I went to a minor league soccer game this summer and had the best time ever. Better than a thousand big league games I watched as a sportswriter freeloading on a press pass.
The game was in Albuquerque at a place called—deep breath—Rio Grande Credit Union Field at Isotopes Park. A minor league baseball yard. Newer, upscale cousin of Sutter Health Park in West Sacramento.
The home team, strutting in black and gold flecked jerseys, was New Mexico United of the United Soccer League Championship level. Rival to Sac Republic.
I forget the score. Had to look up names for the stadium and league. Nobody at the game mentioned formal names. Names didn’t matter.
The soccer was rubbish. Filled with missed chances and players obsessed with fouls. After any contact, microscopic or incidental, men dropped like sandbags and thrashed in agony. Then they rose and dashed away, miraculous recoveries.
It was all joyfully meaningless. The stadium’s clunky name. The league’s silly English-style appellation. The referee-baiting theatrics.
What mattered was the experience—the fun that comes from cheering alongside 10,000 strangers, the rush fueled by spontaneous celebrations over something everyone knows is pointless and forgettable.
The game was a community party without pretense.
I paid $28 for a ticket and never found my seat. After the beer line, I stood next to a high-top table in Pepsi Porch and was adopted by a local guy and his two teenage kids.
The kids explained why United was better than its mediocre record. Dad said he liked minor league soccer because of the positive energy. No argument here.
Optimism enveloped the park like invisible fog. The crowd was jubilant without malice or arrogance. The United raced through 90 minutes, sloppy but successful. The crowd bounced away on a cloud, home team winners.
For decades I’ve said Sacramento doesn’t need major league sports. Minor leagues are better. Cheaper, more accessible, healthier, friendlier experiences, lower stress, fewer problems ignited by the rancor that haunts devout fandom.
This summer, the A’s proved the point.
The major leagues spent decades convincing fans to believe games between the A’s and Los Angeles Angels were treasures far more valuable than games between, say, the River Cats and El Paso Chihuahuas.
Sacramento ducked the brainwashing. Fans loved the River Cats. Then the A’s arrived, armed with zero-sum, Major League Baseball economics.
Sharing the ballpark with big leaguers, the River Cats delivered similar entertainment with less anxiety and cheaper buy-in. The minor league advantage: nobody cares who wins.
This summer, I heard from people who learned the brutish realities of Major League Baseball. They were guest services employees at Sutter Health Park.
Before the A’s arrived, guest services crews found pleasure in their jobs. Work was enjoyable. River Cats fans were friendly, appreciative and well-behaved. Customer and employee experiences were safe and fun.
Things changed when the A’s blew in from Oakland. Unpleasant encounters became common between guest staff and rude, aggressive MLB fans.
Ushers told me about getting cussed out when they tried to check tickets. When managers were summoned, the bosses tended to brush aside bad fan behavior and support customers over staff.
Big league sports bring out the worst in many fans. Winning ignites insanity. Behold the shattered shop windows and charred vehicles when a team wins a Super Bowl, World Series or NBA championship.
I was at a hockey game in Los Angeles last October when the Dodgers won the World Series. I saw hundreds of cops flood South Park where the Lakers and NHL Kings play. Cops lined up to confront thousands of converging fans thirsty for mayhem.
Not to be denied, the crowd moved north and torched a city bus.
If the River Cats or Republic or New Mexico United win a championship, the streets of Sacramento or Albuquerque will stay safe.
Those teams are minor league. They’re just for fun.
R.E. Graswich can be reached at regraswich@icloud.com. Follow us on Facebook and Instagram: @insidesacramento.
