I am an architect who writes, an incongruity in its own right. But I usually write for the other guy, the one who isn’t as passionate as I am about this intersection of mission and design. After hearing the outpouring of collective passion at this year’s Green Sports Alliance Summit in Miami, I wanted to write something for my peers at the intersection of industries.
Where the Work Really Begins
It starts with silence. Not the metaphorical kind, but the real thing, before the fans arrive, before the concourse wakes up, before the building exhales its first breath of the day.
Most people don’t see that part. They see the carbon-neutral goal in a slide deck. They see the LEED plaque. They see a solar canopy or a compost bin and they call it a win. And we get it, they’re busy, they’re measured, they’re already thinking about the next thing.
But underneath all that performance is a layer of what I call design physics that holds the whole thing together like a suspension cable: invisible, under tension, and deeply intentional.
That’s where we all live. Somewhere between the quiet and the show.
What We Let Happen
A good stadium, one that breathes, flexes, and stays relevant through weather, time, and use, has less to do with what we build and more to do with what we let happen.
Design is the art of preemptive generosity. We give before they ask.
Daylight on the turf. A breeze that slips through the concourse just when you need it. Shade that arrives not from a high-tech gadget, but because someone ran a solar study in July and trusted the math.
It’s not glamorous work. But it’s work that, when done right, looks effortless.
When it Works, No One Notices
That’s the joke in all of this. We spend months, sometimes years, agonizing over how to keep 60,000 people comfortable in August without blasting the grid, and then someone walks in and casually says, “It Feels nice in here.” As if nature just cooperated.
Then there’s a second side to this, and we can’t pretend otherwise.
What Makes Us Lean In
We love this stuff. Just the other week I got a client curious enough to ask, “What does turf health have to do with carbon?”
We love the absurdity of calculating embodied carbon in a hockey rink and discovering that the ice system’s refrigerant choice matters just as much, if not more than, the concrete.
That kind of weird joy? That’s our home field advantage.
We try everything to get people excited about sustainability without using the word itself. Too earnest and they tune out. Too technical and they delete the email.
So we split the difference and added some cheek: Consider a biweekly knowledge series to inspire designers to take immediate action to create buildings that do more by doing less. Having lived in California, I decided to call it Passive-Aggressive.
Sustainability as A Posture
What we’ve all learned is that people don’t want to be lectured. They want to be invited, so how will you frame your invitation?
They want to be shown the shape of a smarter question. What shape will yours take?
They want to feel like they’re part of something more than compliance.
Sustainability isn’t a checklist. It’s a posture. One that lets us lean forward without tipping over.
That’s the version of this work that I think we’re all most proud of. Not the part that makes the powerpoint slides. The part that opens a door and says: “Come see what’s possible, when no one’s watching.”
So as we open dialogues about decarbonization, disruption, and the design of what comes next, remember:
We don’t need louder declarations. We need quieter resolve.
The real long game isn’t just about carbon. It’s about care.
Care in how we shape space.
Care in how we move people through it.
Care in what we leave behind when the crowd goes home.
Not because it’s urgent, though it is.
But because, if we do it right, it won’t feel like urgency at all.
It’ll just feel… nice in here.
Now let’s get to work.
anthony brower 