My beloved Oakland A's play tonight in the AL Wild Card game, and you're sentenced to the chronology.

It might last only one night, so ...

These days I try to keep to a bare minimum the sheer wastage of time required of sports viewing. Cutting the cable has helped, and reducing the frequency of the games I do watch makes these fewer opportunities better ones, as in 2018 when we watched basketball in Portugal, Poland and Germany, as well as two baseball games in Baltimore.

I still enjoy the essence of the games, especially baseball, and regular readers know that I've been a fan of the Oakland Athletics since around 1970, when I was 10 years old. Below you'll find the explanation of how my A's fandom came to be, but first, Oakland hosts Tampa Bay on Wednesday in the American League Wild Card playoff game.

The starting pitcher for the A's is Sean Manaea, who pitched a no-hitter for the A's in 2018. Manaea, whose father is Samoan, was born and raised in Wanatah, Indiana (near Valparaiso). He played baseball at Indiana State, and during the summer following his sophomore year in college, pitched for the Dubois County Bombers.

The Dubois County Bombers are a summer college league team in Huntingburg, and the team's home park is the refashioned film set from the movie A League of Their Own. Manaea played in Huntingburg in 2011, during the period when the New Albanian Brewing Company was selling beer at the ballpark!

What's more, as my friend Rick reminds me, Manaea's battery mate tonight also is a Hoosier. Catcher Josh Phegley is from Terre Haute and played at Indiana University (he's a 2010 IU graduate).

And so, if you're wondering how a Hoosier hick from the general vicinity of French Lick became an A's fan in the first place, here's a column from 2012, edited and updated for topical accuracy.

---

ON THE AVENUES: It no longer keeps me waiting.

At some point around 1970, when I was ten years old, family finances were at last sufficient to purchase a subscription to the recognized Bible of athletic endeavors in America, enabling the weekly arrival of The Sporting News to our home in Georgetown, as facilitated by that quaintly geriatric institution known as the US Mail.

It was a cause for great joy.

It also signified a certain rite of passage, although the rite’s precise definition proved to be a matter of mild dispute. While my father generally would leaf through an issue, he surely hoped The Sporting News would inspire me to spend more time practicing baseball and basketball, so as to achieve his cherished goal of his son growing into a ballplayer.

As usual, we were on divergent paths. What quickly came to interest me as much as the games and athletes therein was the publication itself, the way The Sporting News was organized into recurring coverage and special features. Moreover, I read above my weight and was drawn to the regular columnists, who had their own distinct styles.

Unless one of these writers happened to be interviewed on the NBC Game of the Week (that’s right, the solitary baseball game shown on television every seventh day), I had no idea how they spoke, but owing to the way their written words were conveyed, distinctive vocal inflections and regional accents might yet be perceived. The New York writers sounded exactly as one might imagine, as did the fellow from Alabama.

Most importantly, The Sporting News was just about the only way for sports fans in the hinterlands to comprehensively follow America’s major league teams, which amounted to baseball, basketball, football and ice hockey, in order of my personal interest at the time.

Sports Illustrated? Too many photos, and too few statistics.

The two (that’s right, two) Louisville newspapers covered the Cincinnati Reds on a daily basis during the season, and provided random highlights from elsewhere in baseball, but where else than The Sporting News to read the beat writers, review the box scores and scan updated statistics?

In addition, the invaluable presence of The Sporting News helped me transcend the limited boundaries of my upbringing and arrive at one of the single most telling decisions any boy of the era was compelled to make.

What’s your favorite baseball team?

In elementary school, all my friends cheered for teams from the senior circuit, otherwise known as the National League. It was purely geographical, with the nearby Reds ranking first in allegiance, along with a sprinkling of St. Louis Cardinals fans.

The American League was an under-valued stock, ripe for the plucking, and perfect to capture a fledgling contrarian’s attention. Owing to family ties in Detroit -- and especially after his idol Ted Williams retired from the Red Sox -- my father was a Tigers fan of sorts. I resolved to follow suit, and to choose my team from the “other” league. With the assistance of The Sporting News, considerations commenced.

The damned Yankees could be ruled out from the start. I admired the traditions of teams like the Red Sox, Orioles, Senators, White Sox, Indians and Tigers, but overall, they seemed too stodgy and old-school. What on earth was a Twin, if not a truncated Twinkie? The expansion Kansas City Royals made my short list, and the Milwaukee Brewers (formerly Seattle Pilots) surely would have been a finalist a bit later in life ... but in the 4th grade, I hadn’t started drinking beer (yet).

