquated, and ingeniously titled, Oakland Arena. On the other side lies a drying, stagnant riverbed choked with refuse. Crumbling neighborhoods stretch out in every direction. Sirens wail in the distance. There are no restaurants or nightlife nearby, no atmosphere or excitement. Only a staggered mass of A's fans methodically making their way from the parking lot to the entrance gates, attempting to ignore the economic and social depression bearing down on them from all sides.

When I attended the opening game of the A's/Devil Rays series in early May it had been almost six years since I had last visited the Oakland Coliseum. Time has a way of softening our brutal impressions of people and places, and the years had coerced me into a more affectionate recollection of the place. Loyalty to the green and gold had transformed the beast into a homely but harmless little toddler that only a mother, or an A's fan, could love. I convinced myself that what it lacked in amenities and location, it made up for with guile and character. As I approached the ticket window before that game against the D-Rays, all the realities of the Oakland Coliseum oozed over me like the sludge lining that nearby riverbed.

To put it bluntly, Oakland Coliseum has become a pit. One of the most beautiful stadiums in American sports during the initial years of its existence, the stadium has been battered nearly to rubble by local economic depression and the return of the Raiders. The stadium was originally open above center field, and on a relatively smog-free day fans took in picturesque views of the rolling foothills mere miles away.

But renovations in 1996, intended to make it more football-friendly, enclosed the stadium completely, leaving fans no alternative but to stare at the offensive Everest of seats that now towers above the rest of the park. Sarcastically referred to by fans as "Mount Davis," after Al Davis, the maniacal owner of the Raiders who helped instrument the structural changes, this heinous addition has turned the Coliseum into a slugger-stifling pitchers' park, and gone a long way toward giving the stadium all the ambiance of a proctologist's office.

Before

After

But the place should bleed ambiance. History should radiate from its corridors and concourses. Since the A's moved to the Coliseum in 1968 the likes of Reggie Jackson, Catfish Hunter, Rollie Fingers, Vida Blue, Dennis Eckersley, and Mark McGwire have cultivated their legend on its field. The old building has hosted an All-Star Game, witnessed five 100-win seasons, five no-hitters, thirteen American League Western Division winners, six American League pennant winners, and four World Series Champions. Ricky Henderson surpassed Lou Brock with a head first slide into its third base dust, and Jose Canseco put the finishing touches on the first 40/40 season in baseball history with a hook slide into second.

I should have had those glorious moments rattling through my memory as I maneuvered toward my seat. I didn't. All I could think about was the wafting cloud of poverty hanging in the air around us.

What to do with the A's has been a hot topic of conversation in the Bay Area for several years now. Desperate to escape the slumping revenue and urban decay that have become synonymous with the city of Oakland, the team initially sought to relocate to one of the booming boroughs of the Silicon Valley.

Santa Clara was prominently mentioned early on as a potential location, but the San Francisco Giants legally claim the Silicon Valley as their turf, which ruled out the possibility of the A's moving there. Rumors circulated that the previous owners were considering moving the team out of California completely, with baseball-hungry markets like Las Vegas and San Antonio reportedly salivating at the opportunity to lure the A's eastward.

But a new ownership team stepped in last year and brought the organizational philosophy full circle. Plans are slowly moving forward to create a 35,000 seat, baseball-only facility as part of a sports and entertainment complex that would stream jobs and revenue back into the Oakland economy. It's a strategy that could provide tremendous humanitarian benefits. In a city with a murder rate three and a half times the national average, and roughly one of every five residents living in poverty, professional baseball, and all of its requisite economic and social benefits, is desperately needed in Oakland.

A cushy stadium in suburban Santa Clara or under the humming Vegas neon would have been the easy way to go. The Oakland A's now appear committed to sticking it out in the East Bay, serving as the cornerstone of an effort to revitalize the community that has supported them since their arrival in moving trucks from Kansas City four decades ago.

 The A's lost that early May battle with the lowly Devil Rays in front of a measly 12,000 spectators, and I felt the sting of their performance as I boarded the train for the exodus from Oakland. But baseball vanished from my thoughts when the wheels below me creaked into motion. The scenery on the way home was cloaked in breezy Bay Area darkness, giving my mind space to wander. I imagined the same deteriorating cityscape in reverse, low slung hovels sprouting into skyscrapers, flat tires filling with oxygen, graffiti magically whitewashed into oblivion. Then I imagined that I was once again going north, face-first into the aching city of Oakland, revived by the simple concept of baseball enveloped in a shiny new package of hope and renewal.