Stadium For Rent: 5. The Chicken

STADIUM FOR RENT:
Tampa Bay's Quest for Major League Baseball
By BOB ANDELMAN

5. The Chicken

"You can't divide a market by rivers or streams."
-- Bowie Kuhn, Commissioner, Major League Baseball, 1969-1984

The Pinellas Sports Authority assumed it had an unwritten yet somehow binding, non-compete agreement with the Tampa Sports Authority. And it did -- as long as Tampa's sports boosters had site approval. The PSA's plans to build a baseball stadium in downtown St. Petersburg pushed Tampa's panic button.

"When the decision was made to go downtown in St. Petersburg," retired Tampa Tribune sports editor Tom McEwen says, "I personally felt like that was against the cooperative spirit that we had. The facility was not only moving further away from the population centers of Carrollwood and Brandon but for a different purpose: to stimulate growth in downtown St. Petersburg. I disagreed with it. I said, 'Wait a minute. If that is going to be their attitude, let's take a look at our own situation over here.'

"Everybody was cooperating," McEwen says. "Tampa had the Bucs and no real ambitions for baseball. We can go way back to the 1960s when they first talked about baseball in Pinellas County. It just died. It kept dying and dying and then the Pinellas Sports Authority made a full-blown effort. Tampa cooperated fully with the idea that it would be a Gateway site. There was no thought [of competition] on the Tampa side. Nothing at all. It was going to be a joint effort. The mood was to make sure everybody was on the same page on this thing and then the decision was made."

As an underfinanced, understaffed and generally unloved bunch of guys, there's no doubt the Pinellas Sports Authority would have welcomed any private business willing to come forward with its own cash to develop and build an environmentally sensitive stadium in the Gateway area. Tampa Bay might have saved six years of bickering, admonishments from the baseball establishment and the agony of four insufferable commissioners of the sport, each in turn less inclined to support expansion or Tampa Bay.

But there was no financial angel. Too bad.
* * *

Former Tampa Tribune managing editor Paul Hogan takes credit for inspiring one of the most infamous newspaper columns in the history of Tampa Bay baseball: Tribune sports editor Tom McEwen's July 1982 declaration of war on Pinellas County.

"I said, 'Tom, a column by Tom McEwen got Tampa a football stadium; a column by Tom McEwen oughta get Tampa a baseball stadium. [You] should probably write a column saying St. Pete ain't going to do it -- Tampa should do

it,' " says Hogan.

McEwen, of course, wrote that column. To Hogan's surprise, the declaration appeared on a Saturday, which angered the managing editor. Hogan figured the piece should have run in the big Sunday sports section or on Monday, when people would spend the rest of the day talking about it.

"You ran it on the wrong day of the week," Hogan told McEwen on Monday.

"Hogan," the sports editor said, "I've got lunch tomorrow with enough money to build a stadium and buy a team."
* * *

The remarkable career of Tom McEwen began at the Fort Myers, Florida, News-Press in 1947. The Wauchula, Florida, native and University of Florida graduate took his first job as a cub reporter following his Army discharge. McEwen dabbled briefly in sportswriting before fate took him out of the country again. He worked as a criminal investigator for the U.S. government in the Philippines from 1949-1954.

But the call of athletics -- and home -- was too strong to keep McEwen away. He took a job as a sportswriter for the St. Petersburg Times in 1958, staying for four years until the Tampa Times -- the afternoon counterpart of the Tampa Tribune -- offered him the job of sports editor. He oversaw a staff of three reporters.

When the same job opened up on the morning paper in 1963, McEwen easily shifted into the chair of Tribune sports editor. He also assumed responsibility for writing "The Morning After," the paper's already legendary daily sports column. For 28 years, McEwen wrote the column six times a week, week in and week out.

Sports fans in Tampa Bay loved waking up to breakfast with McEwen.

