In many ways, the stadium was emblematic of the ways the City of Seattle had neglected the south end. This “upheaval” was directly related to the racist policies of redlining that were slicing up the city and the unwillingness of banks to invest in the community. People of color were limited in where they could rent, buy and live.



Funding for big projects also wasn’t being allocated evenly; both the city and the business community had allowed the wealth and racial gaps to be more pronounced than ever.

Lawmakers, including Mayor Wes Uhlman, who was also running for governor at the time, were being forced to confront the ways that discrimination and inequitable policies were shaping the area. A report issued in 1976 by the task force to investigate the City’s housing and lending policies found that many of the “problem” neighborhoods were in disrepair — abandoned buildings, empty lots, and overgrown open spaces — in part because of “policies such as land acquisition for the freeway.”

Though it’s difficult to imagine Seattle without it, the construction of I-5 changed the topography and the neighborhoods dramatically. In anticipation of the construction of the freeway, the City had acquired a number of properties. Once the freeway was completed, those properties stood unused — some remain untended parcels to this day. Those lots, where houses and businesses once stood, became eyesores.

The architectural report about Sicks’ stated that Rainier Valley was “badly in need of a better image,” and Sicks’ was “an important visual and psychological landmark.” It was an opportunity to do something different.

City leaders needed to show a substantial investment in the South End to demonstrate their commitment to equity, but they also needed to make a financial decision that they could justify. And since the Kingdome was now officially the home of the Seattle Mariners, renovating Sicks’ just didn’t make sense. They could use the stadium itself and use the money from the sale to pay off Sicks’ old debts, of which there were quite a few, effectively washing their hands of the affair altogether.

A report from the Sicks’ Stadium Task Force, convened in 1977 by Uhlman and including future Mayor Norm Rice, found that the spot, if sold, could be used for any number of purposes. Those potential purposes included a new arts center, a mixed-use development, or possibly an educational facility. It could be an opportunity to curb the decades-long practice of disinvestment in the south end.

There were plenty of proposals to choose from. The United Indians of All Tribes Foundation wanted to create the Tahoma Park and Trade Center, a mixed-use hub that would have included arts and cultural spaces as well as commercial retail of indigenous goods. The Task Force report agreed that the public was much more enthusiastic about a community space rather than a private one; the authors cite minutes from the Mt. Baker Community Club that “strongly suggest” a desire to keep the site active.

But at the time, the City of Seattle had no Race and Social Justice lens to apply to the bidding process, nor did they have any formal considerations about racial equity when it came to deals of magnitude. There was no special consideration given to projects that would help create a more equitable Seattle.

There was, however, a group of individuals who decided what was and was not a landmark. Founded in 1973, the Office of Historic Preservation — now called the Landmark Preservation Board — was given the specific task of identifying which buildings were worth saving and how to allocate public dollars to make it happen. However, the board was homogeneous — mostly white, mostly men, and mostly people interested in preserving neighborhoods like Pioneer Square. A baseball stadium in the South End had little to do with their work and, looking through the City’s archival files, it appears as though historic preservation was never even considered for the ballpark.

Birds near the site of the former Sicks' Stadium. (Jovelle Tamayo for Crosscut)

As a result, the City Council and Mayor Uhlman were free to choose the most economically-minded option — selling the site to the highest bidder and letting them figure out the rest.

In 1978, the stadium was sold to someone who, perhaps, could keep the dream alive. The owner of a minor league team called the Vancouver Canadians (now the Sacramento River Cats) purchased the building itself — but not the land —for $60,000. However, he wasn’t trying to be the next Emil Sick; instead, he parted out the stadium for his own team’s new arena and sold off anything he couldn’t use. By 1979, the stadium was gone entirely.

It didn’t become a recreational area. It didn’t become a home for indigenous artists and traders. It didn’t become a green space for soccer or gymnastics. It didn’t become a community center.

Instead, after years of hand-wringing and proposals, Sicks’ Stadium became a vacant lot. The city retained the property, itself, for years; just another derelict plot in South Seattle. It was classified as a landfill by the City of Seattle in 1984, though it wasn’t considered dangerous enough to merit action.

And then in 1998, it became a hardware store with plenty of parking. The store, called Eagle Hardware, spent years using current and former Seattle Mariners to advertise. Seattle’s ‘90s kids probably remember Randy “the Big Unit” Johnson riding a lawnmower through the aisles.

The decision to sell and ultimately tear down Sicks’ was not malicious, though it’s easy to see it that way through the modern lens of preservation, historical significance and social justice. Demolishing the park made all the financial sense in the world at the time, and having this sub-par stadium made Seattle look like a minor league city at a time when all anyone wanted was to get called up to the majors.

It’s also something of a cautionary tale, or at least worth examining. King County has given $135M to the Mariners for maintenance of Safeco Field and just yesterday, the Seattle City Council approved $700M for the renovation of Key Arena. Advocates of affordable housing keep asking whether taxpayer money is best spent on stadiums. Time and again, research has shown that it’s not — but our history here in town also shows that sleeping on upgrades can lead to much larger problems down the line.

The relative obscurity that Sicks’ fell into after the fact is also notable, especially in a town that loves to commemorate the things that matter to us by etching them in stone or casting them in bronze. Now, aside from the occasional well-researched eulogy, the history of the Seattle Pilots and the little field of dreams where they played is relegated almost entirely to the purview of somewhat annual reminders on Reddit or historic softball photo galleries.

And of course, there’s that sign.