Kick Ass: Selected Columns of Carl Hiaasen

City gave away park to get rid of problem February 21, 1986

This weekend thousands of Grand Prix fans will pay big-ticket prices to visit a park that already belongs to them, sit in bleachers they already own, and watch a road race that their tax dollars have subsidized.

You've heard of Live Aid and Farm Aid; this is Ralph Aid.

Ralph Sanchez is a terrific promoter, a magician when it comes to raising money. For instance, after the inaugural Grand Prix got rained under three years ago, state legislators agreed to help Ralph out of the hole by buying the bleachers for $500,000.

Our generosity didn't stop there. This year Tallahassee kicked in another half-million bucks to Ralph's races, while the county agreed to pony up $350,000 to cover any deficits. And the city of Miami—well, the city not only put up $250,000 for the new racetrack, but loaned Sanchez the same amount, interest free, to pay his share.

If all businessmen had pals like these, we could board up the bankruptcy courts.

The new Grand Prix course snakes through 35 acres once known as Bicentennial Park. It's not a park anymore, of course, it's an asphalt racetrack with two baseball diamonds stuck between the curves. How it got that way is an interesting story.

The Grand Prix got shoved out of south Bayfront Park because some big developer needs the land for fancy restaurants and macrame shops. The city of Miami felt so crummy that it agreed to "compensate" Sanchez by paying him $350,000 and annihilating a suitable stretch of Bicentennial Park to augment the race course.

All this happened very fast and very quietly—the paving, especially. If only the Department of Transportation crews could work so quickly.

When folks started asking about why the city paved the park—a public park purchased with bond money—everybody stuttered a little until they came up with one of the craftiest excuses I've ever heard: Basically, they said, we did it to get rid of the winos.

To hear Grand Prix boosters tell it, the winos of Bicentennial Park are the urban equivalent of the Viet Cong. Apparently the only thing to dislodge them is a Porsche bearing down at 140 miles per hour.

In defense of plowing the park, supporters recited all the nasty things that have happened there since it opened in 1977. Rapes, murders, muggings, assorted corpses. No wonder hardly anybody goes there.

Some cities would've taken a slightly different approach to these problems. Some cities might have opened shelters to get the winos off the streets. Maybe put more cops in the park, installed brighter lights, improved the parking, added tennis and racquetball courts. Bulldozed that stupid San Juan Hill of a berm that blocks the bay from the boulevard.

Other cities might have done more to save the park, but what Miami did was to give up, and give it away.

It's true that for two whole weekends the Grand Prix draws thousands of fans to downtown Miami, which is swell if you happen to own a hotel or parking garage. It's also true that the TV coverage gives the city lots of valuable exposure, providing the sun is out.

And it's true that one of the prime missions of the Grand Prix is to make some bucks for Ralph Sanchez. Nothing wrong with that.

But carving up the park?

I guess the city commissioners couldn't help themselves. They saw this luscious hunk of bayfront not making money, just sitting there being a park, and they couldn't stand it. The shakes set in, then drooling; an uncontrollable urge to bulldoze. Apparently shrubbery was not the kind of green that Bicentennial Park was meant to sprout.

The giveaway occurred so swiftly that critics have questioned its legality. The city's staff says everything is proper because the racetrack technically is a "park amenity."

A country mile of four-lane blacktop—some amenity. What does that make the Palmetto Expressway, a national shrine?

The Indy races to put Metro in debit dust July 18, 1986

First there was Hands Across America. Then Farm Aid II.

Brace yourself, South Florida. Now comes Ralph Aid II.

In a heartrending gesture of charity, the Metro Commission is considering bailing out auto racing impresario Ralph Sanchez with $5 million over 10 years.

In return, Sanchez promises to give the county 17 percent of the "adjusted gross income" from his Indy races at Tamiami Park.

What a deal. Except for one glitch: The Tamiami event lost money last year. A ton of money—$1.3 million, according to Sanchez.

On a similar note, this season's Grand Prix, held at the mutilated Bicentennial Park, lost $652,000—that, after getting a $350,000 subsidy from the tourist tax.

Isn't government wonderful? Used to be that when a private entrepreneur couldn't turn a profit, he or she was doomed to a cold fate. Going out of business, it was called. Used to be that the idea was to take in more money than you spent.

Apparently this isn't always possible when you're trying to put together a "world-class event," whatever that might be. Costs add up—you know, little things, like $23,500 for your lobbyist's new Mercedes-Benz.

Can't have a world-class event without a world-class lobbyist. God knows what Ron Book would have gotten if the Grand Prix had actually made money—maybe Sanchez would've sprung for a Rolls.

