Some sports franchises pack up and leave. Some simply cease to exist, like a Blockbuster Video or your dignity after watching your team lose by forty points on national television. Either way, the fans who gave years of their lives, a disturbing percentage of their disposable income, and genuine human emotion are handed a pamphlet that essentially reads: “Sorry. Have you considered golf?”
The last hundred years of American sports history are a parade of shameless relocations so brazen they would make a used-car salesman blush and then move to a better market. Some cities seem to be losing teams at a rate that suggests the teams are actively fleeing — as if they’d heard something.
Why does this happen? Experts, and I use that term in the loosest possible sense, point to several factors. First, there is money. Sports franchises are, it turns out, expensive. I know. I was shocked too. Player salaries, facilities, and staff cost a lot, and if a team isn’t generating enough revenue, ownership begins eyeing other cities the way a golden retriever eyes an unattended sandwich. Key sponsors may also depart, taking their money with them to sponsor something more respectable, like a regional pickleball tournament.
Then there is the stadium problem. At some point, every arena becomes “outdated,” which is a polite way of saying it doesn’t have enough luxury boxes for rich people to watch the game while not really watching the game. The team asks the city for a new one. The city, which is busy funding roads and schools, and other boring things, declines. The team, deeply hurt by this betrayal, announces it is moving to a city that understands them, which is always somewhere warm with favorable tax incentives.
Market size matters too. A franchise in a smaller city may struggle to fill seats, which is a problem because empty seats, while very comfortable, do not purchase $18 hot dogs. Loyal fanbases are wonderful in theory. In practice, ownership prefers fanbases that are loyal, numerous, and willing to pay parking rates that would make a Manhattan garage attendant faint.
Ownership changes are another culprit. When a beloved founder passes the team to their heirs, those heirs may discover that running a sports franchise is considerably less fun than, say, spending the money from selling a sports franchise. New owners, meanwhile, frequently purchase struggling teams specifically to move them, which is the sports business equivalent of buying a house to knock it down, except with more crying fans on local television.
The league itself sometimes gets involved, contracting teams or pushing relocations to “expand to new markets,” which is corporate language for “we made a spreadsheet, and your city lost.”
I have watched all of this unfold in Oakland, California, which, over roughly a decade, lost its NFL, NBA, and MLB teams. Three franchises. Gone. Oakland now has the distinction of being a major American city with no major professional sports teams, which is an achievement of sorts, if the sort you’re going for is “cautionary tale.” Pointing fingers at the responsible parties might take both hands and a few toes, but in the end, the math is simple: the fans lose. The owners land somewhere sunnier. And Oakland is left with its memories, its civic pride, and, presumably, a lot of unsold foam fingers.