My gaze extended to the West Coast. As a heretic even then, the name Angels did not excite me; had it been the Devils, we might have been in business. This left Oakland as the final team to be scrutinized, and the advantages of the Athletics soon became apparent to an aspiring contrarian.

• American League, not National League.
• As far away from Georgetown as a team could be.
• Long and noble history as a franchise, first in Philadelphia, then Kansas City.
• An outspoken, lunatic owner in Charlie Finley.
• Players clad in green and gold – fashionable, and also the colors of Floyd Central High School, which I’d be attending in due course.

The A’s became my team, and Reggie Jackson my favorite player. Unbeknownst to me, the A’s also were about to become quite good, winning five divisional titles in a row from 1971-1975, and three consecutive World Series crowns in 1972, 1973 and 1974. The players grew outlandish mustaches and beards during this period and wore white shoes, all of which outraged the older generation, endearing the team to me even more strongly.

There have been good times since, along with the wretched. By my reckoning, 2019 is my 50th year of being an A’s fan. The team is closer than ever to a new stadium in Oakland, a city deserted by the Golden State Warriors (to San Francisco) and the Vegas-bound Raiders. I reckon on remaining in harness. By now, it’s a family tradition.

---

In those earliest days, The Sporting News was my vital link to the Oakland A’s. It served as a weekly summary of the team’s season, because otherwise, virtual blackout conditions prevailed. Games played in California missed the morning Courier-Journal’s deadline, and might be in the afternoon edition of the Louisville Times.

If neither, I’d be two days behind on the scores. The three local commercial television channels sometimes read American League scores if air time allowed; presumably, a coin was flipped to determine the decision.

If the A’s played in Chicago or Detroit, game snippets could be overheard on the 50,000 watt AM radio stations, at least until overtaken by sleep or static. By 1978, the AM station in Jeffersonville had a phone number to call for tape-recorded results of the previous day's games, and it was the most timely link ever.

A few years after that, there was cable television, but only in the city at first. When the Loma Prieta earthquake brought the 1989 World Series to a halt, I was in Ireland. It took ten days for the series (won by the A's over the Giants in a sweep) to resume, and by that time, I'd transitioned to Spain, eventually catching up on events with the help of the International Herald Tribune newspaper.

These days, I begin most mornings with a glance at the news headlines from The Guardian and BBC World service, then proceed to ESPN or the Yahoo sports app for scores, all via my iPhone. In mere seconds, the ballgame scan is finished, verifying that the ketchup advertisements and even Carly Simon turned out to have been wrong: Anticipation, at least in the sporting sense, no longer exists.

It's far better, although it's not quite the same.

ON THE AVENUES: After 49 years, two more reasons to be an Oakland A's fan.

ON THE AVENUES: After 49 years, two more reasons to be an Oakland A's fan.

A weekly column by Roger A. Baylor.

If we're fortunate, there'll be a couple of beautiful days before the hurricane, so let's watch two.

Baltimore Orioles vs. Oakland Athletics, at Oriole Park at Camden Yards, September 11, 2018 Matchups, Preview

Baltimore Orioles vs. Oakland Athletics, at Oriole Park at Camden Yards, September 12, 2018 Matchups, Preview

The East Coast likely will be inundated by bad weather as the week concludes, but what can a poor boy do 'cept score some cheap seats on Southwest and take his wife to the yard - Camden Yards, to be exact, for Tuesday and Wednesday evening games between the surprisingly successful A's and a woebegone Orioles squad on the rebuild.

After all, it was her idea. That's why we fit.

As for Baltimore's catastrophic season, I refuse to gloat. Jeeebus knows Oakland has been there, too. When we made these travel plans, there was little sign of the A's surging to a probable play-in slot, which has occurred with more wounded starting pitchers in hospital than tropical IPAs on tap at the neighborhood barber shop.

If you're wondering how a Hoosier hick from the general vicinity of French Lick became an A's fan in the first place, here's a column from September 8, 2016.

ON THE AVENUES: It no longer keeps me waiting.

A weekly column by Roger A. Baylor.