The architect of the latest giveaway is County Manager Sergio Pereira, who—invoking the Miss Universe Pageant Boondoggle Theorem—says the TV exposure makes the road races worth every nickel, tourist-wise. Pereira selflessly took it upon himself to review the ledgers of the Tamiami affair, and concluded that Sanchez needs help.

Right now he gets a piddling $100,000 a year for the Indy race. Pereira wants to increase the stipend to $500,000 annually for the next decade. What a guy, and what a grand gift at a time when Dade's economic condition is so bleak!

It seems like just last week that Pereira asked for property tax increases of 12 percent in unincorporated neighborhoods.

It seems like just last week that he proposed raising water and sewer rates, and cutting funds for meals for the elderly.

And it seems like just last week that the cost-conscious county manager declared an urgent need to wipe out the Dade Consumer Advocate's Office, as well as the Fair Housing and Employment Appeals Board. Citizens, he said, would simply have to go elsewhere with their job and housing discrimination complaints.

Pereira computed that these last two budget items would save the county a whopping $303,000 next year. Why, that's almost enough to pave another park and put in a race track.

The question is, would anyone show up?

Contrary to rosy press reports at the time, only half the expected crowd turned out at Tamiami, according to Sanchez's own estimate. We may never know the true attendance because, he says, he didn't bother to use the turnstiles for two days.

Such casual bookkeeping doesn't seem to disturb Commissioner Barry Schreiber, content with Sanchez's assertion that "we fill hotel rooms." Others, such as Commissioners Bev Phillips and Clara Oesterle, have expressed serious doubts about Pereira's plan.

Since the races are partly bankrolled by the city of Miami, Dade County and the state of Florida, taxpayers might be interested in details about the bottom line, which currently is red. Call us nosy, but we'd sure like to see the books before donating another half a million bucks.

Next week the county's finance committee will consider whether or not to set aside its fiscal worries, dig into your pockets and give generously to this sporting cause.

Considering his track record with the county commissioners, it's no wonder that Ralph Sanchez is back at Government Center, a pit stop in more ways than one.

Track developer now charity case for Homestead August 1, 1993

For those wondering how long it would take the new Metro Commission to start throwing money away, the wait is over: $20 million for auto racing in Homestead.

The 11—1 vote came last Tuesday at midnight, when public attendance was conveniently at a minimum. It brought to $31 million the total that Grand Prix hustler Ralph Sanchez has charmed from the county commission since October.

It's his biggest jackpot ever. Who needs telethons when you've got such softhearted politicians? Sanchez and Homestead City Manager Alex Muxo had no trouble selling the outlandish proposition that South Dade's hurricane recovery should be anchored by a private racetrack, to be used for only three or four major events a year.

Behind-the-scenes players included two longtime Sanchez cohorts, lobbyists Ron Book and Sergio Pereira. Pereira is an old hand at frittering public funds. As county manager, he once spent $9,400 on a new desk.

The Sanchez giveaway comes from a sports tax on hotel beds. Muxo raided the same kitty before; the result is an empty $12 million baseball stadium. Now Homestead wants racing, even though Sanchez's track record is an 11-year skid of red ink.

While claiming his races are a hit, Sanchez remains mysteriously dependent on the dole:

• 1985. Despite receiving more than $1 million in public subsidies, Sanchez says his races lost more than $2 million. Nonetheless, he manages to find the money to pay for a new Mercedes-Benz for his lobbyist, Book.

• February 1986. Ralph Aid I: Miami paves Bicentennial Park into a grand prix track. The city also gives Sanchez $250,000, plus an interest-free loan. That's added to the $800,000 he's already gotten from the county and the state.

• July 1986. Ralph Aid II: Sergio Pereira, then county manager, decides Sanchez needs more. He proposes a $5 million bailout over 10 years. The Metro Commission pares the handout to $200,000 a year, plus a $368,000 payment for "unexpected" costs.

• 1987-1988. Still itchy, Pereira and Sanchez hatch a scheme for Metro to buy out Sanchez's operations, and move the races to the Opa-locka airport. That nutty idea costs taxpayers $300,000 in consultant fees. The plan is dropped when Pereira quits as county manager, after he's caught lying about his secret involvement in a land deal.

• 1992. Miami gives Sanchez his customary $200,000, plus $300,000 in fire and police services. Not enough! He wants to move the Grand Prix to Munisport, a toxic dump in North Miami. Residents protest, saying they'd rather have a quiet dump than a noisy racetrack. Sanchez turns to Homestead ...

And Homestead is ripe for the picking. Flattened by the storm, vacated by the Air Force, jilted by the Cleveland Indians, the city is frantic for a boost.

Disguising Ralph Relief as hurricane relief worked brilliantly. Commissioner Larry Hawkins played everything but the violin, and Sanchez got his racetrack without putting up a penny. The public got a $20 million lube job.

