Hey blog, what’s up? Haven’t seen you for a while. You look good. Did you lose a little weight? Yeah. I know, I’m sorry I never write. Or call. Or even read other blogs. I know I can be insensitive. Let me make up for it. I’m sure I’ll never neglect you again.

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We notice the big changes more, but I think it’s the little battles, the skirmishes around the edges, where change really happens.

That’s why I don’t think you have to care about football or sports or colleges or Michigan at all to take some small bit of interest in this story.

The athletic director and the president of the University of Michigan want to add luxury skyboxes to Michigan Stadium. The stadium is one of the country’s oldest and largest, with a capacity of over 100,000. As you can see, the stadium is a huge oval, with only press boxes that interrupt the shape. However, given its age, the stadium is in pretty desperate need of renovations that will cost millions. The plan to add skyboxes would help recoup the costs of the other renovations.

The thing is, there’s nothing inherently evil about luxury skyboxes. I would never argue that a new stadium should be built without them. I’ve had the pleasure of attending a handful of basketball, hockey, and baseball games in box seats and the appeal is obvious. So it’s hard to argue against the basic concept. And it’s easy to say, “It’s just one stadium.”



But I think it’s more than that. There’s a kind of strange beauty in the tradition of a gigantic public stadium like the one at Michigan. The kind of place where every fan who piles in is sitting on a bleacher seat amongst a sea of humanity. To me, adding what amount o plush condominiums on the side of that stadium, would be to rob it of some of that history and tradition and beauty. It would kill a little something in Michigan U culture. More and more, it seems we are willing to surrender ourselves and our community to the almighty dollar. It makes me sad.

I’m a believer in communities and the power of people working together. My faith in the power of togetherness is the foundation for virtually everything else I believe in – from democracy to live music. Communities with pride are miraculous and powerful things.

So, while I might not often have a lot of positive things to say about Arizona (and Phoenix in particular) I’ll say that one thing I love about this place is that while we do have plenty of places like Dodge Theatre, US Airways Center, Wells Fargo Arena, Chase Field, and Cricket Pavilion, we also have Glendale Arena, Marquee Theatre, Celebrity Theatre, Cardinals Stadium, Sun Devil Stadium, Walkup Skydome (in Flagstaff), and (in Tucson) Arizona Stadium and McKale Center.

These places – stadiums, theatres, concert venues – are where communities come together. These places form the basis for whatever civic pride we might have, and I believe civic pride is a vital thing.

I grew up in Denver which is a place with a very strong sense of community in every way – great fan support for sports teams, major city centers where large numbers of people work, a strong downtown people are happy to visit and are proud of, good nightlife, well-developed public transportation, etc. It’s a strong community that’s perennially among the highest ranked in surveys of good places to live. It’s also one of the highest ranked cities in terms of healthy population. I can’t believe that this is all a coincidence. (For example, you might argue some of this is due to geography and climate but Seattle’s geography and climate are almost exactly opposite to Denver and yet it too is a town with a lot of civic pride and well-known as a popular place to live.)

In my teens, Denver had a quickly growing population, skyrocketing property values, etc etc. To catch a game or a show I went to places like McNichol’s Sports Arena, Mile High Stadium, Fiddler’s Green, and Red Rocks Amphitheatre. Places whose names said something about the community, about the place itself. In 1996, the Avalanche won the Stanley Cup, the first pro sports championship for the Denver area. And in 1998 and 1999, the Broncos won the Super Bowl. I know few things without doubt but I know that I will never experience another night like the night the Broncos won their first Super Bowl. Imagine a team (or a music group, or a movie star) who you love with every atom in your body, a team (or etc) you have loved since birth. Imagine that for years they have failed, or (trust me it’s even worse) come oh so close to glory but fallen short. And then, just at the point you’ve resigned yourself to the permanent misery of a Cubs fan, your team (etc) wins. Imagine how ecstatic you would feel – for them, but also for you, you who has lived and died watching them for years and years. Then try to imagine that everyone else in the city where you live feels the exact same way. Imagine what it was like for me on that day when my mother, who was always aware of sports but never seemed to care in the least (unless it was to roll her eyes at the silliness of it all), broke down in tears in the second half because Green Bay had taken the lead and she thought, “The Broncos are going to blow it again. Just when I let myself get my hopes up.” Have you ever seen complete strangers on the street hugging? Have you seen grown men cry tears of joy? Probably not, unless you were in Denver that January night (or in Boston when the Red Sox finally won the World Series a few years ago). It was magic. The city exploded, but not into riots or violence (which sadly isn’t rare and is what happened pretty much anytime Dallas won the Super Bowl). The city exploded with love. It was the craziest week I’ve ever lived through. That’s the public benefit of sports teams.

But since those wonderful days (and since I’ve moved away) they tore down McNichol’s and built something called the Pepsi Center (even though Albany already had a place called Pepsi Arena – formerly the much more charming Knickerbocker Arena), they renamed Fiddler’s Green to Coors Amphitheatre (even though there was already a Coors Amphitheatre in San Diego), and – worst of all by far – tore down Mile High Stadium and had the audacity to call the new place Invesco Field (OK, they caved and decided to make it Invesco Field at Mile High, but that kind of patronizing is almost worse).

Population growth slowed. Housing prices declined. Homes were foreclosed. The bubble burst. Is this coincidence?

OK, probably it is.

But I’ve heard stories from those of you who lived here or have had family here for years. Stories about the year the Suns made it to the finals and the whole Valley got Suns fever. Stories about grandmas and cousins who caught Suns fever that year and still have it. Isn’t it a beautiful thing when that happens? Even if it’s only happening because of a stupid game, isn’t it beautiful?

I think we lose some of this when we let our stadiums be called not by names that are recognizable and geographically relevant even to non-sports fans but by ever-rotating monikers based on yearly profits and airline mergers. Everyone knew about Mile High Stadium. Even if you’d never heard of it, you’d know where it was. But Invesco Field, what the hell is that?

And I think it holds true for the tradition of Michigan Stadium, this epic venue where seeing a game today is not fundamentally different then seeing a game there in 1960. They’re willing to sacrifice the beautiful tradition of the place for the possibility of money. We all are. We, as a society, have proved we’re willing to make that trade. And I humbly submit that we’re clearly none the better for it.

Michigan’s board of regents will vote on the proposal this week. I’m hoping it gets denied. It’s a small thing. But it matters.