McEwen may have inherited the title of the column but everything else about it was his -- particularly those exotic, mouth-watering breakfasts he described but never ate:

"Over your bowl of chilled grapefruit sections, two pork sausage patties, two eggs basted straight up in the sausage grease, large glob of yellow grits heavily buttered, pre-buttered oven-toasted raisin-bread, slices of chilled tomatoes with mayonnaise, glass of cold milk, coffee, a couple of bites of chilled mouth-cleansing canteloupe and these Friday morning sports additives . . . "

"I was sitting around, trying to think of a way to lead into a column of notes on a variety of subjects," McEwen recalls. "I certainly didn't want to use 'a potpourri . . .' or 'this-a and that-a . . . ' Now I can write what I think is a great piece and someone will say, 'But what did you have for breakfast?' "
* * *

Love him or hate him, McEwen is the most widely read and influential sportswriter in the Tampa Bay area. Even those who shudder at the sight of his sometimes mangled syntax feel compelled to read his "The Morning After" and "Hey, Tom!" columns in the Tampa Tribune.

"I don't care if he is 'retired,' " one local sports executive says, referring to McEwen's 1991 semi-retirement. "It is still important to read him to see what he says. He still packs clout."

McEwen topped every list in an informal, unscientific scorecard in Tampa Bay Life magazine of the most widely read, watched and powerful sportswriters and broadcasters in the market. Not bad for a guy who was then 69 years old and semi-retired. McEwen also made the magazine's list of the 25 most powerful people in Tampa Bay.

McEwen and his long-time rival, St. Petersburg Times sports columnist Hubert Mizell, were as different as night and day. Mizell is, by most accounts, the better writer, capable on occasion of lifting the prose of sports to its highest levels. Another executive in Tampa Bay Life 's poll recalled with glee Mizell's description of baseball commissioner Fay Vincent: "Vincent sleeps with the lights on."

But writing well and writing effectively are not necessarily the same on the sports page. Another anonymous respondent to the magazine poll said: "If you read the newspaper, you're not reading a novel. I don't read the sports pages for quality writing. If you want to read somebody who knows what's going on, who knows people, it's Tom McEwen."

Where these two anchors of the daily sports page really differ is community involvement. Mizell covers sports the way his newspaper reports on politics or business. With rare exception, he is an observer, not a participant. McEwen plays the game.

"I am the last of that breed of sports editor who wrote a daily column, ran the department and represented the opinion of the newspaper," McEwen says. "I don't say it's right. I say it's the way I did things and it's been publisher-approved. You can surely be charged with conflicts of interest. I have always walked a thin line. My friends are my contacts and they are also in the news and yes, that can be dangerous. I have stood up for people that my paper has not."

When Tampa boxing promoter Phil Alessi ran into trouble getting licensed in New Jersey, McEwen wrote a letter on his friend's behalf. Ditto when New York Yankees owner George Steinbrenner applied for a presidential pardon relating to financial offenses committed on behalf of Richard Nixon's 1972 re-election campaign.

"I am certain that is what swayed President Reagan," McEwen says facetiously.

But Steinbrenner did get pardoned and Alessi did get a license to promote boxing in New Jersey.

McEwen, unlike his friend Mizell, is perceived as a hands-on guy. McEwen is part and parcel of the community, whereas Mizell is closer to neutral. Mizell would never call the chairman of the Pinellas Sports Authority and say, "What can I do to help this process?" Whereas McEwen drove the Tampa Bay Baseball Group to repeatedly attempt a Major League Baseball acquisition. And, when Phil Esposito's efforts to shore up the NHL Tampa Bay Lightning's finances foundered, McEwen called pal George Steinbrenner to get involved.

"There are certain things I simply will not do," McEwen says. "Once I was at the [American League] playoffs between the Yankees and Royals at Kansas City. My wife and I went with the Steinbrenners. The Yankees lost the ball game. [The next morning] I was having breakfast with George and he said, 'Come with me, I'm going to meet with the coaches to talk about last night.' I said, 'I don't want to meet the coaches.' He said, 'Ahhh, come on.' So I walked in and he just unloaded on the manager. When he started I simply got up and walked out. I am not supposed to be there for that. I am not going to be there for that."