Like the ballpark, a track will bring temporary construction jobs to South Dade. But after it's built, then what? For all but a few weeks each year, the place won't draw flies, much less tourists. (Muxo says Homestead police might use the new track for training, making it the world's most expensive driver-education course.)

If the Grand Prix can't turn a healthy profit on prime downtown bayfront, Sanchez stands no chance in the distant fields of South Dade.

The only winners in this deal are the taxpayers of Miami, who will be spared their annual $500,000 bailout of Ralph's party. Now he is Homestead's charity case.

Let Lipton thrive or fail on its own July 25, 1990

Another brainy idea from the county manager: using a tourism tax to build a tennis stadium on Key Biscayne.

Yes, folks, the happy Lipton giveaway continues. In his zeal to keep the International Players Championships at Crandon Park, County Manager Joaquin Avino wants tax dollars used to help pay for a permanent $16.5 million stadium.

This is the very same stadium which, only a few years ago, promoter Butch Buchholz had promised to build with private funds. Not a penny of public money would be spent, he said.

What happened? We got stuck again, that's what. The Lipton is costing county government plenty, and it's about to get much worse. Having been clobbered once in court, the county charges onward heedlessly, making the same mistakes. It is certain to be sued again.

Undaunted, the commission on Tuesday accepted Avino's tennis-tax plan, allowing him to begin negotiations. Short-term memory loss apparently afflicts some of the commissioners, who only two years ago vowed to spend no more public funds on the Lipton.

Hailed by supporters as a booming triumph, the tennis tournament nonetheless loses money year after year. Most private businesses, faced with such chronic deficits, would either reorganize or go bankrupt. Not the Lipton, which has been a special charity case from Day One.

First the county handed over a big chunk of a public park. Then it financed a $1 million clubhouse. Then it paid for the parking lots. Then it sweet-talked the state out of a cool $1 million or so. Now it wants to tax tourist motels to bankroll a new stadium.

Which brings up another mystery. For months we've been warned that the Lipton would abandon Dade County for greener pastures if a permanent 12,000-seat stadium weren't constructed. Then an appellate court ruled that the tournament violates the deed, as written by the Matheson family when it donated the unspoiled property half a century ago.

Suddenly the ultimatum for a 12,000-seat stadium disappeared. Planners emerged with a new scheme for a smaller, 7,500-seat stadium with more public parking. It was put forward as a "compromise" to please worried Key Biscayne residents—but the real effect was to dodge the South Florida Regional Planning Council, which must review and approve large projects. Supporters defend these tactics by saying the Lipton is good for Florida, good for Dade County, good for Key Biscayne. They claim a positive economic impact of $111 million annually—an unsubstantiated puffery based on some of the wildest calculations you ever saw.

Certainly this is a fine tennis tournament, but it ought to succeed or fail on its own. To use millions in tax money to prop up a private sports enterprise is reckless. To use a public park for it is a disgrace.

There's nothing to stop the promoters from buying their own land and developing their own tennis stadium—people in South Florida would cheer for its success. As it now stands, every taxpayer in Dade County should get free admission to the Lipton tournament, since they've paid for so much of it.

Even if the commission votes for the tennis tax, there's an excellent chance the stadium will need a new location. If the Matheson property isn't used exclusively for public park purposes, the deed allows the family to invoke a "reverter" clause to take the land back.

Which is exactly what they're contemplating.

If the Matheson heirs choose to reclaim the donated property, it will be a lacerating embarrassment to the county. The family could give the Crandon tract to either the state or the federal government for preservation as a park. That means no tennis stadium, no retail shops, no tournament.

The county will fight it, of course—spending hundreds of thousands more tax dollars on what could easily be a losing cause. And a misguided one.

Parks shouldn't be used to fill private coffers April 19, 1992

All parks officially are up for grabs. Dade Circuit Judge Gerald Wetherington has ruled that putting a 14,000-seat tennis stadium in Crandon Park is no big deal.

The pioneer Matheson family, which donated the land, has been fighting the proposed Lipton tennis center. The Mathesons say the property wasn't meant to be handed to a private sports promoter. The 1940 deed gave the land for "public park purposes only."

In a decision that warmed the hearts of would-be developers, Wetherington said: "As times have changed, the concept of public purpose has changed."

Twisted is more like it. The term "public purpose" now means taking public land for the purpose of enhancing private pocketbooks. It's a broad concept that benefits entrepreneurs who are too cheap to buy their own property.

The Lipton technically leases part of Crandon, but the tournament remains heavily subsidized with public funds. Naturally, the new stadium will be built with tax dollars.

Fifty years ago, the Mathesons never imagined that the county would give away the park. When donating the land, they composed the deeds in language that seemed straightforward.

