The Human Services Campus, tucked along an arm of the Southern Pacific railway near downtown's warehouse district, seems dreary and unapproachable in name only.
The biggest shelter and assessment tool for homeless in Arizona, a $24 million public-private life raft for those adrift amid a snarl of mental illness, substance abuse and economic wreckage, steadfastly refuses to follow a yellowed, failing script.
It's welcoming. There's new paint and signs of painstaking upkeep. Walls anchor stately portraits linked to the success stories of a chef, a nurse and a man named Clarence -- jailed at 16, a crack addict for two decades, who now works inside the fences that equipped him for his escape from the streets.
In a makeshift park in the middle of the 13-acre facility, a woman curls up with a book while another strums a guitar. A colorful basketball court, partly born from the support of late boxing legend Muhammad Ali and dedicated as Italian opera star Andrea Bocelli belted out "Ave Maria," sits just to the east.
Quietly and thoughtfully, Peter Seidler scanned it all.
The managing partner of the Padres and founder of the investment firm Seidler Equity Partners eyeballed a kind, common-sense world with an on-site dentist, job training service, I.D. processing office and even a "homeless court" manned by city judges who mop up misdemeanor offenses.
The scene furnished a visual roadmap to Seidler, along with proof of what's possible when a societal problem tests human decency and threatens to choke a system. All that warmth and life-altering will, sprinkled among some discarded cigarette butts, within the distance of a healthy throw on a baseball field.
"I've banned, in my conversations anyway, calling this a complex or overwhelming problem," Seidler said. "It's a big problem, but the scientists at research institutions trying to break the genomic code, that's a complex problem. This just has a lot of components to it. It takes diligence and focus and execution."
Seidler scanned the campus and considered his home of San Diego, where the number of unsheltered has skyrocketed 58 percent in the last decade and includes a burgeoning sidewalk encampment just blocks east of Petco Park.
Things tugging at Seidler's time -- a blur of baseball, business and a young family -- leave few chances to tackle anything else. But in a place where homeless deaths have more than doubled since 2014, standing idly on the sidelines seems unfathomable.
Some will assign motives, saying the 56-year-old simply wants to clean up the Padres neighborhood under the convenient cloak of noble purpose. They don't know, though, about the midnight walks and conversations so routine with homeless that he addresses a late-night clerk at a local 7-11 by name.
They don't know about the weekly, under-the-radar, no-excuses-to-miss meeting he scheduled on his calendar into eternity to harness the brains and get-it-done brawn of regional power brokers.
They don't know, well, Seidler. And with due respect, he isn't all that interested in what anyone thinks -- as long as a new push births meaningful results. He's informed. He's engaged. He's unintimidated and undeterred.
Most importantly, he's not going away.
"I really doubt that anybody who takes a careful look at this will think I'm doing it for selfish reasons," Seidler said. "And I could(n't) care less if that's the case. The homeless situation in San Diego has gotten to the point where we're behind other cities.
"We're finding people, 'I've always wanted to help, but nobody's asked.' People want to jump in. We've pivoted to, now is the time to act. I get more optimistic with every day."
'This will be a life-long thing'
The 11-year-old campus in the heart of Phoenix illustrated a system in polished lock-step; myriad agencies collaborating shoulder to shoulder on an unflinching mission. The approach is plainly unlike so many of the scattered, disconnected setups soaked in good will while plagued by flail and inefficiency.
None of that "not in my back yard" stigma dogs the facility, at least geographically. The state capitol stands less than four blocks away, while the home of the Arizona Diamondbacks is barely a mile from door to door.
Seidler, who understands the concept of comebacks as a baseball executive, has chipped away at San Diego's demon for nine months -- recalibrating expectations with a refreshing dose of urgency.
"I imagine this will be a life-long thing for me," he said, "because this problem will always exist."
In San Diego, Seidler launched a standing Tuesday meeting in his second floor office at Petco Park. The gatherings simmer with confidential, no-holds-barred conversations about the obstacles standing in the way of emergency beds for the city -- and the size of the machete required to cut through potential political and societal paralysis.
This isn't a talk-about-it group. Seidler committed himself to a do-something-about-it group.
At the most recent meeting, the office was filled with the kinds of names and resumes capable of creating traction. There was Ron Roberts, the county supervisor who's about to become chair of the Regional Task Force for the Homeless. There was Pat Kilkenny, the former University of Oregon athletic director and local philanthropist. There was well-connected area restaurateur Dan Shea, utilities executive Eugene "Mitch" Mitchell, U.S. soccer star Landon Donovan and Tom Seidler, a Padres senior vice president, businessman and Peter's brother.
The maestro of it all, guiding the discussions and decision making, remained Peter Seidler -- the group's unmistakable fuel and rudder.
Seidler constantly reminds people he's but one among the many committed to washing away a stain on San Diego's soul, citing services like Father Joe's Village and Alpha Project. Seidler, though, clearly possesses the resolve to be a game-changer.
He's not focused on elections or massaging political relationships. He doesn't need to be.
"It's because he sees firsthand the incredible waste that's going on right now -- the lives that could be so much better," Roberts said. "He could continue to drive by it every day and just say that's somebody else's problem. He doesn't have to do this.
"This guy, he's a civic gem."
