By now, stadium negotiations between cities and professional sports teams have fallen into a depressingly familiar routine. The team--usually through its wealthy owner--drops hints that the current stadium isn't up to par: the locker rooms have deteriorated, training facilities are anachronistic, it is out of fashion with other stadiums, the team can't be competitive without a new stadium. The city balks at first--the present stadium is only two decades old! You are a rich team and rich league! Field a better team and you'll be competitive. The team gets pushy and may even throw a tantrum or two, which culminates in the ultimate threat: we will leave this city if we do not get a new stadium. The city (or county) puts up mild resistance, but eventually capitulates and turns around and tries to coax the public into approving new bond issues or new taxes on hotel rooms, rental cars, and so on.
And so we end up with an arms race, a parallel of the incestuous dance of executive compensation, in which compensation consultants point to CEO pay at other companies to justify a hefty pay package for an executive, which in turns becomes a further milestone for the consultant to use with another company. And, of course, one CEO likely sits on the compensation committee of another company's board, and so the incest continues. Folklore provides additional support--the coincidence of new stadiums with the resurrection of competitive baseball in Cleveland and Baltimore, for example, has now been in use for nearly twenty years in Major League Baseball as justification for newer and nicer stadiums.
Several years ago, Kauffman's home city of Kansas City, Missouri, went through something like this negotiation. The baseball and football stadiums are located across a parking lot from one another, and so the teams joined together to try to convince the county and its taxpayers to help subsidize stadium improvments. And, to be fair, the stadiums needed updates and are wonderful places to watch games. But the most astonishing part of the negotiation wasn't the upkeep; it was a proposal for a rolling roof that would roll from one stadium to another. A principal justification was that "Kansas City will never host a Super Bowl without a roof." Seriously. The improvements passed, but the rolling roof did not.
Now, Atlanta and Fulton County and St. Louis are experiencing something similar. The Falcons and Rams, respectively, are demanding new stadiums. And, sure enough, we see a rehash of the same old arguments for justifying heavy public subsidies of sports stadiums. The principal argument, of course, is that this is good for the local economy.
Thankfully, the Atlanta Journal-Constitution has recently done a thorough debunking of the claim that sports stadiums are a good economic investment for municipalities. Basically: they cost cities and counties money, often for many, many years. And, before the public debt on one stadium is even paid off, teams will be demanding a new one. Oh, and the Super Bowl rationale? Hollow: Indianapolis is in the red $1.3 million for last February's affair, nearly $1 million more than anticipated. Why do cities do this to themselves? And, why do they negotiate with teams that threaten to leave the city?
Why doesn't a city or county just say no? They would clearly be better off financially. The answer, as ever, is likely prestige: it is seemingly prestigious to be host to a professional team. No mayor or county executive wants to stand for re-election and tell voters that they had to say goodbye to Team X because otherwise, in five years, they'll be cutting pensions or selling hospitals to pay for the stadium. But at a time of municipal budget crunches, can local governments afford $1 billion stadiums? Not to mention the massive shifts of wealth involved in public subsidization--already wealthy-owners and athletes benefit, and the cost is often shifted onto visitors and tourists (recall the hotel and rental car taxes) who may not even be in the city for sports in the first place. Madness.