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WSJ visits with the NJ fans the Nets are leaving behind en route to their new life in Brooklyn.
Jersey Fans Ready to Divorce Nets
Though They Tried to Make It Work, It's Time to Go Their Separate Ways
By SCOTT CACCIOLA
Frank Capece attended his first Nets game 33 years ago when his dentist gave him a pair of tickets as a wedding gift. Apparently his dentist hadn't made him suffer enough.
The twist is that Capece, an attorney from Cranford, N.J., got hooked—hooked on a team of "lovable losers." He invested in courtside season tickets. He screamed at officials. He called opposing players "clowns." He said he missed just four home games over the next 20 years: two because of sickness, one because his daughter was graduating from college and one because he was invited to attend an event at the Clinton White House. "That was a tough choice," he said.
For Nets fans who live in New Jersey, the official end for their local team will come in three weeks, when the Nets play their final game in Newark. Then the team will depart for Brooklyn and its glitzy new home at Barclays Center. But many die-hard fans like Capece said goodbye long ago. They were a cast of characters shared the same passion: rooting for the most beleaguered NBA franchise east of the Los Angeles Clippers.
Capece, who gave up his season tickets shortly after Bruce Ratner bought the team in 2004, said he would always have fond memories of the fraternity he formed with several fellow season-ticket holders—most of whom had the financial means to sit near the floor. Capece even gave them nicknames, whether they wanted them or not. There was Danny the Israeli Builder and Gary the Investment Counselor. He knew Ed Marbach, the owner of a wholesale food company, as Ed the Frozen-Food King. Capece christened himself "Frank the Crazy Lawyer."
The thread among them was Rick Lotterman, a ticket salesman. He arranged for lunches with staff members. He got them time with players at summer-league games. They also trafficked in trade gossip, relishing the team's few highs and bemoaning its many lows. Grey Jones, a longtime season-ticket holder, recalled the "Derrick Coleman fiasco" and the "Kenny Anderson-getting-hurt-and-leaving fiasco."
"Lots of fiascos," said Jones, 72, who owns a company that develops driver-safety materials.
Marbach, 59, said the one clear advantage to the team being so terrible was that he got seats closer and closer to the action. And they were fairly inexpensive, at least by today's standards. Marbach said he initially paid about $200 per game for a pair of courtside tickets. They got pricier when the team acquired Jason Kidd and went to the finals in 2002 and 2003—a stretch that Marbach remembers as basketball nirvana.
Those games were a scene, and Marbach said he often arranged to donate one of his tickets back to the Nets to distribute to celebrities who were in town. Marbach basked in the reflected glow of Hollywood royalty. There were actors (Michael Douglas, Bill Cosby) and athletes (Phil Simms, Willie Randolph) and assorted B-list stars ("Phylicia Rashad's husband").
All these years later, Marbach divides his encounters into two categories: celebrities who were nice to him and those who were "jerks." One of the nice guys was Bruce Willis, who attended a handful of games. One night, the TV show "Entertainment Tonight" wanted to interview him courtside. Willis grabbed Marbach and had the show grill him instead. There he was, Ed the Frozen-Food King, on TV. "My two minutes of fame," he said.
For Marbach and others, rising ticket prices were one tipping point. The other was the sale of the team to Ratner. Jones said the team hiked the price of his season-ticket package by 50% the following season.
"They did that at the same time they announced they were moving," he said. "And I thought, 'Geez, that's quite an interesting business strategy.'"
A team spokesman said that the Nets "deeply appreciate the support of our fans during our time in New Jersey. We have built great relationships with many of our most loyal fans and will always remember their dedication to the team."
Marbach quit going around the same time. By the end, he said, he was shelling out about $100,000 per season for his two courtside seats. He was able to deduct about half of that as a business expense, but he could no longer justify the cost.
"The other thing that I don't miss is that I had to be 'on' all the time," he said. "When you're on the front row, people are looking at you, people are talking to you. So I used to dress really well, wear nice suits, make sure my shoes were shined—even on the weekends. I like a little anonymity now."
Capece broke down and bought tickets to a game two years ago. He was more curious than nostalgic, and as soon as he arrived, he knew he didn't belong there. Capece, who said he's happily married, likened it to a divorce. "You just don't care anymore," he said.
He still has fond feelings for what once was, however. If he ever needs a reminder, he can visit the self-described "fabulous" Nets paraphernalia collection in his basement.
There, he has game-worn jerseys from Kerry Kittles, Stephon Marbury and Keith Van Horn. He has another with his own name stitched on the back, along with the numeral 1—a gift from the team trainer, he said. One of his most cherished possessions is the game ball from a victory over the Los Angeles Lakers. Capece said the Nets awarded it to him after he harassed the Lakers' Orlando Woolridge into missing four late free throws.
Capece said his mouth sometimes got him into trouble. He cited the game he heckled Darryl Dawkins, then a young center with the Philadelphia 76ers. In hindsight, it probably wasn't the smartest idea to call the 6-foot-11 Dawkins "stupid." The fallout, Capece said, was that Dawkins decided to wait outside the arena for him after the game. The two patched things up when Dawkins joined the Nets in 1982. "He hugged me and he laughed," Capece said.
Like Marbach, Capece said he was paying a small fortune for his seats, and the price had climbed from $40,000 to $60,000—and beyond. When he got his final bill, he recalled a line that a New Jersey politician once gave him: What's the most expensive form of transit in this state? An ego trip.
Capece also struggled with the notion that he would essentially be paying $80,000 to help the Nets move to Brooklyn.
"That seemed stupid to me," he said. "Besides, my wife wanted a new kitchen." |
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