When R.F. "Red" Pittman Jr. was the Tribune's publisher, he believed in community involvement. He encouraged his friend McEwen (they went through college and the Army together) to take an active role.

"Tom McEwen," retired Tribune managing editor Hogan says, "is one of the more intelligent people I ever met in my life. He is also one of the most egotistical people I ever met and I was so happy he was. It kept him in his role as sports editor and made him the [spirit] of the paper, rather than him taking some high-powered job elsewhere. If Tom didn't have the column to put him out front all the time, he would not have been happy in the newspaper as an administrator. If he was doing the writing, then he was somebody. That ego drives him. I was not jealous of Tom; I was envious."

"This is my home," McEwen says. "I am a native. I believe in this place and I love this place. I wanted to do everything I could to help it."
* * *

Architect Ray Bennett decided to form a rival Tampa-based stadium and team ownership group when the PSA accepted the downtown St. Petersburg site. One of his first acts was to ask Tribune sports editor Tom McEwen to lunch.

McEwen was furious about the PSA decision and, after taking the first printed shot in the war, agreed to help Bennett organize the business people who would become the Tampa Bay Baseball Group.

"Bennett said, 'I'd like to see what we can do on this side,' " McEwen recalls. "I said, 'If you want to do that, I'll introduce you to some people.' " McEwen's theory: Give baseball a choice. Let baseball choose if they want a place in St. Petersburg or Tampa -- if a facility can be built in either place.

Earle Halstead Jr. signed on immediately. He had supported Bennett in Pinellas County -- at the Derby Lane site -- and vowed to see the architect's vision redeemed in Tampa.

McEwen introduced Bennett to Tampa attorneys Ed McGinty, Bob Humphries and Jim Cusack. Among them, they became the nucleus of the Tampa Bay Baseball Group, as Bennett's rebels called themselves.

McGinty and Humphries approached one of their clients, car dealer Frank Morsani, to join up. Morsani was lukewarm to the idea.

"They said there's an opportunity for baseball, someone needs to get behind it," Morsani recalls. "I said, 'I don't know anything about sports. It's not my cup of tea. I don't know anything about baseball. I've got more on my plate than I want now.' I was on the board of the U.S. Chamber of Commerce, the University of Tampa, plus operating my own businesses."

They kept working on Morsani. Over lunch at Tampa's exclusive University Club, the attorneys, architect and car dealer concluded they would need additional members representing different disciplines.

"We needed food services, so we brought in [McDonalds franchisee] Joe Casper," Morsani recalls. "We needed marketing, engineering. We needed a political guy, a Mr. Inside; Garry Smith, at that time, was [Florida Gov.] Bob Graham's administrative assistant. We needed the law represented. We knew we were going to build a stadium so we needed an engineer -- Gerry Houser. We needed a baseball person; that's the reason we hired Cedric Tallis. We knew we were going to build a stadium, so we needed a developer-type person, someone with real money. We asked Cusack if [his client, real estate developer] Bill Mack would be interested in being the primary investor. We needed a name -- Tom du Pont was available. du Pont is Bill Mack's cousin. He was working for me at the time. That's how we assembled our group. Everybody who came on board had a mission. We approached baseball totally as a business venture."

Morsani still wasn't sure he wanted to run this particular business, however.

"If this is going to happen," the lawyers told him, "we've got to find someone who will bring the leadership it needs. We thought about a lot of people; We think you have what it will take to get this done. It won't take much time."

