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Frisco: The Giving City

Some thoughts on Frisco, Shel Silverstein style.
| |Illustration by Chloe Zola
giving tree
Chloe Zola

Once there was a city called Frisco, and she loved a little boy. Every day the boy would come and play in her fields and creeks. He would pretend to be Roger Staubach slaying a fire-breathing dragon, or he would pretend to be Bob Lee Swagger, Mark Wahlberg’s character in the movie Shooter, taking into account humidity, temperature, wind, and the Coriolis effect before sending his lead downrange. 

And when the boy was tired after playing in the fields and creeks, he would sleep in the shade of the city’s trees. And the boy loved Frisco. And the city was happy.

But time went by. And the boy grew older. Then one day the boy came to the city, and Frisco said, “Come, boy, come and pretend to nail headshots from more than a mile away while you are inexplicably on a snow-covered mountain ridge where two helicopters have just landed, and be happy.”

“I am too big for that nonsense,” said the boy. “I want to buy things and have fun.”

And so the city gave her fields and creeks to Jerry Jones, who built The Star in Frisco, a 91-acre campus that included the Ford Center and Tostitos Championship Plaza and a Dallas Cowboys Pro Shop and a Mi Cocina and a Wahlburgers, as it turns out. 

And so the boy ate a Super Melt and some truffle fries. And the city was happy.

And then the boy said, “I want a wife and I want children, and so I need a house to keep us warm. Can you give me a house?”

“Have you seen what has happened to the median price of a house here since The Star opened?” said Frisco. “I can’t just give you a house. That’s insane. A starter house here is, like, $700,000.”

“OK,” said the boy, “then what about golf?”

And so the city built PGA Frisco, a public-private partnership that covered 660 acres and included PGA of America and Omni Hotels & Resorts and Frisco ISD. There was a conference center and two 18-hole courses. The boy played from the tips, and he carded a 95. (Though he picked up four gimmes that he probably should have putted, so, really, his score should have been closer to 100.)

And the city was happy. 

Then more time went by, and the boy said, “I am too old and sad to pretend to be Bob Lee Swagger or even to play golf. Now I have children, and they are exhausting. I want a theme park where I can let my children run wild and assault actors dressed in Minions costumes while I sit and drink a $25 frozen margarita out of a Krazy Straw.”

And so the city gave more of her fields to Universal Parks & Resorts, which built the 97-acre Universal Studios Frisco, a 365-day permission slip to go all out and all in, all day long, for when you’re finally ready to Let Yourself Woah. 

And the boy said, “Shouldn’t that be Let Yourself Whoa? The ‘h’ is in the wrong place.”

“Stop being so pedantic,” said Frisco.

And the city was happy. But not really. She’d given all her fields and creeks to developers. That was the whole reason the boy’s parents had moved to Frisco in the first place, because the city didn’t look like Arlington. And, of course, there was the misspelling of “whoa.” That really stuck in her craw.

And then one day the boy came to the city. “I am sorry, boy,” said Frisco. “I have nothing left to give you. All my fields and creeks have been turned into par 5s or paved over with parking lots. We haven’t even mentioned the new H-E-B yet. The Tollway is constantly jammed up with traffic. And don’t even think about taking Legacy Drive. I am so sorry,” sighed the city.

“No big deal,” said the boy. “We just closed on a new house up in Anna.” 

This story originally appeared in the March issue of D Magazine. Write to [email protected].


Tim Rogers

Tim Rogers

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Tim is the editor of D Magazine, where he has worked since 2001. He won a National Magazine Award in…

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