Theodore succinctly articulates a customer-focused mission statement for the Texas-Louisiana League that major-league baseball seems not to comprehend. "It's a business," says Theodore, "but you don't want to convey that to the clients, who, of course, are the fans. You want to hold on to the mystique that has to do with something larger, something greater, something with more traditional roots than a business. That's really important because we're a single-owner league, so it's easy for people in our local communities to misperceive us as a big-city corporate organization setting up storefront baseball operations in small towns. That's just not it at all. On the other hand, with the sponsors you're trying to enlist, it's absolutely a business, and with them you want to emphasize the other side of the coin."
To its customers, the Texas-Louisiana League stresses value ($20 entertains a family of four, with change back), regional identity (understood partly in terms of "culinary diversity": hot dogs, yes, but barbecue, Tex-Mex, and Cajun, too), and nostalgia. "We want to bring back minor-league ball the way it was in the 1930s and 1940s," says Theodore. "Hometown entertainment, a family show."
Revenues come from three categories, each representing roughly one-third of the total: tickets; ballpark sales, meaning souvenirs and concessions (the league controls its own concessions at every ballpark, a costly capital investment but one that promises much higher profit margins); and advertising, meaning ads in programs and scorecards, fence signs, promotional deals (the sponsorship from Miller Lite), and radio ads (from the league's own broadcasts in each city). The projections are based on an average leaguewide attendance of 2,000 fans per game.
Further revenues are expected from direct-mail sales of souvenirs, which started quickly: $23,000 from the first $5,000 ad in Baseball Weekly. "That could become a bigger piece than some of us ever dreamed," says Theodore, who mentions the experience of the Rancho Cucamonga Quakes in California. Their first year in business, they sold $570,000 worth of merchandise at their stadium but came away with a small fraction of that because they're part of major-league baseball's group plan, which pools revenues from the sale of licensed merchandise. "Nothing is drained away from any of our teams," says Theodore. "We'll sell a hat and make nine bucks on it. An affiliated team might get 35¢ a year later."
Theodore forecasted leaguewide revenues of about $6 million; that's about what 8 class-AA affiliated franchises in markets of 150,000 each might expect. Expenses, on the other hand, would be much lower. That's despite the added cost of players' salaries, capped at $20,000 a month per team.
"Our teams aren't nearly as top-heavy as traditional minor-league teams. Typically, they have an owner, a management staff, and an accounting staff, whereas we share most of those functions on a leaguewide basis. Then there are nonpersonnel economies of scale that we're able to realize -- for example, purchasing equipment and souvenirs, booking promotional acts, even things like transportation. Finally, we have the best leases in baseball. They're turnkey operations with an average cost of $40,000 per team per year, and they can include not just use of the facility but utilities, cleanup, field maintenance, and security. That's because we're bringing baseball back to a region that's rich in tradition and starved to have it back."
Westcott didn't get into the deal to make money, but he has since become a believer. "My entrepreneurial feelings tell me there's a hunger in America for family activities that are relatively inexpensive and that are good forms of enjoyment," he says. "There aren't a lot of things that the whole family can enjoy for 20 bucks. You think about it. It costs more to go to a movie and get popcorn and a Coke than it does to go to a minor-league game."
Westcott likes the risk-and-reward curve. "If the league really works," he says, "then the numbers go off the charts. We own all the teams, and we could make a projection that any one of those teams will be worth $1 million to $2 million. That's doable." That would put Westcott in an enviable position with several options: sell off franchises one by one, sell the whole league in one piece, or sit tight and make money on operations.
Is there a nightmare scenario? "I've asked myself that question and run that trail many times," says Theodore. "It gets back basically to one assumption: How many people are going to come? If nobody cares, then nobody'll come."
"Fifty in ones, 10 in quarters, OK? Go git 'em."
This is Amarillo general manager Cliff Dochterman talking, very loud and very fast. He's carrying a walkie-talkie that he stores in his armpit whenever he needs both hands free to make a withdrawal from the cooler full of federal notes hanging from his shoulder. He'd be dripping sweat globs even if it were not 90 degrees.
"You were working hard last night upstairs," he says, peering at the vendor. "What's your name?"
"Paul, sir," the kid mumbles.
"Well, good luck!"
Paul lumbers off with his cash and his Cokes. Dochterman dumps the cooler in his office and heads for the portal to the stands.
Above, the west-Texas sky is blue, very blue. The clouds zooming through it are thick and white and tumbly, like Texas-size clumps of cotton stuffing. Down on the field there's a game in progress, the Dillas against the Tejanos, the Tejanos losing large after riding up to Amarillo from San Antonio for nine hours on the bus. Dochterman is pleased that the home team is winning, of course, but his focus is elsewhere. On attendance, for example: 5,200 tonight, another excellent crowd after last night's opener, and all paid. Dochterman has a thing about giving tickets away.