At some point around 1970, when I was ten years old, family finances were at last sufficient to purchase a subscription to the recognized Bible of athletic endeavors in America, and the weekly arrival of The Sporting News to our home in Georgetown, as facilitated by that quaintly geriatric institution known as the US Mail, was a cause for great joy.

It also signified a certain rite of passage, although the rite’s precise definition proved to be a matter of mild dispute. While my father generally would leaf through an issue, he surely was hoping The Sporting News would inspire me to spend more time practicing baseball and basketball, so as to achieve his cherished goal of his son growing into a ballplayer.

As usual, we were on divergent paths. What quickly came to interest me as much as the games and athletes therein was the publication itself, the way The Sporting News was organized into recurring coverage and special features. Moreover, I was drawn to the regular columnists, who had their own distinct styles.

Unless one of these writers happened to be interviewed on the NBC Game of the Week (that’s right, the solitary baseball game shown on television every seventh day), I had no idea how they spoke, but owing to the way their written words were conveyed, distinctive vocal inflections and regional accents might yet be perceived. The New York writers sounded exactly as one might imagine, as did the fellow from Alabama.

Most importantly, The Sporting News was just about the only way for sports fans in the hinterlands to comprehensively follow America’s major league teams, which amounted to baseball, basketball, football and ice hockey, in order of my personal interest at the time.

Sports Illustrated? Too many photos, and too few statistics.

The two (that’s right, two) Louisville newspapers covered the Cincinnati Reds on a daily basis during the season, and provided random highlights from elsewhere in baseball, but where else to read the beat writers, review the box scores and scan updated statistics than The Sporting News?

In addition, the invaluable presence of The Sporting News helped me transcend the limited boundaries of my upbringing and arrive at one of the single most telling decisions any boy of the era was compelled to make.

What’s your favorite baseball team, eh?

---

In elementary school, all my friends cheered for teams from the senior circuit, otherwise known as the National League. It was purely geographical, with the nearby Reds ranking first in allegiance, along with a sprinkling of St. Louis Cardinals fans.

The American League was an under-valued stock, ripe for the plucking, and perfect to capture a fledgling contrarian’s attention. Owing to family ties in Detroit – and especially after his idol Ted Williams retired from the Red Sox – my father was a Tigers fan of sorts. I resolved to follow suit, and to choose my team from the “other” league. With the assistance of The Sporting News, considerations commenced.

The damned Yankees could be ruled out from the start. I admired the traditions of teams like the Red Sox, Orioles, Senators, White Sox, Indians and Tigers, but overall, they seemed too stodgy and old-school. What on earth was a Twin, if not a truncated Twinkie? The expansion Kansas City Royals made my short list, and the Milwaukee Brewers (formerly Seattle Pilots) surely would have been a finalist a bit later in life ... but in the 4th grade, even I hadn’t started drinking (yet).

My gaze extended to the West Coast. Heretical even then, the name Angels did not excite me; had it been the Devils, we may have been in business. This left the Oakland as the final team to be scrutinized, and the advantages of the Athletics soon became apparent.

• American League, not National League.
• As far away from Indiana as a team could be.
• Long and noble history as a franchise, first in Philadelphia, then Kansas City.
• An outspoken, lunatic owner in Charlie Finley.
• Players clad in green and gold – fashionable, and also the colors of Floyd Central High School, which I’d be attending in due course.

The A’s became my team, and Reggie Jackson my favorite player. Unbeknownst to me, the A’s also were about to become quite good, winning five divisional titles in a row from 1971-1975, and three consecutive World Series crowns in 1972, 1973 and 1974. The players grew outlandish mustaches and beards during this period and wore white shoes, all of which outraged the older generation, endearing the team to me even more strongly.

By my reckoning, 2018 is my 49th year of being an A’s fan. The team may someday be located in San Jose, but I reckon on remaining in harness. By now, it’s a family tradition.

---

In those earliest days, The Sporting News was my vital link to the Oakland A’s. It served as a weekly summary of the team’s season, because otherwise, virtual blackout conditions prevailed. Games played in California missed the morning Courier-Journal’s deadline, and might be in the afternoon edition of the Louisville Times.

If neither, I’d be two days behind on scores. The three local commercial television channels might read American League scores if time allowed; presumably, a coin was flipped to determine the decision.