McEwen brought Morsani to the Tribune to meet editorial writer/baseball nut Edwin Roberts. Roberts' vision sold him. Morsani was clearly impressed by the support of his hometown paper and once the Tampa Bay Baseball Group took shape, the editorial page took an uncomplicated view of baseball in the Tampa Bay area: Tampa or bust.
* * *

Earle Halstead Jr. was a cantankerous sort -- connected and well-respected in baseball and not afraid to blow his own trumpet. Like Jack Lake, you did it his way or no way.

And like Lake, there were many forceful reasons to pay attention to Halstead. He moved his baseball statistical operation from Fort Wayne, Indiana, to St. Petersburg in 1962, forever raising the Sunshine City's visibility in the baseball pantheon.

Halstead took over the already 51-year-old Blue Book in 1960. It made him, if not influential, highly visible in the sport. Halstead's files at one time were the most complete records in pro baseball, including dossiers on every major leaguer going back to 1931. People took Halstead's calls; there was no telling what he knew about you or planned to reveal. He was sort of like a baseball Walter Winchell. Like the time he discovered Boston Red Sox Hall of Famer Ted Williams' real name: Teddy, not "Theodore" as he had insisted for years. Or that Pittsburgh Pirate infielder Woody Fryman was six years older than team records showed.

The Blue Book, as published by Halstead, was the standard desk guide for baseball executives needing to know everything from where the 1965 winter owners meetings were held to who the clubhouse manager of the San Diego Padres was or what the 1973 attendance figures were for the Class AAA Tidewater Tides.

Knowing Halstead became necessary for anyone working in professional baseball, from the lowliest Class A rookie team to the front office of the New York Yankees.

The "Baseball Ambassador With Blue Portfolio," as the St. Petersburg Times once called him, put in plenty of years in the game himself. Halstead started as a minor league player, became an umpire, a scout and even owned minor league teams such as the Williamsport (Pennsylvania) Grays in the Eastern League, Saginaw (Michigan) Bears in the Central League and the Hawaii Islanders of the Pacific Coast League.

The cigar-smoking entrepreneur invented Tru-Pitch, the batting practice machine that became the standard for the pros as well as amusement park batting cages.

Halstead's appointment as a charter member of the Pinellas Sports Authority in 1977 was a real coup. What good fortune to have someone who knew everyone in baseball on a first name basis! Jack Lake created the PSA, Bill Bunker did the staff work and Halstead gave it connections.

Halstead demanded things be done his way. For the PSA's first few years, his quirks were mitigated by his knowledge of baseball; the outlandish behavior and pronouncements were shrugged off. Oh, that Earle. But when the showdown came on site selection for the proposed stadium, Halstead's intransigent support for the Derby Lane tract led to angry outbursts and ultimately his resignation as vice-chairman of the PSA.

"Earle Halstead's thinking was much like mine," Tom McEwen says, "in that we were for the Gateway site because we really felt like it would work."

"[Earle] got pissed off," St. Petersburg businessman Mike Davenport says. "He burned some bridges. People in St. Petersburg said, 'We'll show that old fart,' and they made him persona non grata."

Earle's son and successor at The Blue Book made an effort to keep his dad on board with the PSA.

"I tried to talk him out of it," Larry Halstead says. "I thought he made a mistake. I still think so. He alienated himself from everybody in town. The ironic thing about my father is that most of the things he said back in the 1970s actually happened. He said you had to build a stadium to get a team. He said it should be publicly funded, which it ultimately was. But he didn't understand the political correctness of the downtown site. In order to use public money, there had to be a public intent -- the jobs created, the addition to the tax base. That's why the downtown site made the most sense, although not aesthetically."

Earle Halstead just didn't think baseball would work in downtown St. Petersburg. He didn't think a team would be supported there and he claimed to have it on good authority that the grand poohbahs of the sport weren't interested in locating a franchise in sunny but gray St. Pete.

So Halstead became a charter member of the Tampa Bay Baseball Group.

Halstead was given "sweat equity" shares of the partnership in lieu of cash. By the third meeting, Halstead recommended the hiring of Cedric Tallis, who he once supported for a similar position at the PSA.

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