Anytown, U.S.A.

IN THE MIDDLE of the night of March 28, a cold, snowy evening, a procession of moving vans crept out of a training camp in Owing Mills, Md., carrying away not only the cleats and shoulderpads of the Baltimore Colts but also the trust and affection of their fans. When Baltimore arose the next morning, Colts owner Robert Irsay had ensconced their team in Indianapolis. The Baltimore sun and the News American responded with blaring headlines about "The Rape of Baltimore," and local talk shows haven't yet stopped recycling the anguish.

The city fought back. The next day a circuit court judge issued a restraining order which temporarily prevented the Colts from completing their move or playing anywhere else but in Baltimore--the first step in the effort to recapture the team under the legal doctrine of eminent domain. But locking the barn door did little good, the colt was gone and legal precedent favored Irsay. In the past year a California federal court has twice ruled in favor of Al Davis, owner of the Raiders, who challenged the NFL constitution and the city of Oakland when he moved his team from Oakland to Los Angeles. Davis had long held that Rule 43 of the constitution, which states that any franchise move must be approved by 21 of the league's 28 owners, was blatantly illegal.

Davis noted recently, however, that the court's ruling pertained only to his own move. "It does not give anyone else in the league the right to move." Though NFL, commissioner Pete Rozelle predicted ruefully that the Davis decision would herald an era of "free agent franchises," he has refused to put the Irsay move to a vote, bowing before the Mammon of professional sport--money. An owner will be understandably reluctant to veto a profitable relocation when he may be the next to require his peers' approval.

Money was certainly the prime mover behind Irsay's fly-by-night relocation. He departed owing the city of Baltimore $2.3 million in back taxes, but Indianapolis was willing to overlook his credit history; they have renegotiated a large bank loan for his at favorable terms, and are promising the Colts $7 million a year from ticket sales, preseason TV rights, and regular season radio rights, Indianapolis stands to profit as well--Mayor William Hudnut estimated that the franchise will bring the city $21 million a year and give it invaluable national media exposure.

A franchise's merit is now measured largely is terms of money--the national reputation of the Dallas Cowboys. "America's Team," helped raise their price to $70 million in a recent sale. The NFL, which has a purchaser must own at least 51% of the team a stock, watched silently s a consortium of local businessmen bought the team, $70 million is a lot of money, considering that one could have purchased a team for $100 during the '30s, but it is a sound investment--the NFL's TV package alone brings each team $15 million a year.

MEANWHILE, Baltimore joins the ranks of cities scorned. The most famous franchise move, the relocations of baseball's Brooklyn Dodgers and New York Giants to California in the early '60s, threatened our deepest illusions about sport because they were so blatantly mercenary. Forever shattered was the image of owners as kindly old gents who loved to be around players and considered sports an extended recess from the real world. Broken hearted New Yorkers asked what a city could call its own besides taxes, garbage, and perhaps a flashy slogan. The Big Apple has a cultural reputation verging on the mythic, but most of its citizens don't care about the Guggenheim, or Broadway, or the Met--they care about the Knicks, and the Rangers, and the Mets.

A charismatic team, be it is baseball or box lacrosse, can pull a city or a region together in shared suffering and joy. Part of a New Englander's character is the wary pessimism engendered by watching too many talented Red Sox teams crumple in September. The words "No Pitching' ought to be carved on every Sox fan's tombstone. When the Pittsburgh Pirates won the World Series in 1979, it was exciting to watch the largely whit, working-class city embrace its largely Black and Hispanic team while the stadium speakers blasted the Pirates' theme song. "We Are Family."

But baseball, America's national pastime, is especially beset with franchise relocation. Washington, D.C., once famous for being "First in War, First in Peace, and Last in the American League," was last in attendance as well, and has been without its original team for 20 years as a result, ever since, management decided to reincarnate and seek larger profits as The Minnesota Twins Fittingly. Twins owner Calvin Griffith is now eager to move to Tamps. Yachtsman entrepreneur Ted Turner has turned the Atlanta Braves into a controversial, competitive, and dearly-loved local institution. But it was not so long ago that the Braves worked out of Milwaukee. And before that, they were the Boston Braves. And before that, a long, long, time ago, they were the Boston Bees, until everybody realized it was a silly name.

The record of such shifts can still be read--it lies in the strange discords that often remain when the city changes but the name remains. When they were in New Orleans, the Utah Jazz had a harmonious name, but when they moved west it would have been sensible to change their name to something locally resonant--perhaps to the Utah Mormon Tabernacle Choir, a uniquely felonious appellation. New Orleans sorrow at the loss of their Jazz has been partially ameliorated by the acquisition of the USFL's Breakers, another team whose name made more sense when it was connected to its original city--at least Boston has a seashore.

AND WHILE it is natural for deserted fans to cry "Foul!" when their team moves, relocations are an inevitable if regrettable part of a high-stakes business. As Mayor Hudnut noted in response to Baltimore's complaints. "Where did the Orioles come from," Texas. Where did the Orioles come from? St. Louis, Franchises move around. It's just as natural now as it was then." David Frick, treasurer of Indianapolis' capital improvement Board, which is putting up most of the Colts' money, added. "To the city of Baltimore, I say, 'I'm sorry." But we're going to love your Colts more than you loved them."

Frick's comment is yet another reminder that in a capitalist society, even love has price. One night caution the citizens of Indianapolis nor to grow too attached to their Colts, as the Irsays of the world are a fickle breed, and a booming city like Phoenix or San Jose will always be beckoning with an eager checkbook. Of course, Indianapolisites will learn soon enough what price love demands: the average tab for a day at the Hoosier Dome this fall will be about $25. It the newest Colts lovers don't have that kind of money, they can always sell a pint of blood.