If the A’s played in Chicago or Detroit, game snippets could be overheard on the 50,000 watt AM radio stations, at least until overtaken by sleep or static. By 1978, the AM station in Jeffersonville had a phone number to call for tape-recorded results, and it was the most timely link ever.

A few years after that, there was cable television, but only in the city at first. When the Loma Prieta earthquake brought the 1989 World Series to a halt, I was in Ireland. It took ten days for the series (won by the A's over the San Francisco Giants in a sweep) to resume, and by that time, I'd transitioned to Spain, eventually catching up on events with the help of the International Herald Tribune newspaper.

These days, I begin most mornings with a glance at the headlines from the New York Times and BBC World Service, and then proceed to ESPN for scores – all by means of apps on my iPhone. In mere seconds, it is finished, verifying that the ketchup advertisements and even Carly Simon turn out to have been wrong: Anticipation, at least in the sporting sense, no longer exists.

Does The Sporting News have an app?

(Originally published in 2012; only time-sensitive changes have been made)

---

Recent columns:

September 9: ON THE AVENUES: May, Kennedy, wigs and prayers, but where's the delightful infidel gardening column?

August 30: ON THE AVENUES: From Baltic to Mediterranean, the diary of an unrepentant New Albanian Europhile.

August 23: ON THE AVENUES: The "downfall" occurs when we all fall down.

August 20: Non-learning curve: This ON THE AVENUES column repeat reveals that since 2011, we've been discussing the safety hazards on Spring Street between 10th and 9th. Too bad City Hall is deaf.

"Remembering Harry Nilsson: American Beatle, filthy drunk, and the great lost music genius of the 1970s."

The video is available at various for-pay portals. It's inexpensive and worth the time. Older readers may recall Harry Nilsson's heyday in the early 1970s. If all this is well before your time, the film may yet have value as documentation of a not-so-quaint era of rock star excess.

A review of the documentary in the New York Times:

In 1968, when asked to name his favorite American rock group, John Lennon replied “Nilsson,” which was of course not a group at all but a Brooklyn-born, Los Angeles-based singer-songwriter named Harry Nilsson.

This is an excellent long read from 2013, although the merit of watching the documentary lies in hearing the songs:

Deconstructing Harry, by Sean Fennessey (Grantland)

Remembering Harry Nilsson: American Beatle, filthy drunk, and the great lost music genius of the 1970s

... In the years before the Lost Weekend and before Pussy Cats, Nilsson established himself as a kind of pop culture Zelig, a figure who was around greatness or creating it on his own, landing in shocking good fortune only to squander it over and again. His drinking is legendary; he soaked himself with the best of rock’s worst drunks. He also possessed one of the purest voices of his generation, and was often described as the most gifted white male singer of his time. It’s hard to overstate its dramatic, breathtaking quality, and at its best, his songwriting. His is a career that feels both forgotten and deeply embedded in modern pop. He sang standards and rock and jazz and winding conceptual songs and tiny little kids’ tunes and commercial jingles. He wrote, voiced, and spearheaded an animated film starring Dustin Hoffman. He played Dracula in a movie. He soundtracked a sitcom and nearly fought Jackie Gleason in a nightclub. He was “the Beatle across the water.” He tore up London bars with Ringo Starr and Keith Moon. He invented the remix album. He also invented the mash-up.5 He dropped acid with Timothy Leary. He sang of moonbeams and fire and coconuts and puppies. He was a prodigious songwriter whose two biggest hits were covers. He made his father’s abandonment the centerpiece of his songwriting, and yet rarely acknowledged its importance publicly. He performed live in concert in his prime exactly zero times. He lobbied for a songwriter named Randy Newman and is responsible for the career of Three Dog Night. He composed scores for Otto Preminger and Robert Altman. He wrote a musical about the Wright brothers. He had no. 1 albums and pop smashes and disastrous failures. He won Grammys. He was hilarious, and such a sad man. His voice can be heard as Jon Voight gets off that bus in New York City in Midnight Cowboy. He sang “You’re breaking my heart, so fuck you” on the follow-up single to his masterpiece breakthrough. He was married three times and had seven kids. He snorted heroin and hitchhiked across America. He was a renaissance man and a get-along guy. A carouser and a crusader. He failed well and succeeded poorly. He did everything before most, and nothing in moderation. His songwriting career began about 50 years ago. It almost ended 40 years ago. He died nearly 20 years ago. But his songs — and that voice — go on and on and on.