Understandably, family heirs were upset when the county allowed a private sports venture to take over part of Crandon. They've argued adamantly that the tract wasn't intended for commercial exploitation and that the original deed prohibited it.

By ruling against the Mathesons, Judge Wetherington essentially announced that it didn't matter what the family might have intended—a tennis stadium would be built. No clearer message could be sent to future donors of public parks. The county will betray you in a flash unless the deed is airtight:

"I, (YOUR NAME) , hereby give and bequeath the property located at (LEGAL DESCRIPTION) to Dade County, for use exclusively as a park. This deed shall hereby exclude the following commercial events: tennis tournaments, automobile races, soccer, skeet shooting, rodeos, croquet, lacrosse, monster-truck pulls, Wrestlemania or any Battle of the Network Superstars.

"For the purposes of this deed, the term 'public park' strictly shall be defined as a place for public recreation and enjoyment at all times. Turnstiles are forbidden."

Miami lawyer Dan Paul, who helped write the county charter, favors an amendment that will protect the parks from Lipton-type development. Under his proposal, no park could be leased, built upon, or turned over to a commercial enterprise without a countywide referendum.

Ironically, Judge Wetherington's Crandon giveaway came on the same day that plans were revealed to turn Miami's troubled Bicentennial Park into an enormous dock for cruise ships.

It won't be the first time the place is remodeled in the name of private profit. The city previously leased Bicentennial to promoter Ralph Sanchez, who paved it for a Grand Prix. (He'll soon be getting $9 million of tourist tax money to upgrade the racetrack, which is used exactly twice a year.)

Now Carmen Lunetta, czar of the Port of Miami, wants to expand Bicentennial and adjacent property into a fancy harborage for cruise liners. New shops and restaurants would be featured (even though nearby Bayside is gasping for survival). To keep Sanchez happy, Lunetta is tossing in an extra 6,000 seats for the Grand Prix.

Voters bought the Miami waterfront for use as a park, not a commercial port. But, as Judge Wetherington says, times have changed. What's a park these days without taxis, buses, jillions of harried cruise-ship passengers and the occasional nine-pound wharf rat. I'm already packing my picnic basket.

If Lipton should fall, let Avino's crew shovel it May 10, 1992

The Lipton tennis boondoggle is in deep trouble, all of it self-made.

On Friday, Dade Circuit Judge Jon Gordon halted construction of a tax-funded, $16.5 million stadium on Key Biscayne. In an emphatic ruling, Gordon said the land was deeded for use exclusively as a public park, not a commercial tennis operation. The decision was a victory for the Matheson family, which donated the tract 52 years ago.

Dade officials appear typically numb and bewildered. County Manager Joaquin Avino is moaning that Gordon's decision will cost taxpayers millions of dollars.

That's not the fault of the judge or the Mathesons. It was Avino and that sorry crew of commissioners who recklessly launched construction of the Lipton stadium, knowing that the project faced stiff court challenges.

Whether it was arrogance or sheer stupidity, the county blew it. They gambled and lost. Now, having squandered tons of tax money, the county's legal wizards are forging blindly ahead to squander even more. Yes, folks, they're trudging back to the courthouse for another try.

None of this nonsense was necessary. From day one, Dade officials knew they were on shaky legal ground by putting the Lipton in Crandon Park. They'd privately taken their plans for the tournament to the Matheson heirs, who objected strenuously. The family saw the Lipton center as unadulterated commercialization, which it is. They threatened to sue to enforce the deed.

At that point, the tournament, the stadium and millions of bucks could've been saved by relocating the Lipton to another site. Nothing prevented promoters from buying their own tract and putting up a first-class facility wherever they wanted.

But that's not how it's done in Dade County. Why pay for something out of your own pocket when taxpayers will do it for you? The lure of free Key Biscayne real estate was impossible to refuse. Behind the scenes, high-priced lobbyists and political power brokers worked to keep the Lipton on the island, despite the opposition of many residents.

Brushing off the threat of lawsuits, the commissioners giddily pressed ahead with the tennis extravaganza. Anything promoter Butch Buchholz wanted, he got—including public financing of the stadium he once promised to build with private funds. Meanwhile, the county was spending a fortune on legal fees—again, your money—to fight the Mathesons.

Avino acted as if the family was just a pesky annoyance. The possibility of losing the case didn't seem to cross his mind. Talk about cocky: Bulldozers went to work on the 14,000-seat stadium on April 1—three weeks before Circuit Judge Gerald Wetherington was scheduled to hear the lawsuit.

Though Wetherington ruled in the county's favor, he abruptly changed his mind and took himself off the case. Construction on the Lipton proceeded as if nothing were amiss.

