Fatigue in the League

Powerhouse nations have powerful sports organizations. Japan. South Korea. Even China. They all boast big-time soccer, baseball or basketball leagues playing to packed houses with national television audiences. What then does the sorry state of pro sports in Indonesia say about the 200 million-strong archipelago? Perhaps more than abandoned building projects or creeping separatism, Indonesia’s National League, a 28-team soccer federation that plays in decrepit stadiums on spotty pitches, is enough to make even the most patriotic pribumi wonder what has gone wrong.

As with so many symbols of the tur-moil in Indonesia, the fate of the country’s soccer league can be traced back to ex-President Suharto, who in 1966 encouraged the military to take command of Indonesia’s sporting life. He believed the armed forces would be the best agent to encourageand coercelocal and foreign businesses to sponsor domestic football. It didn’t work: the National League has degenerated into a private club for retired generals and their cronies.

Most teams are technically owned by local and regional governments. With operating budgets provided primarily by local treasuries, there is little impetus for the generals to run the league as a business. Players’ salaries are generally minimal and ticket prices are cheap (70 to $6), although fans of many teams don’t bother paying when they can climb over fences of poorly secured pitches. But as long as the generals can entertain friends and snack on fried tofu (a spectator favorite) during matches, why should they change anything? Attendance has been flat, from about 700,000 in 1994 to 750,000 today. Longtime sponsor Adidas abandoned the league in 1997.

Mirwan Suwarso has a better idea. The 30-year-old Jakarta native last year became the first private individual to turn a soccer team into a business entity, buying West Java’s Bogor-based Persikabo football club. Suwarso hopes to take the club public in five years, and to recoup his $300,000 investment he plans to introduce a host of promotions and giveaways. NFL-style halftime shows, children’s soccer workshops, a fan club and other off-pitch diversions are part of an effort to make his team a complete entertainment packageand justification for raising ticket prices 300%. Another innovation Suwarso has in mind: season tickets. Amazingly, that would be a first in the National League. “No team has ever made a profit in Indonesian football,” says Suwarso, a soccer fan who didn’t let his enthusiasm for the game wane during his four years at Indiana’s Purdue University. “My whole club is designed to make money.”

He has already sold two of his Indonesian players, to teams in Holland and Britain, and he believes a young Singaporean striker will net him an additional $250,000. To make his plan work, however, he needs to secure the kind of corporate sponsorship one sees around the pitches of the Serie A or Premiership. In Suwarso’s dreams, of course, every player has his chest festooned with logos. So far coffeemaker Torabika and cement manufacturer Indocement have signed on. “We’re changing more than the game,” says Suwarso’s brother and assistant coach Marvin. “We’re hoping to change the culture.”

Changing the game won’t be easy. Disgruntled bureaucrats and retired generals are grumbling about losing what has been a source of prestige for them. Even the players have resisted privatization. Thirteen of Persikabo’s 15 players boycotted the purchase, believing they were going to be traded. Suwarso lost his key men, replacing them with junior-league footballers and foreigners. Two came back and signed multiple-year contracts. It’s hard to argue with Suwarso’s results, however, as attendance so far this season is up 1,000% to about 10,000 per game. And if he succeeds, other Indonesian entrepreneurs will surely be inspired to grab a piece of a market estimated to have a potential yearly revenue of $15 million.

In the meantime, there are downsides to owning a team. For one thing, Suwarso never gets to enjoy home games. On a recent afternoon as Persikabo hosted its Jakarta rival, Suwarso was busy counting spectators and calculating costs. When a loose ball was kicked into the stands and wasn’t returned, Suwarso was out $9. Each fan who clambered over the wall set him back 50. “Every time one of these guys jumps over, I lose,” says Suwarso. Maybe his next innovation should be an electrified fence.