ON THE AVENUES: It no longer keeps me waiting.

ON THE AVENUES: It no longer keeps me waiting.

A weekly column by Roger A. Baylor.

At some point around 1970, when I was ten years old, family finances were at last sufficient to purchase a subscription to the recognized Bible of athletic endeavors in America, and the weekly arrival of The Sporting News to our home in Georgetown, as facilitated by that quaintly geriatric institution known as the US Mail, was a cause for great joy.

It also signified a certain rite of passage, although the rite’s precise definition proved to be a matter of mild dispute. While my father generally would leaf through an issue, he surely was hoping The Sporting News would inspire me to spend more time practicing baseball and basketball, so as to achieve his cherished goal of his son growing into a ballplayer.

As usual, we were on divergent paths. What quickly came to interest me as much as the games and athletes therein was the publication itself, the way The Sporting News was organized into recurring coverage and special features. Moreover, I was drawn to the regular columnists, who had their own distinct styles.

Unless one of these writers happened to be interviewed on the NBC Game of the Week (that’s right, the solitary baseball game shown on television every seventh day), I had no idea how they spoke, but owing to the way their written words were conveyed, distinctive vocal inflections and regional accents might yet be perceived. The New York writers sounded exactly as one might imagine, as did the fellow from Alabama.

Most importantly, The Sporting News was just about the only way for sports fans in the hinterlands to comprehensively follow America’s major league teams, which amounted to baseball, basketball, football and ice hockey, in order of my personal interest at the time.

Sports Illustrated? Too many photos, and too few statistics.

The two (that’s right, two) Louisville newspapers covered the Cincinnati Reds on a daily basis during the season, and provided random highlights from elsewhere in baseball, but where else to read the beat writers, review the box scores and scan updated statistics than The Sporting News?

In addition, the invaluable presence of The Sporting News helped me transcend the limited boundaries of my upbringing and arrive at one of the single most telling decisions any boy of the era was compelled to make.

What’s your favorite baseball team, eh?

---

In elementary school, all my friends cheered for teams from the senior circuit, otherwise known as the National League. It was purely geographical, with the nearby Reds ranking first in allegiance, along with a sprinkling of St. Louis Cardinals fans.

The American League was an under-valued stock, ripe for the plucking, and perfect to capture a fledgling contrarian’s attention. Owing to family ties in Detroit – and especially after his idol Ted Williams retired from the Red Sox – my father was a Tigers fan of sorts. I resolved to follow suit, and to choose my team from the “other” league. With the assistance of The Sporting News, considerations commenced.

The damned Yankees could be ruled out from the start. I admired the traditions of teams like the Red Sox, Orioles, Senators, White Sox, Indians and Tigers, but overall, they seemed too stodgy and old-school. What on earth was a Twin, if not a truncated Twinkie? The expansion Kansas City Royals made my short list, and the Milwaukee Brewers (formerly Seattle Pilots) surely would have been a finalist a bit later in life ... but in the 4th grade, even I hadn’t started drinking (yet).

My gaze extended to the West Coast. Heretical even then, the name Angels did not excite me; had it been the Devils, we may have been in business. This left the Oakland as the final team to be scrutinized, and the advantages of the Athletics soon became apparent.

• American League, not National League.
• As far away from Indiana as a team could be.
• Long and noble history as a franchise, first in Philadelphia, then Kansas City.
• An outspoken, lunatic owner in Charlie Finley.
• Players clad in green and gold – fashionable, and also the colors of Floyd Central High School, which I’d be attending in due course.

The A’s became my team, and Reggie Jackson my favorite player. Unbeknownst to me, the A’s also were about to become quite good, winning five divisional titles in a row from 1971-1975, and three consecutive World Series crowns in 1972, 1973 and 1974. The players grew outlandish mustaches and beards during this period and wore white shoes, all of which outraged the older generation, endearing the team to me even more strongly.

By my reckoning, 2016 is my 47th year of being an A’s fan. The team may someday be located in San Jose, but I reckon on remaining in harness. By now, it’s a family tradition.

---

In those earliest days, The Sporting News was my vital link to the Oakland A’s. It served as a weekly summary of the team’s season, because otherwise, virtual blackout conditions prevailed. Games played in California missed the morning Courier-Journal’s deadline, and might be in the afternoon edition of the Louisville Times.

