| | | The town of Halfway, Ore., sold its name to Half.com. Mark Cuban offered a Chicago radio host $100,000 to change his name to Dallas Maverick for a year; it was
an offer the host could refuse. Invesco gobbled up Mile High Stadium in yet another corporate naming-rights deal. All of which gave me a brilliant idea: Why not
become the first journalist to sell my personal naming rights to the highest bidder.
|  | | Darren Rovell has the form all ready for his name change -- all he needs is a sponsor. |
In need of a road map, I talked to Dot Com Guy, formerly Mitch Maddox of Dallas, who changed his name as part of a yearlong project in which he basically functioned off the Internet. He assured me that changing my name would be a piece of cake.
Next stop: the probate court on the third floor of the City Hall in gorgeous downtown Bristol, Conn., where Teresa handed me two applications, told me that
someone at the City Hall would have to witness my signature and that I'd have to pay a $150 fee.
"That's it?" I said.
Well, yes, she explained -- as long as I wasn't "fleeing from debt" or attempting to pose as someone else and I didn't have a criminal record, my name could be changed in less than a month.
Hey, I thought, they're giving money away here! I'm ready to sell my naming rights right now! But then I realized that before you can sell something, you have to find out how much it is worth.
Eric Wright of Joyce Julius & Associates, a brand evaluation company, told me that the exposure from my name appearing on the Internet, on television and on radio was worth approximately $63,800 a month. Substitute a corporate name for "Darren Rovell" -- and, voila!, you have a money-churning machine worth $762,000 a year.
"By the way, you want to ask for a million," advised sports agent David Canter, whose company represents, among others, Redskins running back Stephen Davis and Colts linebacker Mike Peterson. "We can put together a nice portfolio. We'll have color pictures and polls that show your recognition rate. But I'd be a little concerned about backlash. Do you really want to be the first sports journalist to sell his naming rights?"
I convinced him the positives would outweigh the negatives. He threw out a couple of names -- he advocated trying a big company first and then a smaller brand name like Boca Burger (their motto: "You won't believe it's meatless") or the beverage company Sobe. "And one more thing," he said. "Make sure you get a two-year deal." Since Canter was in Hawaii for the Pro Bowl, I had to go into negotiations by myself. Don't worry, folks, 'cuz I got game.
First, I called Federal Express. You might have heard of it, that shipping company that ponied up $205 million for the naming rights to the Redskins' stadium. I asked FedEx spokesman Jim McClusky if he'd be interested in buying my naming rights. Keep in mind, now, I'm thinking $2 million for two years -- less than 1 percent of the Redskins' deal.
"I don't think we're interested in putting our name on a town or a person," he said. A bit peeved at his lack of vision, I told him I was just going to go ahead and name myself FedEx anyway. He didn't seem to like that idea. "We would have to consider legal issues involved there," McClusky responded. "We have a strong brand name and we obviously want to protect it."
This thing was not turning out to be as easy as I expected.
Next, I dialed up Boca Burger, now a division of Kraft, but I had second thoughts during the interminable wait to hear an actual human voice. To tell you the truth, the idea of my last name being Burger (no offense to all you other Burgers and Bergers out there) kind of disgusted me, and I really don't even enjoy eating them. Despite this, sports advertising guru Bob Williams had pushed me to make the call. "Like Tiger really cares about Buick," he pointed out.
So, I put Boca on hold. I had an idea. I'm not a fan of the Dallas Mavericks, but I might be able to deal with being called Dallas Maverick for a couple of years. I e-mailed Mavericks owner Mark Cuban. Cuban laid down the law right away.
"I mean if the Mavs have an exclusive with Coke, could you deal with not drinking Pepsi?," Cuban e-mailed me back. "If one of our clothing sponsors names a bunch of underwear vendors as competitors, and you can't wear your tighty whities, could you hang with that?" Don't drink Pepsi anyway, but have to wear the Jockeys. Sorry, can't risk that, Mark.
I call Boca Burger back. I left a message. Not returned. Damn, I wish I was a corporate-free stadium just waiting to collect the prize. Why can't I just be Oriole Park
at Camden Yards or The Ballpark at Arlington?
When I finally got through to Mike Joyce, advertising director for Sobe, a Connecticut-based sports drink company that sponsors John Daly, I told him what I
was really worth, at least according to Joyce Julius (no relation to Joyce Julius & Associates' founder, but if Mike married Joyce she'd be Joyce Joyce). Silence.
"I'll be willing to compromise," I mumbled.
"I'll give you three cases a month," he said. I told him that we should probably find a middle ground. "Fine," he said, "five cases a month for two years." I did the calculations: $2.50 a drink, 24 cans in a case, 120 cases for two years = $7,200.
Um, I'm thinking the relationship with my parents is probably worth more than that. I'd call to check, though. "Do you know how long your father and I thought about your name?" Mom said. "There's probably a reason why we never thought of calling you Sobe."
At least I tried.
Darren Rovell, ESPN.com's sports business reporter, can be reached at darren.rovell@espn.com. You can try sobe@espn.com, but it won't work.
|
|
|
