Here’s Life Under the Sweet Sail of Success

San Diego doesn’t care about America’s Cup.

That’s what I hear and read.

Every time I turn a page I read that the economic impact is not going to be $1 billion, however that was figured, but rather as low as $430 million, however that is figured.

So not too many dry cleaners have gotten any business laundering spinnakers and gennakers.

How about gauging the entertainment value to the community?

That, too, is a tough one. It is not an event conducive to collective excitement. Spectators lucky enough to be on the water can’t tell exactly what is happening. Nor can those gathered at the Cabrillo Monument. You watch at home and maybe call your neighbor at a particularly dramatic mark rounding.

I tried another venue Sunday for Race 2 between Il Moro di Venezia and

America 3. . . the America’s Cup Pavilion down by the train station.

This was not exactly San Diego Jack Murphy Stadium, but this was as good as it could get if it could get any good at all.

A restaurant chain which celebrates the existence of Friday on a daily basis put a huge tent in a parking lot and went into business. And business was brisk as I arrived about an hour before the race was to begin.

A spinnaker from Stars & Stripes, being of no use for anything else, stretched from one wall to The Big Top’s top and covered the bar area. When the event is over, I presume it will be willed to the Padres as an infield cover.

Strategically-placed televisions were all ablast with the NBA playoff game between the Boston Celtics and Cleveland Cavaliers. This, as it turned out, was developing into one heck of a basketball game.

At noon, the witching hour when the America’s Cup coverage was to start, I looked for a moment of truth. The televisions would either stay with the basketball game, which had gone into overtime, or switch to the coverage of a Cup race still 30 minutes from starting.

They switch away from this game, I mused, and they will tear this tent down.

They switched.

I groaned.

The crowd cheered.

My jaw dropped. Pleeeeze, no one tell the NBA.

These people were into this sailing stuff. You know they weren’t members of some yacht club, or they would have been watching a large screen with table cloths and crystal.

These folks were drinking New Zealand beer out of bottles the size of bowling pins at a cost of $5.25 each. They weren’t white collar and they weren’t blue collar. They were of all races. They were a cross section of the populace. I didn’t see a wine list.

During the pre-start maneuvering, an exercise understood by one in a million, they watched intently. They were probably thinking this was the only time they would see both boats on the screen at the same time.

There was more hustle and bustle, mainly a scramble for a place to sit, once the race got underway. I kept thinking these people could be at home where a six-pack of expensive beer would check in at $5.25 . . . or a 12-pack of the kind of stuff I drink.

It became obvious very early that these people were there to watch the race and, whatever it presented them, share it with more than a coffee table. Perhaps they were thinking of almost any Holiday Bowl or the old Chargers with those 41-38 games and assuming anything involving San Diego takes on an electricity of its own.

Half the room exploded when Il Moro slam dunked America 3 on the first leg.

Another half of the room exploded as A3 nuzzled close to Il Moro’s back bumper on the first downwind leg. That same half of the room groaned as A3’s sail handling fell apart and it slipped to 32 seconds in arears by the mark.

Mind you, this room was not divided like a wedding chapel might be. It was at times hard to discern which was the favored team. This caused me to wet a finger and stick it in the air and determine support was evenly split.

For example, one group of young men wearing America 3 T-shirts was cheering vigorously for Il Moro. Another couple adorned with the Il Moro lion was rooting just as enthusiastically for A3.

You couldn’t tell the rooters with a program.

This was reminiscent of those raucous scenes from 1987 in Fremantle, where the multitudes gathered to party and share the event. San Diego, dwarfing Fremantle as it does, is simply not as conducive to such centralized shenanigans.

And this crowd was getting more and more frenzied as the race continued. One of the loudest reactions of the day came on the seventh leg, when ESPN cut to a commercial during an intense tacking duel between the leading Il Moro and the chasing A3. This tent contained unhappy campers at that point.

And then came that last downwind leg. Those who had seats, and that, too, was probably 50-50, edged off of them.

“I can’t believe I’m part of this,” said Mary from Chicago. “My heart won’t stop beating.”

The collective hearts of these fans almost blew the roof off the place when the boats finished as close as Siamese twins. After all, everyone’s favorites had to have won. It sure didn’t look like anyone had lost.

Just imagine what the din would have been like of 60,000 persons watched a finish such as this in a stadium.

The nature of sailing being what it is, this would have to do.

And it did just fine.

Forget the Cavs and Celts.