Sports Authority

As Golden 1 Center nears its 10th birthday, I’ve been thinking about the people who brought the sports arena into existence.

There was NBA Commissioner David Stern, who orchestrated the eviction of the Maloof family as Kings owners and welcomed managing partner Vivek Ranadive.

There was Mayor Kevin Johnson, who followed Stern’s playbook and convinced the City Council to help finance Golden 1 Center.

Every few years, the Kings produce a season that explains why they will never be much good for any length of time. This season is a perfect example.

Building a great NBA franchise is tough. But like many hard tasks, the formula for NBA success is well defined.

Start with two current All-Star players (three is better but two can work). Add maturity and leadership on the floor and in the locker room. Mix in an experienced coaching staff and supportive front office.

People are excited about the team once known as the Oakland A’s playing home games in a minor-league ballpark in West Sacramento. Not me.

This fascination with the A’s and Major League Baseball is a sucker’s game, a modern version of the old carnival stall hook-a-duck.

The A’s are carpetbaggers. They swoop into town in search of accommodation, untethered to commitment. They linger as long as convenience allows, then vanish into the night. They won’t even mention their stopover city’s name.

Smart people tell me the A’s three-season residency makes Sacramento a contender for big league permanence, either through expansion or the A’s themselves. This is nonsense.

Fifi Scott must be the only woman who flipped a car while skidding around the track at Hughes Stadium. She did this while chasing Stan Mulock and 18 other men in an automobile race not meant for women.

Scott was running 10th when she flipped with five laps to go. It’s unknown what type of car she drove, though she liked Hudsons. Reports from that night in June 1955 describe all 20 vehicles as jalopies, battered 1940s precursors to NASCAR machines.

Fifi walked away. Her jalopy died.

Former Mayor Darrell Steinberg gave the city a sporting gift on his way out the door. The city needs to decide whether to accept Steinberg’s present or return it.

The gift is a term sheet for a minor-league soccer stadium in the Downtown railyards.

In theory, the proposal paves the path for a public-private partnership between Republic FC and the city to build a 12,000-seat soccer grounds in a former toxic waste dump.

Months of negotiation await. Nothing may happen. But the deal is tempting.

I worry about losing these experiences as horse racing dies in California.

First comes the freedom to move around. Horse racing is the only sporting event where fans—real fans, not tourists planted at reserved tables in the grandstand high above the finish line—are always in motion.

With 30 minutes between each race, horse players have ground to cover. Find a quiet place to review the program or Racing Form for the upcoming race. Then get moving. No time to waste.

My first destination is the paddock, the equivalent of a theater’s backstage. From there, look for a betting kiosk, a miniature slot machine that takes your cash, provides a receipt and pays back when your hunch finishes in the money.