Like alms from the comedy gods, a chemical detector went off inside Coors Field a few days ago. Fortunately, there were no injuries and , save for the emanating from the charred remains of Jeff Bridich’s ego.
Sometimes, the jokes can’t help but write themselves. That goes double for the metaphors.
And you couldn’t ask for a more fitting image of the Rockies in their present state than one of first responders marching into the offices along Blake Street, bracketed by police tape, a week before opening day.
These are Oakland headlines, Oakland gaffes, Oakland shambles, Oakland shames, played out in LoDo. Which also sticks the dismount, frankly, given that the Rockies are reading from the Athletics’ spiral notebook as scripture, at least on the budgetary side.
We’ve seen before. Only now, we’re living it, pining for a happy ending that never comes. Itap like “Moneyball,” where we get the owner who cries poor at the beginning and tells his front office to make do. Except in the Front Range version, our owner hires instead of Brad Pitt.
Hall of Famers leave. Chemicals leak. Hilarity ensues. They’re the gift that keeps on giving, these Rox. If your idea of a gift involves dropping a fiery bag on someone’s front porch and ringing the doorbell.
“We know that we’re not going to ever get out there and go for Gerrit Cole or some of the really top-line free agents,” Rockies owner/chairman and CEO Dick Monfort declared last month, “because you know, we’re in a grouping, (as) a mid-market team, where we just can’t take that risk.”
Not that you could ever take seriously the people who picked Daniel Murphy over DJ LeMahieu or handed Ian Desmond $70 million, no questions asked. But if there’s anything good to come from The Great Nolan Arenado Heist, itap that how the Rockies conduct their business — insert air quotes as you like — isn’t some flyover secret anymore.
Itap a
When it hurts too much to cry, might as well laugh.
Only the joke’s on us, isn’t it? While Monfort empties his barren hip pockets and shrugs like , Forbes magazine says thatap a load of malarkey.
The publication released its this past Friday, estimating the Rockies’ worth at $1.3 billion. And that number went up 2% since spring 2020, despite a global pandemic that reduced last season’s schedule to just 60 contests and eliminated all game-day revenue streams.
The Rox , same as Forbes’ 2020 list, sandwiched between the Diamondbacks ($1.32 billion) and the Pirates ($1.285 billion). Considering that the Monfort brothers in 2005 forked over around $17 million to buy out former club CEO Jerry McMorris, thatap still a pretty healthy return against the worst of COVID’s headwinds.
Among the list’s lower third, Colorado suffered the highest 1-year loss in operating income ($67 million), not a shock given that gate receipts and other stadium-related revenues accounted for . When LoDo becomes a ghost town, Monfort feels it.
But before you pass the hat in pity, read the fine print. According to the Forbes piece, MLB’s new television deal is projected to increase collective broadcast revenues by an average of 19% each year from 2022 through 2028.
Meanwhile, the Rally Hotel, the first piece of the McGregor Square development that has so much of Monfortap money and touch, opened to the public this past Thursday. Base rooms start at $159 per night.
He’ll be fine.
The Rockies, you wonder.
Starting pitching was supposed to carry the flag, but with Kyle Freeland’s shoulder barking, that flag might not make it past Market Street.
PECOTA pegs the Rockies to lose 101 games. FanGraphs says they’ll lose 97. MLB.com ranked the farm system 27th out of 30 clubs. Baseball America says itap No. 25. You’re hard-pressed to put a finger on something the club does exceptionally well right now besides sell beer.
If Monfort had a sense of civic duty, he’d fire himself. He’d hawk the Rockies to someone who cared as much about the product on the field as they do the real estate springing up in the blocks that surround it.
If he had a shred of professional humility, he’d hire a team president. A bridge between himself and Bridich at general manager, between the heart and the brain (feel free to use air quotes again), fresh eyes and a clear head.
The Rockies need someone with the guts to tell Monfort what he doesn’t want to hear and the spine to tell Bridich when he’s lost his gourd. Someone who’ll remind Monfort that his upper-level employees (Bridich, again) are not family members, and that protecting them as such insulates them from accountability across the board — accountability to the coaches, to the players in the clubhouse and most importantly, to the fans.
You find out about the soul of a person, what they’re made of, in times of crisis. You find out about the soul of a franchise when one of its revenue streams dries up for a year.
COVID-19 told us a lot about the Rockies. The published tales haven’t been kind. The whispers have been worse. The more layers that get peeled off of 22nd Streetap biggest onion, the smarter Arenado looks. For the rest of us, it stopped being funny a long time ago.
