And the bandbox plays on

30 March 2005

John Updike's homage to the "lyric little bandbox" notwithstanding, Fenway Park seems more a bangbox, leaving my knees and back contorted and bruised after nine innings sitting fetal- like in cramped grandstand seats. Save Fenway Park? Only if one could do so while making the seats bigger, improving the sightlines and adding enough seating so that the sport's highest ticket prices could be brought down. And since none of that will - or even can - happen while the existing park is around, it's hard to share in the joy that has greeted the Sox owners' announcement that they plan, at least for a while, to stay right where they are.

Make no mistake: Sentiment about "hallowed ground" didn't drive John Henry and Larry Lucchino in their decision-making. Money did. The fact is, economics simply didn't justify building a new park, particularly when there was already an asset in place that was underused and undervalued.

John Harrington, trustee of the Yawkey estate and de facto owner of the Sox for 10 years, may indeed have been (in Globe columnist Steve Bailey's words) "the luckiest accountant who ever lived." But he also had accountant's disease - he could add and subtract, but he couldn't tell you how to make money. He too willingly believed the engineers who said the park was structurally unsound because he mistakenly thought a new park was the key to enhancing value for a sale.

Henry and Lucchino, on the other hand, know how to make money. One investor's trick they understand is seeing assets where others see liabilities. For whatever reason, Harrington looked at Fenway Park and ascribed it almost zero value. The new owners had a different take.

Perhaps Harrington had been remembering the Sox' lean years, when the park was almost empty. But Henry and Lucchino walked into a situation of almost irrational fanaticism. The park was consistently filled, even for the most uninteresting of games, and the fans seemed virtually price-insensitive. Moreover, Fenway itself was a tourist attraction.

Even further, Harrington's reign was uninspired. The new owners saw opportunities he missed. They created the Big Concourse. The Sox persuaded the city to give it exclusive use of Yawkey Way on game days. The team upgraded concessions, following the business model of a cinema, where big profits are earned on food and drink. New seats - above the Green Monster, by the dugouts and in right field - were added at a relatively modest cost. And the owners began to explore ways (concerts, ice-skating, nightclubs and small events) to turn the park into a year-round money-maker, rather than something that generates revenue (absent playoffs) just 81 days a year.

None of this took much money; it took imagination.

At the same time, any plan to build a new stadium was highly unrealistic.

The odds of securing public funding were low, meaning the team would have to bear the entire cost. The political hurdles of siting the park were huge, with years of delaying lawsuits almost certain. Moreover, the $700 million cost of the new stadium would not be offset by new revenue from 10,000 extra seats. Thus a new park could leave the Sox with less to spend on salaries, thereby reducing the quality of the team it fielded and raising the risk that fans might lose interest.

Given all that - and especially if Fenway really isn't about to fall down - staying in place makes huge business sense. True, a new park might be better for fans. Comfort, improved views and more reasonable prices would be welcome. But this decision isn't about the fans. It's about the bottom line.