If neither, I’d be two days behind on scores. The three local commercial television channels might read American League scores if time allowed; presumably, a coin was flipped to determine the decision.

If the A’s played in Chicago or Detroit, game snippets could be overheard on the 50,000 watt AM radio stations, at least until overtaken by sleep or static. By 1978, the AM station in Jeffersonville had a phone number to call for tape-recorded results, and it was the most timely link ever.

A few years after that, there was cable television, but only in the city at first. When the Loma Prieta earthquake brought the 1989 World Series to a halt, I was in Ireland. It took ten days for the series (won by the A's over the San Francisco Giants in a sweep) to resume, and by that time, I'd transitioned to Spain, eventually catching up on events with the help of the International Herald Tribune newspaper.

These days, I begin most mornings with a glance at the headlines from the New York Times and BBC World Service, and then proceed to ESPN for scores – all by means of apps on my iPhone. In mere seconds, it is finished, verifying that the ketchup advertisements and even Carly Simon turn out to have been wrong: Anticipation, at least in the sporting sense, no longer exists.

Does The Sporting News have an app?

(Originally published in 2012; a couple of time-sensitive changes were made)

---

September 1: ON THE AVENUES: Complete ventriloquism, or the stagecraft of "throwing" your two-way streets.

August 25: ON THE AVENUES: You won't believe what happens next.

August 18: ON THE AVENUES: There has never been a better time for an Independent Business Alliance in New Albany.

August 11: ON THE AVENUES: DNA, National Main Street, the Four Points, and how it might yet be possible to get this thing right for once.

Hard time: Otherwise known as the era of Louisville's (and New Albany's) suburban errors.

Two articles, different eras, each providing a unique angle of observation.

First, the here and now, with a reaffirmation of urban timelessness. The scene is Charlotte, North Carolina, but as you're reading, ponder the Ohio River Bridges Project and the way this financially onerous slice of "mobility" wrongheadedness represents a veritable coup d'état on behalf of suburban power elites in Indyucky.

Developers look to urban areas, not suburbs, for growth, by Elly Portillo (Charlotte Observer)

 ... Behind the shift are changing demographics and consumer preferences, said Chris Leinberger, a developer and real estate consultant who has worked on projects in Charlotte with well-known developers such as the late Henry Faison.

“We used to think walkable urban use was a niche market,” said Leinberger, who is also a professor at George Washington University. “Now, it is the market.”

Broken Sidewalk thoughtfully provides a companion piece, illustrating Louisville's decision-making "blunders" in the 1960s and 1970s. The important point in this for me is that Southern Indiana's leaders at the time cut their tactics from the same sad cloth. In New Albany, hallowed personages like Garnet Inman, Warren Nash and a whole crop of bankers and civic leaders leveled buildings, paved parking lots, ran interstate-intensity one-way streets through the city, and always sought to keep the undesirables warehoused in controllable areas, apart from the respectable folks.

Why do we venerate and honor these people? Shouldn't they be arraigned and subjected to show trials? After all, today their ilk are the ones we must battle every unresponsive step of the way, seeking to pry slight measures of progress from their cold, clueless, unresponsive hands.

When they pretend to be "democrats" -- well, that's even worse.

Worst: Louisville went crazy with the wrecking ball in the name of “Urban Renewal”

We're still paying the price of poor urban vision from the 1960s and '70s.

[Editor’s Note: Louisville has made some pretty amazing achievements in its first 238 years—but it’s made a few blunders along the way, too. This week, we’re launching a new contributed mini-series documenting eight of the best and eight of the worst decisions, ideas, or projects that have profoundly affected the city. This list is by no means complete—and you may have strong opinions of your own about what should be on the best or worst lists. Share your thoughts in the comments section below. Or check out the complete Best/Worst list here.]

A policy that was intended to improve the quality of life for city-dwellers actually resulted in expediting the social and cultural deterioration of urban Louisville. We’re talking about, of course, the now-infamous urban renewal programs of the mid-20th century.

Large swaths of Louisville’s Downtown were essentially “scrubbed clean” of any existing structures and replaced by acres of asphalt surface parking lots and generic, bland buildings.

The poor were relocated to barracks-style housing west of Ninth Street that lacked any neighborhood appeal and shunned the variety of uses that made cities tick. In case after case, in city after city, these policies of relocation have failed the public good.