For developers, it's the oldest trick in the book. The more you can build and the faster you can build it, the harder for opponents to get it torn down. That's Avino's woeful defense: Dade taxpayers have invested so much in the Lipton that it's too expensive to turn back. Gee, Joaquin, whose fault is that?

While the county fights Judge Gordon's decision, the digging and destruction will likely resume on Key Biscayne. Drive out there and take a look—after all, you're paying for it.

But remember that if the Mathesons prevail (and there's a good chance they will), the stadium will come tumbling down. If that happens, shovels should be distributed immediately to the county manager and each gung-ho commissioner. Bus them to Crandon Park and make them clean up their mess.

Sort of an old-fashioned groundbreaking, in reverse.

Metro tumbled into sand trap with golf club June 26, 1994

If P.T. Barnum were alive to watch the Metro Commission in action, he'd probably revise his famous axiom. Not only are suckers born every minute, they invariably get elected to political office.

Dade politicians are big suckers for sports. They've got a history of blowing public funds on extravaganzas that fail to produce the windfall promised by hungry promoters. The most infamous entitlement programs are the Lipton tennis tournament and the Miami Grand Prix.

Now another sport is sucking precious dollars out of the county coffer: golf. So far, unsuspecting taxpayers have forked out $8.9 million on the Golf Club of Miami. That's not a typo: $8.9 million—with about $8 million more to come.

Even using silk flags and the lushest Bermuda grass, it hardly seems possible to spend so much to spruce up a few fairways.

Here's what happened. Five years ago, the county contracted with the PGA Tour to rejuvenate the Golf Club of Miami in North Dade. The courses had gotten ratty, and worried neighbors voted to tax themselves to purchase much of the property. The county had the rest.

The PGA Tour eagerly offered to run the place and touted itself as capable and experienced. The prestige of attaching the Tour's name was supposed to attract a luxury hotel and hordes of golf-crazy tourists.

As it turned out, a bunch of chimpanzees couldn't have negotiated a worse contract than the one approved by Metro commissioners. Ironically, the only one opposed to it was then-Mayor Steve Clark, the county's undisputed authority on all golfing matters. Clark said the Golf Club of Miami deal was no good, and he was right.

Oh, the courses are in better shape today, and they're finally making a modest profit. Unfortunately, the county's seeing little of it; $500,000 annually comes off the top, for the PGA.

How bad was the contract? Item: new cart paths. The Tour's price tag: $558,000, or about three times the going rate. The Caddyshack Commission said sure. Since 1989, the Golf Club of Miami has drained a small fortune from the county's general fund, including $863,000 a year in bond payments. We're stuck with those until 2004.

Of course, the big luxury hotel never materialized, costing Metro another $4.2 million in bed taxes to repay investors. Incredibly, the Parks Department also "loaned" the golf club $4. i million to construct a third course, an executive-style par 62. Not only was the price higher than many first-class par 725, but the short course lost a tidy $460,000 in its first two years.

The county claims all of that money eventually will be paid back out of future revenues from the golf club. Sure. When they raise the greens fees to $2,000 a day.

In addition to the $8.9 million in general funds, the Golf Club of Miami has received much more from other public sources. Metro commissioners grabbed $3.5 million from the sports-franchise bed tax and built a new clubhouse dedicated to one of their own, Sherman Winn. His name on the building is a fitting reminder of the suckers who paid for it.

Defending the project, county officials say the funds spent on the Golf Club of Miami aren't a total waste. Said one: "At least we've gotten into public ownership three pretty nice golf courses."

And a dandy bargain it is. Let's see … 54 holes at a minimum final cost of $24.6 million. That comes to about $455,555 per fairway.

From now on, golfers will have an option of replacing their divots, or listing them with Century 21.

Wayne skating on thin ice of fan loyalty July 23, 1995

Wayne Huizenga says he's moving or selling the Florida Panthers if somebody doesn't build him a new arena. Gonna get the puck out, he says.

The announcement came at a press conference during which a testy Huizenga expressed no fondness for Broward officials, who'd rejected a tax on tourists or restaurants to finance a new $ 165 million hockey rink.

Instead, the county had rashly suggested that Mr. Blockbuster himself should pony up a heftier chunk of the arena money—an option no self-respecting sports tycoon likes to contemplate.

The common philosophy is that sports fans should be so darned grateful to have a big-league franchise that they ought to subsidize it with taxes.

It's not enough to pay for overpriced parking, overpriced tickets, overpriced junk food and overpriced souvenirs. No, you should pay for the overpriced facilities, too.

Happens all over. That's how St. Louis lured the Rams from Los Angeles: new stadium, sweet deal. For many owners it's proved a successful extortion: Build me a new place to play, or I'll take my team elsewhere.

