Tuesday, September 30, 2014
Sunday, September 21, 2014
Hello. Yes. This is Gary Sheffield. Gary Sheffield speaking.
…you're my agent!
Cool down fire cat, I gotchyou.
Jase of Base.
I hear that.
I want to get right to the point, Gary.
I want a new nickname.
The Grilled Cheese thing isn't cutting it.
What's not cutting it mean? What's it not cut? You're cutting just fine. Don't you let those west coast srirachas get up into messing with your head!
You hear me?
Yeah, I hear--
DO. YOU. HEAR. ME.
I hear you.
You get a thing up in your head from these people and you will never get a woman to ride with another woman in the front seat of your car again.
You feel that?
I feel it.
I know you feel me, because Jason...
I gotchyou. Who gotchyou?
You do, Gary.
That's right Gary gotchyou.
Hey, another thing.
Would you like to buy a cordless headset for your home office?
You know you don't even have to ask.
This episode of We Tapped Gary Sheffield's Landline is brought to you by jasongrilli.com.
This episode of We Tapped Gary Sheffield's Landline is brought to you by jasongrilli.com.
Monday, September 8, 2014
Friday, August 1, 2014
It’s been an interesting three years for Pirates fans, who’ve watched the team go from collapsed contenders two years ago to legit contenders last year to whatever the hell you think they are now.
For those who hung in there for two-plus decades, last year was incredibly cathartic—not only for the club’s authoritative smashing of the worst losing streak in sports history, but as a sign that the organization was headed in the right direction. A well-built though slightly shallow mix of homegrown players and veterans brought in on the cheap got the job done, and gave the fan base a reason to hope for, if not expect, ongoing success.
And there’s the rub, right in that six-lettered-four-letter word: expect. You’d hope that after one indisputably successful year with so much promise visible in the club’s foreseeable future, people wouldn’t get greedy. A fan base coming off such a long run of abject humiliation should have at least a little humility—a sense of appreciation for the club’s transformation from nothing into something; a recognition that the process of creating something from nothing takes patience, time, leadership and sound decision-making.
But as the Pirates stood pat at the deadline, local outrage festered. It’s one thing to hear that outrage from fans, who, if we’re being honest, can be form some of society’s most aggressively ignorant mobs. The outrage from the local media is what proved the most distressing.
In print, Ron Cook brought his A-game and newly-crowned Trib sports lead columnist Rob Rossi showed signs of brain activity before drivinghis argument off a cliff. On the radio, The Fan’s Joe Starkey turned into a short-sighted, pitchfork-wielding crazyperson. Even online, where the entirely sensible Dejan Kovacevic, who just left the Trib to start his own subscription-onlywebsite dedicated exclusively to his coverage of Pittsburgh sports, misfired badly.
Here’s how this played out: in the hours leading up to Thursday afternoon’s non-waiver trading deadline, the Pirates were reported to be in the mix for stud lefties Jon Lester and David Price. Earlier reports said they’d talked to the Phillies about acquiring A.J. Burnett, Marlon Byrd and Antonio Bastardo. Some reports said Seattle was interested in Starling Marte, though the potential return was unclear. All reports of the Pirates interested in acquiring established, Major League talent said the asking prices were outrageous.
Price went to Detroit in a three-team deal, the framework of which had been in place for weeks. Lester went to Oakland with A’s general manager Billy Beane, who’d already dealt away most of his organization’s top prospects, making it very clearly known that he had every intention to take advantage of a weak year in the AL, the Red Sox and Rays well out of contention and the Yankees teetering on the brink of relevance.
By all accounts, the Pirates were prepared to dip into their substantial quiver of high-value prospects to make a deal, and likely offered to do so on at least two occasions. And through Price went for surprisingly little, it took a three-team deal to get Tampa the bare minimum to where it felt comfortable parting with Price.
