A Ballclub By Any Other Name Bob's Backstop for January 6, 2005

In the book and film versions of Ian Fleming's James Bond novel, On Her Majesty's Secret Service, Bond's arch-enemy Ernst Stavros Blofeld is threatening the world with a vitus omega, a bacterial infestation that would wipe out entire strains of plant and animal life. When Bond's superior, M, is briefing Bond on Blofeld's demands, he remarks that in addition to amnesty, a pardon for all past crimes, Blofeld is insisting on recognition of being a member of a royal house, with his claim to the current counthood of the de Blauchamp ("French for Blofeld") family to be recognized.

"He seems to hold great store by that," noted M. With a wry aside as he filled his pipe, he added, "Curious thing, snobbery."

Curious, indeed.

When I moved to an outlying area of Howard County some ten years ago, I had an Ellicott City address, same as I had previously, though I was now living in much more rural area. Where before I had been able to jog through the quaint shops of downtown EC, I was now most often accompanied by barking dogs on my morning runs, with occasional spotting of deer and raccoons replacing Beemers and bicyclists along the way.

I was happy in my life there, however. I've lived in both inner cities with the parking and crime problems juxtaposed with the neighborhood restaurants and more eclectic living, as well as in rural settings with no culture, but trees, animals, quiet, and big yards and blue skies. I see advantages to both. So my mailing address really didn't matter that much to me as far as making a statement about who I was.

It did to my neighbors, though. At one point, it was brought up in the county council that our area should be moved to the Clarksville post office, which was actually much closer/accessible to us. The hue and cry could be heard over glen and dale.

"We've always been Ellicott City. Why, Clarksville is nothing at all, just a strip shopping center, a hardware store in an old quonset hut, a gas station, a car dealership, a school, and the post office. It's true that the Mexican restaurant is really good, but, really...we don't want to have Clarksville as an address."

Whatever it took, the locals managed. Manor Lane remained an enclave of Ellicott City.

Then Columbia came to Clarksville. As it turned out, the area just east of Clarksville proper, to be called River Hill, was designated as the last "village community" to be built in the planned middle-upper-middle-class-all-our-signs-are-on-street-level-and-everything-is-homogenized haven of Columbia, Maryland (Our Motto: "Just Try and Find Something. We Dare You.") Soon, half-million dollar homes were popping up everywhere, seemingly overnight. A large shopping center was built. Clarksville now had Starbucks, Bagel Bin, the biggest Giant Food store in the chain, a McDonald's, a Wendy's, Jiffy Lube, a florist, and their own organic food store. Churches that had been semi-comatose for years were now putting on additions. A new high school was built. River Hill became the Place to Be.The residents there were given Clarksville mailing addresses.

Eventually, Columbia offered to add River Hill to their postal destinations. Guess what? The good people of River Hill declined. They wanted to stay as Clarksville. Why? Because Clarksville was now an address with cache.

In five years, Clarksville went from The Address No One Wanted to The Address Everyone Wanted.

Curious thing, snobbery.

We've been fighting our own inferiority/identity issue here in Baltimore for many years after EBW took the "Baltimore" off of the Orioles' jerseys and advertising and even the team's official name, leaving them as just "The Orioles." Though promoted as a marketing ploy, Baltimorians saw this as what it was, a marketing ploy combined with an attempt to identify the team not so much with the crumbling crime-infested tax burden that was Charm City, but instead with the suburban sprawl and values of the outlying Metro region.

Now Orange County is faced with the same issues, as Arte Moreno, the owner of the Anaheim Angels, seems hellbent to leave the "Anaheim" moniker behind, replacing it with a more urban "Los Angeles" nameplate. This doesn't go over well with the three million folks who live in Orange County, who see themselves portrayed as suburban rubes surrounded by Disneyland and strip malls instead of Hollywood and Rodeo Drive.

"We want to show a bigger reach in the marketplace," said Tim Mead, vice president of communications for the Angels. "The Angels will remain in Anaheim. The only thing that is damaged here is civic pride."

Tim, what you and the other dufuses running the Angels don't realize is that this is the same as saying to a local group over the closing of a store that's a community icon, "Well, the store will still be there. It just won't be open."

Orange County has an inferiority complex. The Angels want to take Anaheim off their name. The Dodgers, who otherwise appear to be a shambles this off-season, are already making hay at the Angels' expense. "Regardless of any attempt at a public relations or marketing spin, true Angelenos know there is only one baseball team in Los Angeles, and that is the Dodgers." Even the LA City Council is speaking out: "They walked away from Los Angeles when they went to Anaheim," said Alex Padilla, president of the Los Angeles City Council. "Now they want to come back and take advantage of us. They've done nothing to earn our good name."

When you make a move that results in an L.A. politician making himself and L.A. in general look good at your expense, you're probably making a bad move. But the Angels' brass seems to be oblivious to this in their ardor to rid themselves of what they seem to consider a marketing albatross, namely actually using the name of where they play as the name of their team.

Curious thing, snobbery. Indeed.