When the ungrateful citizenry of Broward balked at bankrolling a hockey stadium, Huizenga stomped off. Even if the county comes crawling back, he declared, the deal's off.

So there. Nah, nah, nah.

Huizenga says he needs help because the team is losing $1 million a month by sharing the Miami Arena with the Heat. He wants a new ice palace tiered with posh, high-priced skyboxes.

Not so long ago, politicians would've bellied across broken glass to appease Huizenga. The mood today is slightly less worshipful, and the reason is simple. Voters are tired of using public monies to enrich millionaire sports owners.

South Floridians have contributed heavily, if not knowingly, to the downtown arena, as well as a private Grand Prix track and a tennis stadium. It's welfare for the rich, disguised as civic boosterism.

Huizenga's grim account of the Panthers' finances is troubling. Here's a team (unlike other local franchises) that plays to 97 percent capacity, yet still manages to bleed red ink. That's quite a trick.

How did such a sharp businessman fall into such a stinky deal? Clearly, Huizenga agreed to share the arena only because he was sure he'd be getting a new one soon, courtesy of some hockey-crazed municipality. Unfortunately, he misjudged.

His assertion that more luxury skyboxes will save the Panthers is equally suspect, considering that the relatively few skyboxes in the Miami Arena aren't sold out.

One positive thing to come from Huizenga's tantrum is a possible partnership with Heat owner Micky Arisen, also in the market for a new venue. Together, they've got more capital to invest, and a better chance of turning a profit.

A similar joint deal worked well in Chicago. There, the basketball and hockey teams split both the cost and revenues from the new $175 million United Center. Both teams are making money.

But here's the real shocker: The Chicago arena was constructed largely with private funds. The owners, not taxpayers, picked up the tab. What a radical concept.

Unfortunately, building a new arena here would kill the old one, which isn't that old and wasn't so cheap. It would be better if Huizenga and Arisen joined forces (and bankers) to refurbish the current Miami Arena in the high style they desire.

Right now, the most valuable part of the Panthers franchise is fan loyalty, but that can change quickly. An owner's ultimatum for luxury skyboxes cuts no ice with the folks in the cheap seats.

Let Broward have its arena—and the debt February 1, 1996

Dade taxpayers should breathe a collective sigh of relief this week. They might be off the hook for a new sports arena.

Broward County has impulsively offered to build a basketball-hockey emporium to keep both the restless Miami Heat and the money-losing Florida Panthers in South Florida.

Price tag: $212 million, minimum. Most of the dough would come from a 2 percent hotel-bed tax, backed by county bonds.

Broward voters haven't been asked for their opinion, as a public outpouring of skepticism might discourage Heat owner Micky Arisen (who has already threatened to move his team) and Panthers owner Wayne Huizenga (who's supposedly trying to sell his).

By a 5—1 vote, Broward commissioners vowed to spring for a new arena if the teams sign in advance and agree to share revenues with the county. The deal is far from sealed, and Dade officials are hurriedly polishing a new pitch of their own.

Only in the irrational realm of big-league sports can two of the richest guys on the planet sit back and watch suckers plead for the privilege of building them a palace.

In Broward, three cities have hurled themselves worshipfully at Arisen's and Huizenga's feet. Fort Lauderdale has a downtown site off Interstate 95. Pompano Beach is pushing a parcel near the harness track. And Sunrise has property located near West Broward 's social and cultural shrine, the Sawgrass Mills outlet mall.

The Sunrise Heat? The Pompano Panthers? These days anything is possible—witness the Mighty Ducks of Anaheim.

Backers say a sports arena will bring to a neighborhood great jobs, economic prosperity, national prestige and immeasurable civic pride.

Sound familiar? These are the same promises heard when basketball promoters lobbied for the building of the Miami Arena, which has not exactly revitalized the downtown area.

In fact, a new fiscal study of 35 major sports facilities finds little positive economic impact on the communities that turned cartwheels to attract them. Arenas and stadiums are strictly designed to make money for the team and its owners.

There's nothing wrong with the Miami Arena. It's not old, it's not falling apart, and it's not too small—in fact, on some nights it's downright cavernous for the crowd that shows up.

Sure, it's in a tough neighborhood, but that's true in other basketball and hockey cities. It's not the fans who are complaining loudest about the facility, it's Arisen and Huizenga. They want more seats and more luxury skyboxes, which are hugely profitable.

Sports owners all over the country engage in the same strong-arming of loyal fans and local taxpayers: Give us what we want, or we'll bolt. And too often they do.

That's because there's always another town with an inferiority complex and gullible politicians willing to put up somebody else's money. It's not about economic betterment, it's about egos. Every place lusts for its own pro sports team.

