An elegy begins with a lament and I am here, dear friends–garments rended, hair pulled, weeping, gnashing teeth–I am hear to bury a friend, the San Antonio Scorpions. It was a team too young, too laughably silly to be boxed up and shipped off to Las Vegas (if the rumors are to be believed). So as the San Antonio Spurs look to wrap up the Scorpions’ body in a rug while they announce a new USL team, let us take a moment to reflect.
When the San Antonio Scorpions entered the NASL in 2012 it was with fanfare. Here was a team whose profits were given to a charity, a team who came into the league with huge crowds, and a big payroll. They won the regular season title in their first season with an average attendance of 9176, absolutely blowing the rest of the league out of the water.
But I come to bury the San Antonio Scorpions, not to praise them. The bright beauty of that inaugural season was quickly dimmed by a club run so remarkably poorly I think stories will be slipping out for years and years to come. Let me take a quick tour of the tire fire.
In that debut season, the Scorpions were leading Minnesota Stars FC in the playoffs when their star player and Golden Boot winner, Pablo Campos, suddenly headbutted Stars’ captain Kyle Altman. A red card and then a collapse: it was a prescient unmasking.
The next season, when Campos returned to San Antonio (having signed for the now-Minnesota United FC) he wound up Scorpions captain Kevin Harmse. The captain punched Campos in the groin and then in the tunnel he punched Minnesota’s trainer Tom Smith. Harmse was suspended six games and never played for San Antonio (or for anyone) after that.
Then the team really came into its own. In its first years, it reported making a profit (a lower-division club making a profit!?). And then president Michael Hitchcock left the club–the details around all of this are hidden in shadow and whisper. His replacement, Howard Cornfield, I consider to be the Andy Kaufman of American soccer. He is a goddamned performance artist.
In 2014, the Scorpions announced that they traded hotel and transportation accommodations from Crockett Hotel and Shark Limo (what could be more San Antonian?) for Walter Restrepo. Rather than simply saying “the terms of the deal were not disclosed,” they let this slip. In Grant Wahl’s piece on the news, Howard Cornfield said “But I’m a believer that no publicity is bad publicity,” Cornfield said, “unless somebody gets murdered or something.” The man is a poet.
But the pinnacle, Howard Cornfield’s pièce de résistance was Sting. Now, I owe a lot to Sting since writing about him opened a lot of doors for me. If you don’t know Sting, go click on that link. Sting’s unveiling involved teaser photos of Cornfield riding an egg, a military vehicle driving onto the pitch at halftime, and a spectacularly turd-like costume. I hope it doesn’t come off as insincere to say that there is no parallel to the pure, stupid joy of watching and rewatching the silent movie of Sting’s unveiling. This is what magic feels like, I think.
EDIT: I completely forgot the time when Howard Cornfield met the Scorpions at the airport so he couldpublicly fire Alen Marcina at the baggage claim. God, how could I forget?!
ADDITIONAL EDIT: The hits just keep coming. I was also reminded of the fantastic time that Howard Cornfield tried to stoke the RIVALRY flames with Minnesota by accusing United President, Nick Rogers, of besmirching the honor of San Antonio. This led to Rogers offering a signed jersey to anyone who had evidence of such an honor-sullying on his part. The jersey has still not been claimed.
Oh sure, the Scorpions think I’m obsessed with them. But I think I’m just the only one who gets it. Everyone else thought that they were a soccer team. Only I know the truth. Only I appreciate their true brilliance.
I will miss you, San Antonio Scorpions. Yours was a unique brand of gaudy circus. I will miss watching a game in your stadium and having the in-stadium tv host come over the loud speaker and video screen to make sponsor announcements and give away prizes. I will miss the stunning amounts of homophobia hurled at the pitch. I will miss drunken fans berating my family as we talk to players.
Good night, sweet prince. You go to a better place, the Great Tire Fire in the Sky.
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