Page 3 of 3
Schaaf's "maybe public funds could be used" mindset shouldn't appeal to Oakland's fans and citizens, since the city is still paying off the last mistake.
In 1995, as part of the deal to bring the Raiders back to Oakland after a 12-year stint in L.A., not-yet-undead owner Al Davis strong-armed the city into issuing bonds to build the 11,000-seat "Mount Davis" expansion of de rigeur luxury suites, a monstrous design that cut off the Coliseum's view of the Oakland hills and gave the arena a feeling of dire claustrophobia. The bonds were intended to be repaid by some of that personal seat licenses money, but when the team failed to sell enough of those, Oakland and Alameda County had to cover the discrepancy — a debt that East Bay taxpayers have shouldered and will continue to shoulder for the next decade, to the tune of $20 million a year.
Then again, maybe all these stadium machinations, land grabs, back-room government negotiations, questionable practices, and business shenanigans are business as usual.
A San Francisco Chronicle feature from Oct. 2, 1984, states in big, bold lettering: "Giants Put Up for Sale — The Team May Move." This referred to then-Giants owner Bob Lurie's attempt to force then-Mayor Dianne Feinstein into publicly financing a new stadium because the team "can't draw in Candlestick Park." (And not, you know, because the team lost an embarrassing 100 games that season.) Feinstein's counter was to consider partial public funding for a modestly-sized stadium in the China Basin area, a stone's throw from where the Giants' foray into the landlord business at the Mission Rock Development will soon break ground. Voters blocked this proposal four times, until Lurie finally sold the team in 1993. Three years later, voters approved the privately-funded building of PacBell Park (now AT&T Park, although it was on public land).
A few months after that Oct. 2 story, the Chronicle published an article about a community of SoMa artists fighting landlords to stay in their long-time homes. The story appeared right after a photo of 49ers owner Eddie DeBartolo Jr., on the field slapping hands with joyous fans of his championship team in the front row.
Thirty-one years later, it's the same as it ever was.
Why do we watch paid professionals play a game? There's no great answer, but a bunch of glancing swipes that get us in the vicinity.
We see humans who've practiced their entire lives to achieve greatness. That's inspiration. We second-guess mistakes and ridicule errors of both players and those damned idiot coaches. That's happiness through illusory superiority. We debate free agent signings and roster cuts. That's avataristic role playing. We relax in front of the game after a hard day at the grind. That's meditative refreshment. We drink with friends, banter with neighbors, find a sliver of common ground with our socially awkward co-workers. That's bonding. We mock other cities, have a window back home when we're away, listen to the ghosts of former greats echo through the stadiums where they once reigned. That's pride, that's heritage, that's home.
Over the next few weeks, when San Francisco hosts the parties celebrating the largest and most extravagant sporting event of the year — the pièce de résistance down the road in Santa Clara, not far from where Apples cradled asses three decades ago — none of that matters. Super Bowl 50 is a corporate event, and we're not on the exclusive guest list. The rich will converge on our peninsular hotel, trash the joint during their epic shindig shit-show, and leave us with a $5-million-plus bill. The troublesome part is that, as recent stadium kerfuffles hint, the real raucous party may just be getting underway.
Comments are closed.
