If you read my article earlier this week about boycotting a team, you already know how complicated it can be as a fan to walk away from something you’ve loved for a long time, possibly even your whole life. While that article was about me boycotting the Dallas Mavericks after I started thinking about the idea of boycotting I could not help but to remember hearing about Oakland A’s fans and their Reverse Boycott in June 2023 and the Block Party Boycott on opening day 2024.
Let me be clear: I’ve never worn green and gold, I’ve never lived in the East Bay, and I’ve never been to a game at the Coliseum with a possum in the walls and sewage backing up in the dugout. But I wrote about what it means to boycott a team, because sometimes a story in sports is bigger than who you root for. That’s exactly how I felt about what Oakland A’s fans did having their Opening Day Block Party Boycott last season and their second Reverse Boycott which took place last year.
Let me just say this up front: I’ve never seen anything like that boycott on opening day with the exception of the 2020 season due to the COVID-19 pandemic.
I mean, we’ve all seen empty stadiums before. Bad weather, weekday afternoon games, teams tanking in September—it happens. But this was something completely different. This was Opening Day. The day of renewal. Every team is supposed to be 0-0, full of hope, and ready to turn a page. And yet, in Oakland, there was no hope. Fans didn’t turn the page. They slammed the book shut.
The boycott wasn’t about indifference. That’s what made it so powerful. It was about love and heartbreak and betrayal. A team with a long and complicated history, a team that’s been part of people’s lives for generations, was being ripped out of its home. And the people who had supported it through thick and thin—who showed up when the team was good, bad, and downright unwatchable—said, “No. We’re not playing along.”
And you could feel it. The stadium was quiet. Eerie. You could hear individual voices in the crowd, which is not how baseball is supposed to sound. It felt wrong—and that was the point.
The fans made their absence louder than any chant they could’ve come up with. And let me be honest, I respect the hell out of it. They didn’t boo. They didn’t storm the field. They just didn’t show up. And by not showing up, they sent a message louder than any full house could have.
It wasn’t for attention. It wasn’t a stunt. It was pain, expressed through silence. And it wasn’t just silence inside the ballpark—it was silence at the turnstiles, silence at the concession stands, silence on the TV broadcast when the camera panned to empty sections like it was trying to find Waldo and couldn’t.
The truth is, this kind of fan movement doesn’t happen unless people care deeply. That’s what I kept thinking about all day. The fact that they loved the team so much they had to walk away from it. That’s heavy. You don’t boycott a team that means nothing to you. You only do this when it’s personal.
And it clearly was.
Now fast forward a month to what happened on June 7, 2024—the reverse boycott. This is where things get even more interesting. Because while the Opening Day boycott was all about absence, the reverse boycott was about presence. But not the usual kind. This wasn’t “rah-rah, let’s fill the stadium for the boys.” This was calculated. Strategic. Loud in every possible way. It was the fans saying: “You think we’re the problem? You think no one comes to games? Let us show you exactly what you’re throwing away.”
And they did.
They showed up in force. They wore “SELL” shirts. They brought coordinated signs and banners. They brought back the drums, the horns, the chants. They turned the Coliseum into a full-blown protest zone with a baseball game happening in the background. It was brilliant. Completely grassroots, totally fan-led, and maybe the most honest thing I’ve ever seen at a ballpark.
And again—I’m not even an A’s fan.
But I was rooting for them that day. Not the players, necessarily—though I’ve got nothing against them—but for the people in the seats. The ones who were there for Rickey Henderson and the Bash Brothers and Barry Zito and Coco Crisp and Mark Ellis. The ones who stuck around during the fire sales and 10-game losing streaks and still believed the green and gold meant something.
What made the reverse boycott so fascinating was how it flipped the usual sports dynamic on its head. You usually hear that fans vote with their wallets. But this was more than that. This was fans taking total control of the narrative. They decided when to show up and when to stay away. They decided when to be loud and when to go silent. They owned the storyline. And in a sport where owners hold all the cards, that was huge.
Of course, people will ask, “Did it make a difference?” And maybe in the big picture, it didn’t. The move to Las Vegas was still plowing forward. John Fisher wasn’t suddenly moved by the outpouring of love and regret. But I don’t think that was the point. These boycotts—both the silent one and the loud one—were about truth. About documenting the moment. About showing future fans and maybe even future owners that people cared.
That’s something that’s been missing in sports lately. The human element. Everything’s become a transaction. A dollar sign. A data point. But these fans reminded everyone that sports are emotional. That they matter. Not just for wins and losses, but for identity, for belonging, for community.
And I’ll be honest, it shook me a little. Because I started thinking about what I would do if my team packed up and left. If they sold off every decent player, tanked year after year, made no attempt to compete, and then bailed for another city under the excuse of “economic viability.” Would I have the guts to walk away? Would I organize a protest? Would I stay loyal or would I finally say enough?
That’s why this story hit me so hard. Because even though it’s about the A’s, it’s also not. It’s about what it means to be a fan. And how far that loyalty should stretch. The Oakland fans made their decision. They drew their line. And they did it with more passion, dignity, and clarity than most front offices ever deserve.
I still don’t know what the future holds for the A’s. I don’t know what the move to Vegas will really look like. I don’t know how many of those fans will ever watch another game once the team leaves. But I know this: they wrote their own ending. And that matters.
It wasn’t apathy. It was action.
It wasn’t giving up. It was standing up.
They showed that being a fan doesn’t mean blind loyalty. It means caring enough to hold your team accountable. And when that team stops caring about you? You walk away—at least until they remember what you’re worth.
Here’s the thing, folks: Opening Day 2024 and the reverse boycott a couple months later weren’t just moments in baseball history. They were reminders that fans still have power. Maybe not the kind that shows up in boardrooms or real estate deals, but the kind that lives in the stands. And for a little while, that was enough.
With that… Sometimes when we think you’re just watching a game the people in the cheap seats show you that sometimes, they’re the ones writing the real story.
If you cannot play with them, then root for them!