On a recent Saturday, the Seidlers invited a curious Union-Tribune sports writer on an afternoon walk through the encampments that clog the area around Imperial Avenue and 17th Street.
Seidler, a cancer survivor, moved easily and anonymously along sidewalks, striking up scattered small talk. Eye contact, Seidler demonstrated without explanation, fosters respect and genuine connections.
"Hey, we have the same mug," he said, holding out one he brought on the walk. "Right on."
A man looked up and smiled broadly at the common thing between them, acknowledging that being noticed mattered.
As the group turned north at the corner of 15th and Island, the jarring smell of food rot and hygiene in crisis washed over. A man strolled by with a dog so thin, the bones seemed fused to straining skin.
"How old's the miniature greyhound?" Seidler asked.
The owner stopped, happy to be invited into a conversation. He crowed about how the skittish companion loved to show affection when you got to know him.
"Very cool," Seidler said.
There's nothing cool, though, about the situation in San Diego County, where the homeless population is estimated at about 8,700. Tom Seidler, who lives near a place called Children's Park that's north of the San Diego Convention Center, said the next kid he sees there will be the first kid he sees there.
"When you talk about America's Finest City, they all brag about how this is better than L.A., and all the Major League executives last year (at the All-Star Game) say this is the jewel of Major League cities," Tom Seidler said.
"Then you have this obvious humane, social, economic shortcoming. We've got to address this."
The moths, motivated and energized, gathered.
Peter Seidler simply provided the light.
"My family has dealt with mental illness and I've been open about dealing with depression," said Donovan, arguably the most accomplished men's soccer player in American history. "So I'm very aware of a lot of people who are homeless from mental-illness backgrounds.
"When I found out about this and found out that Peter was involved, I asked if I could come sit and listen and maybe in some small way contribute."
The power of Seidler, for many, is the doorway.
"In L.A., you want to reach out and help, but it's hard in a big city like that," said Donovan, a former Los Angeles resident and member of an investment group with Seidler attempting to bring Major League Soccer to the city. "There's so much going on there and so many places that need help.
"But when I got here, I feel like this is where we're going to be the rest of our lives, my wife and our family. I want to be involved in this community. This is an opportunity to help in a real way."
Walking dark streets with strangers
The near-nightly walks through beach communities begin long after the sun melts over the edge of the Pacific horizon. What started as a way to promote health for Seidler, who's also diabetic, overlapped with the people he encountered along the way.
There's Bench Guy. Pipe Guy. The Guy by the Bar.
All homeless ... and all stitched into the rhythms of his life.
The man fronting a company that manages about $1.5 billion in investments chooses not to rush past anyone during his solo, 2- to 3-hour trips. He stops. He talks. He asks if he can help, which recently came in the form of a couple of convenience store hot dogs.
"That's just his soul kind of expressing itself," said Seidler's wife, Sheel. "He has an ability, when people are down, to give them a little spark of joy. I remember when I was pregnant (with one of the couple's two children). There was a woman in the waiting room crying. He noticed her and felt bad for her. He said really gently and powerfully, 'It's going to be OK. It's going to be OK.'
"Maybe the universe needed him to do that in that moment to set things right."
Home supplies motivation, as well. Sheel Seidler said she's been sober for 14 years, meaning Seidler is clear-eyed about the hurdles life can place in front of all of us. Peter accompanies her to meetings for a 12-step recovery program.
"I think both of us pretty much feel like, but for the grace of God, that could be us," Sheel said. "You just kind of want to be a little closer to that so you can appreciate what you have and relate to your fellow man in authentic way. Your life is richer if you connect to everyone _ particularly those who have fallen on hard times or spirits are dimmed."
It's not solely about time. It's about touch, too.
"Peter knows the right question to get someone to talk about personal things without it being victim-y, if that makes sense," Sheel said. "There's a certain tone, adult to adult. He's very respectful of everyone's spirit.
"He talks like that to someone in the owner's box. It's the same."
Seidler recruited his close friend Shea, the restaurant owner, to aid in bulldogging the effort.
"He's just a compassionate human being," Shea said. "Knowing Peter as well as I do, I know that's his motivation. It's not about, 'Clean it up, because it's the Padres.'
"And he has grown businesses in a very logical and methodical way. He's unafraid of doing what needs to be done. The fact that it doesn't square with everyone isn't a de-motivating factor.
"We don't much care who likes it and who doesn't. People need help here. You see them going through storm after storm this winter. Why we can't open shelters to help them? There's not a lot of logic involved."
Seidler's hand-picked group is collaborating with the city, the county and service providers to develop act-now strategies. He said a location for emergency beds could be announced within two weeks.
Mayor Kevin Faulconer hired Stacie Spector, a former White House staffer during the Clinton Administration. Spector talks or emails with Seidler and Shea almost daily.
"They're all in," Spector said. "They're not just all in with their brains, they're not just all in with their commitment, their hearts are all in."
A recent walk through a darkened beach community led to more visits with more homeless men. As the trip slowed around 12:30 a.m., someone attempted to cap the conversation.
"Have a good night," he said.
"Have a good morning," Seidler corrected.
Then, the baseball guy obsessed with the plight of strangers shuffled back into the inky darkness.
In a few hours, the sun will rise. A new day's about to dawn in San Diego.
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