Edition: U.S. / Global

Editorial Observer; Urban Renewal: First and Ten, Bond It Again!

Published: December 13, 1998

Football fans will tell you that winning is all about intangibles. This is particularly true when the goal is to sell the taxpayers a $375 million stadium.

''You cannot measure, you cannot weigh the new spirit that will be created by an N.F.L. team,'' Gov. John Rowland told Connecticut's state legislators last week. On Tuesday the Legislature is going to vote on a deal that would relocate the New England Patriots to Hartford, a move that Robert Kraft, the Patriots' owner, refers to in terms bordering on the matrimonial. (''We're taking an asset we're very passionate about. . . . We're telling you we want to partner with Hartford.'') Mr. Kraft has nevertheless done an excellent job of weighing and measuring what it will take to consummate the relationship. The stipulation describing how the state will pay him up to $17.5 million a year in reimbursements if the Patriots fail to sell their new and very expensive luxury boxes reads a little like a prenuptial agreement.

Mr. Rowland has been lobbying the legislators with a mix of sports metaphors and a sort of hard-nosed mysticism -- Knute Rockne meets Buffy the Vampire Slayer. When they express doubt that large numbers of area residents will pay $5,000 to watch the games in a seat that has waiter service, the Governor tells them that ''no dream is worth having without some risk involved.''

But Mr. Kraft's side of the deal is actually very specific and risk-averse, while Connecticut gets all the parts about partnership and passion and the promise of economic touchdowns. The legislative leaders, who cannot be thrilled that the deal recently starred in one of NBC's ''Fleecing of America'' news features, are pressing the Patriots for concessions.

Nevertheless, the lawmakers seem eager to be won over. After Mr. Kraft made his pitch at a public hearing last week, a State Senator from the Hartford suburbs announced he had decided to support the project when he saw Mr. Kraft kiss his son Jonathan, the Patriots' vice president. Almost no one has publicly rejected the entire idea of committing public funds to the pursuit of a professional football team that would play a total of 10 home games a year. When anyone does, the Governor just asks if there are any better ideas about how to resuscitate Hartford. Connecticut's state capital is a physically small city, hemmed in by suburbs that guard their autonomy like Rottweilers. It has been the beneficiary, or victim, of lots of redevelopment schemes over the years, which sliced up neighborhoods with highways and drove out small businesses to make way for office towers. The night life is so bleak that the traditional restaurant hangout for politicians has moved to the suburbs. ''People actually coming downtown -- now there's a novel idea,'' said Mr. Rowland.

Think of this as the Hail Mary of urban redevelopment. Everybody knows Hartford's citizens have dozens of needs more pressing than football, but they are needs that defy normal political answers. The state is already shoveling money into Hartford's schools, which deliver abysmal education at the cost of about $10,000 per pupil -- as much as the richest towns in Connecticut spend. The local Board of Education once embraced that spirit of risk the Governor finds so energizing and hired a private company to run the system, an experiment that ended in disaster. The board has now been replaced by state trustees, who are facing a long, gritty trench war against the effects of years of patronage hiring, bad contract negotiations and bureaucratic intransigence.

It is no wonder the legislators are relieved to be talking about something big and showy and specific -- what Hartford's Mayor calls ''the Big Bang theory of getting things done.'' The state, Mr. Rowland reminded them recently, has spent $650 million on economic development in Bridgeport, but the most heralded achievement is a low-budget stadium for a minor-league baseball team called the Bridgeport Bluefish. The mention of the Bluefish inspired one of the lawmakers to ask Mr. Kraft if he didn't think Connecticut would do better by finding Hartford a Triple-A baseball franchise. ''If you think a minor-league ball team can rejuvenate the city,'' said the owner doubtfully. Only he, Mr. Kraft reminded them, could make their capital the star of ''Monday Night Football.'' And how do you put a price tag on that?