Listen to what Fort Lauderdale's city manager said about the benefits of a new arena: "This will bring Broward County out of the shadow of Dade."

A baffling remark, considering that Broward is already growing much faster than Dade, and is internationally perceived as a safer and more desirable place to live.

The only shadow Broward residents ought to worry about is the one made by a tower of debt, which is what they'll be trapped under if Arisen, Huizenga or some future sports tycoon gets antsy again in a few years.

Which seems to be the nature of the game.

A rejected rough draft of the latest Letter of Intent to move the Heat and the Panthers from Miami to Broward County:

"And whereas we could move to Boca Raton;"

"Whereas we, Micky Arisen and Wayne Huizenga, the owners of the Miami Heat and the Florida Panthers, respectively, are committed to terminating our leases at the present Miami Arena, (hereinafter referred to as 'The Dump');

"And whereas neither of us intends to finance, wholly or in large part, the construction of a new sports arena, despite the fact we're both stupendously wealthy, and could probably pay for the whole darn thing out of our personal money-market accounts;

"And whereas the prospect of losing basketball or hockey has spurred local politicians to a burst of fiscal cleverness hitherto unknown in more mundane crises, such as juvenile crime or classroom overcrowding;

"And whereas the Broward County Commission has expressed verbally and in writing an almost pathological eagerness to construct a new sports arena for us, at considerable expense and public risk;

"And whereas said Broward Commission (hereinafter referred to as 'The Big Suckers') have acquiesced on numerous key points concerning the division of future arena revenues, including ticket sales, luxury box leases, food and souvenir concessions;

"And whereas, in the face of such blind generosity, we'd have to be out of our cotton-pickin' minds to fork out a nickel from our own pockets;

"We therefore declare our intention to move the Miami Heat and Florida Panthers to Broward County, providing all parties agree that:

" (a) This Letter of Intent shall be entirely non-binding (hereinafter referred to as 'worthless' or 'not worth the paper it's printed on').

" (b) This Letter of Intent shall not deprive us of our right to jerk Broward County around while we wait for other offers.

"Such jerking around (hereinafter referred to as 'thoughtful reconsideration') shall include but not be limited to postponing or ignoring agreed-upon deadlines, making coy and ambivalent public statements about where the teams wish to play, and generally stalling whenever it suits our purpose;

"And whereas, to our vast amusement, civic leaders and elected officials in Dade County have recently expressed an almost desperate desire to keep the Heat and/or the Panthers;

"And whereas we'd be foolish not to sit back and watch Dade and Broward compete like little children for the privilege of building us a brand-new $200 million arena;

"And whereas we don't particularly care where the money comes from, as long as it's not ours;

"And whereas Dade authorities appear every bit as gullible and easy to intimidate as those in Broward;

"And whereas while we find it hard to believe that local politicians are goofy enough to build two new arenas, we cannot rule out the intriguing possibility;

"Therefore each of us individually retains the right to pretend this Letter of Intent to Broward commissioners is a gag, and to continue negotiating for an extravagant new arena with Dade officials (hereinafter referred to as 'Even Bigger Suckers');

"Such negotiations with Dade may continue until the very day that construction on the Broward arena is completed. At that time one or both of us will sign an Amended Letter of Intent, allowing the Heat and/or Panthers to play in Broward County until something a little better comes along.

"Your pals, Wayne and Micky."

Team rebates send tax money down the drain March 16, 1997

Wayne Huizenga is about to pick our pockets for another $60 million.

But don't fret, it's all for a good cause: spiffy new toilets at the former Joe Robbie Stadium!

Huizenga believes that all Florida taxpayers—most of whom have never brought their bladder to a football game—should subsidize renovations such as upgraded concession stands, concourses and restrooms.

This, after they've already bankrolled the conversion of JRS into a baseball park. Huizenga glommed the first $60 million on behalf of the Florida Marlins. Now he wants an identical handout for the Dolphins. Is the Legislature slutty enough to roll over twice for the same smooth-talking billionaire? Not only is it possible, it's virtually a sure bet. (He's getting another 60 mil for the Panthers' new arena.)

The money is a massive rebate of sales tax revenues—spread over 30 years—which would otherwise be frittered away on extravagances such as elementary schools. And, after all, what's more important to Florida's future—new textbooks for kids, or new chili-dog stands for Wayne? See, up in the Capitol, them boys loves their sports. In 1988, they approved a tax kickback to lure big-league franchises from other states. Since then, the loophole has been enlarged to funnel millions to pro teams that are already here, but have threatened to defect. Huizenga isn't the only tycoon to cash in. Owners of the Tampa Bay Bucs and the Orlando Magic have also taken advantage of the exemption. And Micky Arison is using his $60 million rebate to help finance the new arena for the Miami Heat.

