Tagliabue Era not golden for California -- or Joe Fan
All significant men and women worry about their legacies, and by significant, we mean people who have the time and inclination to worry about their legacies. Most folks long ago figured that their legacies are directly tied to their families, friends and people they helped -- or in some cases, harmed -- along the way. But the big hitters worry about their legacies because they know someone they might not be able to control is going to give them one.
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| Tagliabue's legacy is that of a man who served a few masters very well. (Getty Images) |
A: The owners of 29 of the NFL's 32 franchises.
B: The NFL office and those within it dependent upon his patronage, all the way down to the ubiquitous Rich Eisen, who is apparently pulling down 21-hour days over at the NFL Network.
C: The construction industry in 19 cities.
Everywhere else ... well, put it this way. He sure took care of categories A, B and C.
Tagliabue was not a failure by any means, but he did redefine success by funneling the field into one small opening.
He oversaw the increase in franchise values by a factor of 10, so good for the owners. He oversaw or helped extort new stadiums in 19 cities, so good for the owners and the re-bar industry. He tackled new dissemination technologies to make the Jacksonville Jaguars and Detroit Lions even harder to escape, and forced more people to come get the Jags and Lions on NFL-controlled access vehicles, like the NFL Network.
But he didn't do much for the customers, because the other thing he did was redefine the commissioner's job so that its service aspects began and ended at ownership level.
Prices went up relentlessly and sometimes meteorically, which accounts for the increase in franchise values. Taxes rose in those cities where stadiums were built or renovated. It costs more just to see a game on television, because of cable. In other words, he had his hands in your pockets down to the stitching, so he really didn't do that much for you.
And he did nothing whatsoever for California.
Oh, he pretended to be saddened by the loss of the Los Angeles market, when in fact there was little he could have done except try to apply pressure in Anaheim to get the Rams a new park in the early '90s. And he was not going to help Al Davis and the Raiders unless it involved lighter fluid and matches, given that Davis crushed him in the courtroom in the early '80s. San Diego, he barely noticed, except when he had to show up there for Super Bowls the city can no longer host, and San Francisco is now one of the worst franchises in the league and deteriorating audibly even as we speak.
In other words, he chose not to exert his vaunted powers of persuasion and punishment in California, because his circle of interests ran the gamut from New York to Washington. That's where he did his work, in Congress and with the major media outlets.
He legacy-shopped very selectively indeed, and his forays outside the reach of the Metroliner were designed to take care of his ownership friends in the Sun Belt and what Rust Belt allies he had (thus explaining the Detroit Super Bowl).
He is also credited for keeping labor peace lo these many years, which would be quite an accomplishment if the players union had ever made any serious attempts at getting anything more than a bigger slice of a pie that could be taken away from its players at any time. The sport with the shortest shelf life and the highest serious injury rate is still the one without guaranteed contracts, an absurdity that nobody seems too interested in reflecting upon very often.
His real legacy, though, might have been revealed in Karl Taro Greenfield's piece on him in Sports Illustrated, in which he came across in about 12 different ways as a brilliant man doing work he thought beneath him but that paid way better than a Department of Defense analyst or the law.
He had a diffident, almost dismissive air that he did nothing to dispel because, well, that would mean leaving his comfort zone and spending time away from people who could help him gain and maintain influence, power and wealth.
He didn't seem to like the games he was flogging, certainly not enough to stay through the end of them, and preferred deal-making with the mega-wealthy while clinging to the illusion that he led them, an illusion he now knows is about to end given the rancorous ownership debate over revenue sharing he just mediated by the skin of his teeth.
In other words, Paul Tagliabue's legacy is really that of a man who served a few masters very well, didn't fight fights he didn't already know he could win, and played to the crowd that was important to him. He will retire well, and at some point soon will be inducted into the Pro Football Hall of Fame, largely for enriching his friends, allies and Rich Eisen.
For every new city he added to the league, he neglected one on the back end.
So yes, he did quite a lot, but he could have and should have done more if he wanted the legacy he believes he earned. He should have reached more people below meeting-room level, and made the richest, most-populous state less of an NFL wasteland and dump site.
In short, to be the hero he wishes to be, he needed to grab a beer now and then and sit in the regular seats, listening to and enjoying a game with the people whose pockets he cheerfully helped to empty for 18 years. He definitely should have done it a few times at the Oakland Coliseum, and Candlestick Park, and Qualcomm Stadium.
He definitely should have done it, no matter how uncomfortable and even alien it might have felt to him, because the rewards for those efforts would have been a legacy with which nobody could quibble.
He knew the audience he wanted, and he worked tirelessly for it.
But the ballroom into which that audience could fit isn't very large, and that audience will head for his successor as soon as the caterer's been paid. You see, though legacies stay with the one who seeks them, the people who bestow them move quickly and without remorse to the next guy seeking one.
Ray Ratto is a columnist for the San Francisco Chronicle.
