The city that can't stop hurting

OAKLAND – This is
the city that can't stop hurting. The city that can't stop weeping.

Once, Oakland was
known as the home of the Raiders, the Athletics, the Golden State Warriors. Once
the questions were about Al Davis' disconnect or Billy Beane's “Moneylessball.’’

Now they're about
death, about the killing of four policemen by a parolee who should never have
been let free.

Now the area that proudly labeled itself the "City of Champions" is a chump, an
embarrassment.

This is my city, Oakland, where I live, where I've worked, where I've watched the sporting heroes come and go, where I saw
Reggie Jackson and Jim Plunkett and Rick Barry lead franchises to
titles.

This is where
Catfish Hunter pitched a perfect game, Art Shell, Gene Upshaw and Bob Brown
blocked their way to the Pro Football Hall of Fame, Sleepy Floyd scored a record
29 points in the fourth quarter, 51 overall, in the NBA playoffs against the
Lakers.

This is the town to
which sports gave an identity, the town that no longer needed a postscript to
note it was across the Bay from San Francisco.

Now it's the town
that has lost its way and its soul, a town infamous for a crime instead of
famous for any team.

So shocking. So
disturbing. So jarring.

Here we were
wondering if the A's would have pitching, or if the San Francisco Giants would
have any hitting. Whether JaMarcus Russell would take his role as Raiders
quarterback seriously enough to stay in shape. Whether Warriors management was
interested in anything except the large crowds, which persistently supported a
perennially losing team.

The city turned out
en masse for the funeral Friday. Law enforcement officers from throughout the
land came to services held at Oracle Arena, where the Warriors play. What a
strange linkage, a reflection of grief in a building designed for
enjoyment.

You may have read. Two of the murdered policemen spent time assisting the
local teams at Oracle or the McAfee Coliseum next door. They were known by the
athletes, appreciated by management. By all counts, they were good guys.

By all counts Oakland is a good city. Or was. Now its already tarnished
reputation is stained even more. Now rather than debate whether Al Davis ought
to sell the Raiders – he won't – or if Lew Wolff's intent in buying the A's was
to move them to San Jose, people will talk about lawlessness and
pain.

Talk of terror rather than elation. Of residents saying they no longer can tolerate living here.

Cities struggle to get on the front pages. But not this way. They want
tourists, new businesses, satisfied citizens. They want teams that bring
spectators to the arenas or stadiums. Not situations that bring
disgrace.

It's going to be a difficult
road back. This isn't like a few toughs throwing flashlight batteries at a
leftfielder at the Coliseum, or members of the Black Hole harassing a spectator
at a Raiders game. This is virtually beyond comprehension, but it is all too
real.

Plaques in the so-called Court of Champions, the concourse between Oracle
and the Coliseum, call attention to winners, the A's World Series titles, the
Raiders Super Bowl victories, the Warriors 1975 NBA crown. In another part of
town, the names of the four slain policemen already have been etched onto a
granite wall.

Who dared imagine we would be compelled to remember this tragedy the way
we do the triumphs?

Oakland is forever tainted. There is no escape. Journalists do not
forget, even when writing about sports. Oakland, a story about the A's will
remind us, is the city where four policemen were shot and killed. It's
unavoidable. It's understandable.

The A's, Warriors and Raiders sent their condolences, showed their
support. The teams that shared in the elation of better times properly shared in
the sadness of this terrible time.

Oakland, on the landfall the Spanish settlers originally called the
contra costa, or the other shore, the one on the east side of the water, has
suffered in comparison to San Francisco.

In one of the most misunderstood of observations, Gertrude Stein,
returning to her razed childhood home in Oakland, said, "There is no there,
there." The line became a mantra.

Kicked around, razzed, chided, Oakland battled image and derision
to gain its sense of self through sports. To those who never knew where the city
was located, the success of its teams figuratively put Oakland on the
map.

It's still there, under an ocean of teardrops.