I feel used.

For eight-plus years, Kevin McClatchy has promised us wine, roses, victories. We’ve looked into those big, blue eyes and believed them, believed that he really loved us, that he would really leave his wife for us, that it wasn’t all just a dream. We were fooled as we consistently surrendered our precious fan flower to his charms, consistently filled the seats of his shiny stadium, waiting for his promises to finally be fulfilled. Now, eight-plus years later, he’s jumping ship, going back to his newspapers, his businesses, his life, and selling our team—selling us—to the tune of $200 million.

I feel used.

I should be excited. I should be looking at the potential of the situation, the possibility of a rich, benevolent, win-at-all-costs buyer (Mr. Cuban on line one!) to take the team on, overhaul the rosters, turn the Bucs into the Three Rivers Yankees. I should be getting in line for season tickets.

Instead, I’m an emotional wreck. The damage of the near-decade with McClatchy has me clutching a pillow and nursing a pint of Haagen-Dazs, certain that history will repeat itself, that in another eight years I’ll be sitting here again, kicking myself for trusting another rich man stoked with promises. The Pirates—and Pirates fans—don’t need that, can’t go through that pain again. We need an owner who we know will care for us, care for our team, care about winning.

We need…us.

The sports world is always raving about the Green Bay Packers, a team owned by the citizens of its hometown. The denizens fill the stands, love their team unconditionally, and preside over a franchise so fabled that its quarterback is lauded for interception-filled season and the stadium is tough to talk about without shades of NFL Films. Which brings me to my next question: Why don’t more cities do this?

Think about it: The team’s hometown fans—not a playboy tycoon or group of investors—is most invested, most interested in that squad’s success. That interested party is, logically, the best group to be invested financially in that team, to reap the benefits of its successes.

What’s holding cities back? Logistics. How do you organize a million-plus people to gather $200 million in an orderly fashion? Funny you should ask…

Of course, you can’t just tax the million citizens of Greater Pittsburgh at a two hundred buck clip and call it a day. In fact, the city itself won’t buy the team at all. Instead, Pittsburgh citizens interested in owning a piece of the Pirates will volunteer funds amounting to the sale price (or more). But people aren’t just going to hand over hundreds (or even tens) of dollars to a supposed campaign that could buy the team. And that’s where pledging comes in.

Instead of handing over the specific amount of potential “Pirates stock” they’d like to own, potential shareholders instead pledge that money to the potential corporation (let’s call it Pittsburghers for the Pirates, or PP) through a donation center or at a “pledge drive,” usually held at a card table outside Giant Eagle (right next to the Boy Scouts collecting old pop cans). Donors walk up, pledge an amount, give their personal information, and if the offer is accepted by McClatchy and Co., they will be forced to pay up.

Now, I know what you’re thinking: “I’ve pledged money to a charity before, and well, ‘forced to pay up’ hardly describes the process. If I’m delinquent on my payment, so what? So sure, I’ll buy $25,000 in the Pirates!” You see, that’s the beauty of the PP system (that just sounds so hilarious. Read it aloud.). When a donor signs the pledge form, they aren’t just signing a clipboard sheet of names; they will be signing a binding contract, written by a contract lawyer, stating that failure to come up with the pledged money will result in legal action. They’ll be required to provide identification when they sign, will sign a second form agreeing that they understand the binding nature of the contract, and a notary—present at every pledge drive—will oversee the signing. A couple hundred thousand pledges later, and we’ll have raised the money (and created the company) necessary to make an offer to the current ownership group.

So now we (the PP…say it again!) have bought the Pittsburgh Pirates. Now we’ve got to figure out how to run the team. We could hold town hall meetings about every decision, from sponsorships to shortstops to who we hire to sell beer, but that wouldn’t be too time efficient. Instead, shareholders would vote—by proxy, as with any corporation—on a board of directors, officers who would make decisions for the (wait for it…) PP. These officers would hire staff, management, make decisions on sponsorships and player salaries. And once a year, they’d send a ballot out regarding issues affecting stockholders to be voted upon by proxy.

Obviously, this whole thing sounds simpler than it probably is. But if a bunch of cheeseheads in Wisconsin can own their own team, why can’t citizens of the hardest-working city in the US? If Pittsburghers owned the Pirates, we’d never have to worry about the team moving, never have to worry about the owners getting cheap. We’d BE the owners, and by attending games, we’d be making money for ourselves as stockholders. PNC Park would sell out, Jason Bay would never ship out, and the Bucs could hoist the championship trophy. Sounds pretty good, huh?

----Greg

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