‘I’m going to miss all my friends’: Oakland Coliseum workers prepare for life after A’s

Adam Cuevas heard the news from a text. Kendrick Thompson learned on social media. Johnny Williams found out by word of mouth. Joe Wolfcale had kept up with the news, the rumors, the writing on the wall.

The four all had different means of learning the news — that the A’s would be leaving Oakland — but they were united in their devastation. They weren’t just losing the A’s, the team they’d all loved since childhood. They were losing the Oakland Coliseum, the place they’d all had the opportunity to call their office.

The A’s are days away from playing their last game at the Coliseum, and Cuevas, Thompson, Williams and Wolfcale will be among the hundreds who will lose their jobs as a result of the team’s move to Sacramento. They were among the many who provided the decrepit, concrete cathedral with soul, with warmth. By October, they will be among the many left to figure out what’s next.

“I’m going to miss the money,” Cuevas, 67, said, “but most of all, I’m going to miss all my friends.”

When the A’s announced in April that this would be their final season in Oakland — that they would temporarily play in Sacramento with the intention of moving to Las Vegas — the economic ramifications were obvious: Hundreds of jobs would be terminated.

Cuevas, Thompson, Williams and Wolfcale are among the nearly 600 employees who will lose work as a result of the A’s move. That figure includes 176 part-time, gameday staff reductions by Bay Area Sports Catering, many of whom relied on the green and gold’s presence at 7000 S. Coliseum Way to make ends meet.

“The reality is becoming clear,” Wolfcale, 69, said. “I know a lot of these folks. … This could be it for them. If they’re fortunate enough to get some kind of severance from the A’s or their employers, who knows? But for a lot of them, this is their main source of income. I feel for them.”

“I’m going to be OK, but what about people who have to survive on 81 games?” Thompson, 33, said. “What about the concession people who are older and don’t have anywhere else to go?”

The economic impact is one thing. The emotional impact is another.

The Coliseum was never just a place of work for many of its workers. It was here they spent their childhoods. It was here they fell in love with the game.

Cuevas, who attended Oakland Tech with Rickey Henderson, danced on the mound after the A’s won the 1973 World Series. His friends told him they saw him on the news. In the parking lot, Cuevas hosted “legendary” tailgate parties stocked with tacos and lamb ribs and tri-tip and deep-fried turkey — and, yes, beer.

Williams attended Game 3 of the 1981 American League Championship Series, witnessing the Yankees complete a three-game sweep of the A’s en route to the World Series. From that day forward, Williams hated those damn Yankees. Two decades later, Williams witnessed the 20-game winning streak with Thompson, his stepson.

Thompson has his own core memories, too. He recalls watching a game with his dad, one where Jermaine Dye missed a catch. Williams called out to Dye, “Next one, J.D., baby.” Dye, in response, nodded his head in acknowledgment. The reaction that surprised Thompson, unaware that Dye and Williams knew one another. Dye caught the next ball hit in his direction, slamming into the right-field wall in the process, then flipped the ball to the father and son.

Wolfcale, who moved to the Bay Area in 1968 — the same year the A’s relocated to Oakland from Kansas City — attended games with his late father, William. As they sat in the right-field bleachers, they hoped the young left-handed slugger named Reggie Jackson would hit a homer in their direction.

“He never did, but we always had the hope that he might, and that was good enough for us,” said Wolfcale, a journalist in the Bay Area for more than 40 years who began working at the Coliseum in 2003. “We saw a lot of good baseball. Three years later, my dad was gone. Then, I started enjoying baseball in a whole different way. He wasn’t there with me, but I feel like he was with me all along anyway.”

In time, they came to call the Coliseum their office, an experience that has been rewarding in its own right.

Cuevas, who started at the Coliseum in 2015, makes and distributes baseball-themed bracelets. He never forgot the thrill of receiving a promotional item, and as he navigates the stadium’s lower bowl, he carries his handiwork in a small, black fanny pack, eager to share one with anyone who inquires.

Cuevas wears nearly a dozen bracelets himself. Those on his right wrist honor baseball’s most prolific Black players. No. 24 for Willie Mays. No. 42 for Jackie Robinson. To honor Alameda’s Willie Stargell, Cuevas has a bracelet with the No. 475 — Stargell’s home run total. The ones on his left wrist feature the dates that the A’s won their championships. Cuevas has already begun distributing bracelets that read “9-26” — the date of the A’s final game in Oakland.

“(Visiting) fans always ask, ‘Hey man, what’s up with all those bracelets? Are you a Swiftie?’” Cuevas laughs.

Thompson, a vendor for the last 13 years, dons his own signature accessory: a knitted Stomper Beanie made by Kim Jackson, whose handiwork has become a common sight at the Coliseum. If you don’t see “Ice Cold Kenny,” you’ll likely hear his baritone as he yells out, “Iiiiiice cold beer.” He’s become one of the Coliseum’s more popular vendors, persuading patrons with pace and selling snacks with smiles. It’s a skill — an art — he learned from Pops.

Before injuries relegated Williams, who began working at the Coliseum in 1993, to working concessions, he was a self-described top vendor who understood the ins and outs of the hustle. Thompson remembers watching Williams in his prime: how he quickly counted change, how he maintained relationships with regulars, how he juggled multiple conversations. And when a foul ball was hit his way, Williams tapped into his younger days and made the play.

“I’m proud of him,” Williams said through teary eyes and a cracking voice. “It’s good to see that I taught him well.”

“Being able to work there with him are some of the best times I’ve ever had,” Thompson said. “Being able to walk down the same stairs with him and see greatness in action, that’s something I’ll never be able to get again.”