This is a true story and it happened a few years ago and it’s about an unknown person and Ken Macha and me.
Macha was between managing jobs — it was after he left the A’s and before he got the Brewers gig. I am partial to Macha, a standup guy. He came by the A’s spring training ballpark, Phoenix Muni, and we agreed to do a sit-down interview in the A’s luxury box. Yes, luxury box as in singular. It’s a cute room overlooking the field. I love the simplicity of that ballyard.
So I’m interviewing Macha and we’re on a roll and suddenly a guy walks in. This guy is wearing Bermuda shorts and a short-sleeve shirt and sneakers, and I notice a credential dangling from his neck. I have no idea who this man is. Macha and I keep talking. The stranger walks over to the food spread and munches. I wish he’d kiss off because he’s ruining the interview feeling.
It gets worse. He walks over to Macha and says hello and interrupts me. Now I’m sitting there like a doofus. They talk. He asks Macha how he’s doing and Macha says something. I think this guy, whoever he is, has some chutzpah (nerve). I almost tell him to buzz off.
Finally, he leaves. Macha smiles a mischievous smile. “You have no idea who that was, do you?” he says.
“No idea,” I say.
“He owns the A’s.”
Well, you could have knocked me over. An owner? I always thought owner as in Lew Wolff. But Lew is not the big owner; he’s the front man. The guy in shorts was a real owner, either John Fisher, the big honcho investor in the A’s, or a brother — Bill or Bob.
That was my only A’s owner sighting. Somehow I remember the Bermuda shorts.