But only Wily Wayne has tried to double-dip from the same jackpot. He figures he deserves a capital improvement subsidy for every sports team he owns, even if two of them happen to play in the same ballpark. But just to show what a big heart he's got, Huizenga promises not to use any tax money to doll up the exclusive private suites and corporate skyboxes.

According to Wayne's lobbyist Ron Book (and we know he would never lie), the rebate will be spent "only in the areas that are accessible to the general public."

That means you'll be able to admire firsthand the gleaming new porcelain in your favorite fixture—for which you'll be paying, along with your game ticket, parking fees, programs, cheese nachos and the beer you're now getting rid of.

It's a swell deal for Huizenga. But as long as elected lawmakers do what billionaires tell them, billionaires will continue to ask for outrageous favors.

Ordinary folks needn't bother. Nobody who runs a mom-and-pop diner could con the state into buying them a new Mr. Coffee, much less a wall-to-wall renovation. Nor would they dream of trying.

Then again, ordinary folks can't afford to shower politicians with the hefty campaign donations that Huizenga spreads around. That's how votes are bought, and that's how these boondoggles are orchestrated.

If Stadium Giveaway II sails through the Legislature as expected, as much as $120 million in public funds will have been earmarked for improvements to JRS. That particular crater in the state's tax booty will be filled with other money—yours, mine, the folks with the diner.

To help groveling lawmakers defend their obeisance, Huizenga's forces have provided a sheath of hilariously inflated statistics about how much the Dolphins' eight regular-season home games contribute to South Florida's economy.

Think about that when you visit one of Wayne's new toilets.

You could flush yourself silly, but you'll never catch up to them boys in the Capitol.

Speedway lessees race to the bank April 13, 1997

When Ralph Sanchez and Wayne Huizenga joined forces at the Homestead motor speedway, you knew good things would happen.

To Ralph and Wayne, of course. Not necessarily to Homestead.

Sure enough, Sanchez and Huizenga are about to roar away from the troubled racetrack with at least $10 million each, while the flat-broke city limply waves a checkered flag.

Sanchez claims the place can't make it without hosting the popular Winston Cup stock car races—something that won't occur unless he and Huizenga sell out to NASCAR impresario Bill France.

France didn't want the track unless the lease was watered down. Last week the city obliged.

"I walked out of the council chambers sick to my stomach. They gave away the farm," says Steve Losner, a lawyer whose family has been in Homestead for 70 years.

It was as predictable as it is pathetic. The 65,000-seat motorsports complex was built with public funds, including $31 million from county tourist taxes and bond sales. How much will Dade get from the Sanchez sellout? Zippo.

Homestead itself has spent $8 million on the track, and is in debt for another $25 million. Its take from the new deal: nada. Amazing, considering that the city is deeply in the red, and that workers are being laid off.

Meanwhile, Wayne and Ralph can peel rubber on their way to the bank. It was a match made in heaven, two masters of finagling public funds for private projects.

By selling his share of the Homestead lease, Sanchez would maintain a perfect record: In 15 years he's never operated a racetrack that made money. Oh, he made plenty—but not the races, and not the municipalities that subsidized them.

After skipping out of downtown Miami, Sanchez found fresh suckers in hurricane-battered Homestead. True to form, he miscalculated the cost of the new speedway by about 500 percent, and his lofty promise of reviving South Dade's economy turned out to be hot air.

Even the track itself has been a headache, beset with costly design flaws that cast large doubts upon Sanchez's touted racing expertise. Huizenga came in as a partner by loaning $20 million for new construction.

Now Sanchez says the racetrack is "overbuilt." Seriously, that's what he says. He told New Times: "If I didn't have to sell I wouldn't sell, but this is the reality of the situation."

Here's the reality: He and Huizenga are making out like bandits, while taxpayers are once again eating dust.

Of all Sanchez's failures, Homestead will be his most lucrative. In a meeting with South Dade business leaders on April 3, he admitted that he and Huizenga each will receive about $ 10 million if France buys them out.

Which seems likely, since the track's new tenant is no longer required to share race profits with the city—one of several outlandish concessions approved by council members.

The hosing was orchestrated by none other than Alex Muxo, who did plenty of damage as Homestead's city manager. Now conveniently employed by Huizenga, Muxo met individually with council members at the racetrack.

His message: This thing won't ever fly without a Winston Cup weekend.

In other words, forget the Indy cars. Forget the Jiffy Lube. Forget everything Sanchez promised four years ago.

Many folks in Homestead won't forget. Neither will some of the politicians who gave him that first $31 million. As former Metro Commissioner Maurice Ferre lamented: "I still wonder how we could have allowed this to happen."

Join the club.