We have an embarrassing problem in Miami and we’re not quite sure what to do about it. The problem is that our football team plays in a place called Dolphin Stadium.
Now, I know what you’re saying. You’re saying: Miami has a football team? Yes, we do, you just don’t hear about them much, because they prefer to give other teams a chance to win. They’re called the Dolphins—and therein lies the problem.
Our mayor hasn’t been seen since Christmas and our transit system is slower than certified mail, but when it comes to Stadium Economics, we Miamians have it down to a science. First, the team owner locates a spot. Under Florida law, the spot must be at most half as large as the actual space required (a 40-yard parking lot between two Starbucks was originally set aside for Dolphin Stadium) and must be surrounded by important facilities that will be difficult to relocate in the future, such as schools, nuclear power plants, the Everglades, etc. Next, he pools together the hundreds of millions of dollars collected from loyal fans throughout the years. Finally, he divides it evenly among our city council members, who, in return, agree to put the measure on the ballot and let us, the voters, decide whether to build a stadium and how to finance it. The 2001 ballot, for instance, asked:
Should the Marlins have their own stadium?
( ) Yes, please increase my income tax by 30%
( ) Yes, please accept my 401k as a donation
( ) No, I am not a registered voter
( ) George W. Bush
Once a spot is chosen and voters agree to foot the bill, construction begins. Because the city uses the same contracting firm for all major projects, such as the airport or nuclear power plant relocations, and because the firm only speaks English, delays and mix-ups are not uncommon. JetBlue flights, for instance, now take off from just behind the 20 yard line at Dolphin Stadium; their passengers have a wonderful view of Daunte Culpepper getting sacked as the plane takes off.
When construction finishes, the team lines up for a ribbon-cutting ceremony. It is not unusual for many of the players to cry; they are crying because 30 years have passed, and they are now much too old to play on their new field. To stay close to the action, many move on to become sportscasters or JetBlue pilots. The owner quickly purchases a new team using leftover 401ks, and things are ready to roll.
Except for the small matter of naming. Short of tickets, merchandise, food and drink, parking, and sponsorships, there are very few ways for the owner to recoup the money he has spent (on behalf of the citizens). Many owners, therefore, opt to sell the names of their stadiums to local mom & pop shops. The Florida Panthers, for instance, played in an arena called National Car Rental Center until thousands of misguided tourists who clearly don’t understand hockey mistook the place for a car rental center. After clearing dozens of returned cars off the ice, the team changed the name to Office Depot Center before finally returning to their hockey roots with BankAtlantic Center. It was, however, the Panthers’ most profitable year: the team charged the standard $250 fee to anyone who didn’t completely refill the gas tank.
Such names can be very alluring—people would much rather go to Office Depot, for instance, than see the Panthers play—and the tradition is as timeless as sporting itself. The Roman Colosseum was once affectionately called the Julius Caesar Center for Calligraphy and World Domination. In 1927, Nestle offered Ricardo Sanchez 25,000 Hershey bars to play under the pseudonym “Babe Ruth,” leading to Ricardo’s characteristic paunch. Today, over 400 stadiums in the U.S. alone are named after sponsors, such as McAfee Coliseum in Oakland and its longtime rival W32.Lovebug Field in Anaheim.
But here we are, stuck with the pitiful Dolphin Stadium. Dolphin isn’t a brand of soy milk, the name of a Senator or even a lousy social network; it’s just our team name. How ridiculous.
