“So that’s how it is. You can’t resist the lure of the casinos.” He shakes his head sadly. “You’ve gone full Vegas.”
“Hardly. I do enjoy a game of cards every now and then.” I sigh and lean back with my elbows on the bar. “Sadly, a lot of our fans seem to enjoy an afternoon gambling session too.”
He turns serious, picking up on my mood. “Are fans gambling at your Hawks games?”
“No, I don’t mean like that.”
“How do you mean, then?”
I didn’t mean for my current predicament to slip out into our conversation, and I certainly don’t intend to dump my woes on him—business or personal.
But when I glance at him, I reconsider. He is in the industry, and he seems genuinely interested.
I turn to face him. “It’s just getting harder every year to vie for the attention of people in Las Vegas—visitors and locals. There are so many entertainment options. About a million slot machines, for starters. Then there are the shows—Cirque du Soleil, concerts at The Extravagant, magic acts . . . Attending a football game isn’t high on people’s lists.”
His brow furrows as he concentrates. “I can see that’d be a bit of an issue with people just wanting a show or an experience. But are those the same people who really follow football? Cirque and football seem like apples and oranges to me, and there’s no contest. But then,” he says a little sheepishly, like admitting a secret, “I’m kind of a die-hard sports fan.”
“Big shock,” I say dryly.
“I know. Such a surprise.”
“Okay, but you—and other die-hard fans—are a different profile than the average entertainment consumer. It’s not just the Hawks—other Vegas teams are having the same issue. It’s a real challenge to pry people away from the roulette wheels and the slots. Not to mention the showgirls and the magicians.”
“Now, don’t get crazy there,” he says with an intense frown. “When I said nothing could beat a football game, I wasn’t talking about magicians. Have you seen the Max and Alex show?” He mimes his head exploding. “It’s insane.”
“I know. I’ve seen their show twice. Hottest ticket in town. But that’s my point—we’re spoiled for choice, entertainment-wise, in Vegas.”
He takes a sip of his champagne, mulling over the problem. “Was it an issue when your dad was running the team?”
It’s a straight-up question, new problem or old, and not a suggestion that I lack something my dad had, and I appreciate that.
“Yeah, he grappled with it too. We discussed it when he was first taken ill.”
My throat catches as I think back to the last few days of his life. My father and I talked about everything—life and love and business—like he was determined to pass on his hard-won wisdom so I wouldn’t have to learn the same lessons twice.
“We talked a lot, actually,” I tell Crosby, speaking from the heart, where I keep Dad’s memory. “He shared his thoughts on running the team. How to be a good leader. How to inspire people. And when he ran down the things he’d been dealing with the last few years with the team, the competition for attendance was one of them. It had been getting harder every year, and he wasn’t sure how to solve the problem either.”
Crosby taps his finger thoughtfully on his glass. “Is it a matter of marketing, do you think? Or is it just the nature of the beast in Vegas?”
I groan. “That question keeps me up at night. I think, in large part, it’s the nature of Vegas. But do I just accept that, or do I do something about it?”
We stand there for a moment, and I can almost hear the gears turning in his head. We’re comfortable enough together that I can wait, barely, for him to speak in his own time.
“Now . . . don’t just dismiss this idea because of the source,” he begins.
“You’re worrying me, Crosby.”
“It’s ballsy, but not as crazy as staking your Lombardi Trophy at the poker table to make ends meet.”
“Okay. Now that I’ve got that for perspective . . .”
“You could, say, move the team to San Francisco.”
He says it levelly, seriously, like it’s a thing I should legitimately consider.
Still, I laugh. “Oh, that’s ballsy, all right.”
He shrugs, but not lightly. “I told you not to dismiss it right away.”
“Moving a team is one of the hardest things to do. But I’m sure the NFL will trip all over themselves to approve that proposal.”
“You never know.” Meeting my eyes, he smiles. “You never know about a lot of things, right?”
He holds my gaze a long time, long enough that my heart flips, that I feel like it’s one of those things where anything could happen. Like we are one of those things.
Am I reading too much into it?
Is it wishful thinking?
Or do I know him well enough to infer what he’s thinking?
