Usually when I want to unearth my love of baseball, I call my good friend Carlos Jackson. Nobody in my circle of life loves baseball more than him. His dad took him to the 1990 World Series when he was 7 years old. Some days when school ended at Encinal High, he’d make his way by himself to the Coliseum and just go to the A’s game. If he wasn’t a man of faith, he’d fight you over Ken Griffey Jr.
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So on the cusp of the A’s final game in Oakland, allegedly, I called Los.