After letting go of the underperforming Garrett Jones and letting Marlon Byrd and A.J. Burnett walk in the offseason—both signed absurd contracts with the Phillies—the Pirates were already facing an uphill battle going into this season. Burnett effectively ate a ton of innings for the club the last two years. He was a staff workhorse and team leader, and the Pirates probably erred in not calling his bluff and tendering him a qualifying offer in the face of his threats to retire. Francisco Liriano was so good last year that it was almost impossible to imagine him replicating the production—and staying healthy—this year. And Jason Grilli, whose peripheral numbers might as well have stood on a soap box in London’s Speakers’ Corner and proclaimed the end to be near, came back and was worse than anyone could have imagined (author’s note: I believe I had this)
This left the Pirates with more than a lot of production to make up in order to keep pace with last year’s team, and they replaced none of it in the offseason. Crunch any of the numbers that really matter and there was simply no way the Pirates could possibly match their 94-win total from last year, barring huge impact from call-ups, a few savvy trades and some wild over-performance from every pitcher in their employ.
The FTC Pirates season preview, written and published in April, had this year’s Pirates clocking in at 84 wins—enough to continue the winningness, but likely not enough to warrant a playoff spot coming out of the NL Central. They lost too much and didn’t do enough to replace what they lost.
After digging themselves into an early hole this season—their 18-26 record on May 20 came with a -25 run differential—the team played its way back to respectability, and were one of baseball’s hottest in June and July. Some argue that this rebound shows the team’s true quality, and that it should have been rewarded with trade deadline acquisitions. But in baseball, you are, for the most part, what the numbers say you are—neither the offense nor the pitching were really as bad as they looked the first two months, and the team made up that difference with a hot two months.
As of the writing of this post, the Pirates have a run differential of zero. They’ve scored the exact same number of runs they've allowed, which means they’re ostensibly a .500 team. And that’s what they are.
But some breaks have fallen their way lately and they’re actually six games over that mark. Whether it was this, the positive expectations after last season or, as I fear the most, a sense of entitlement following last season, there’s a widespread feeling of “what the fuck?” after the Pirates didn't make any moves in advance of the non-waiver trading deadline.
“Shame on you if you expected the Pirates to make a major move Thursday before the non-waiver trade deadline. That’s just not their way,” wrote Cook, the PG’s resident crank.
“Pittsburgh still needs something more from its Pirates. It needs a show of faith. It needs a statement. Landing Lester would have provided that faith. Paying for Price would have made a statement,” he wrote.
He’s not wildly off-base here. Getting one of those guys would have told the fans and the media that the team is serious for real. But to land Lester or Price and surrender high-value youngsters at a point when the team isn’t primed to make a serious run would be to try and change a light bulb while standing on the top part of the ladder which always comes clearly labeled, “THIS IS NOT A STEP.”
The Pirates were correct to stand their ground on deadline day. They have more talent from top to bottom than they have in more than 20 years, they have stars and potential stars locked in for the long term, and there’s more help on the way. There will come a time when it will be right to sacrifice prospects in the name of acquiring pieces to make a serious run, but now is not that time.
After the current management team brought the Pirates out of obscurity and into the limelight last year, these same writers lauded the management, praised their formula and preached retrospectively about the virtues of patience. Now, they’d do well to remember that the July deadline is never the end, that the organization is in shape to succeed like it hasn’t been in more than 30 years and perhaps most importantly, that they were the same ones whom last year wrote that the Pirates management, if anything, deserved a longer leash and some much-due trust. The writers and fans alike would do well to adhere to those notions
No Lester? No Price? No right-handed bat? No bullpen help?
The Pirates won’t get to the mountaintop this year, but they’re by no means going away.
*I have nothing but respect for Joe Starkey. When I was just a lowly student writer covering sports for The Pitt News, he was one of two pros who went out of his way to talk to and, in a way, mentor the student writers. He did this because he's a genuinely good guy. We sling a lot of mud on this blog and I want to make sure it's clear that Joe's not the target of any of it.
**The day Dejan's new website went online, I bought a year's subscription. There's nobody who's more consistently or thoughtfully on-point. I love Dejan's work ethic, his reporting, his writing and how much he "gets" the Internet. He's the best in the business.
Friday, July 18, 2014
Baseball took one more step toward irrelevance last week with the staging of its 83rd annual All-Star Game at Minneapolis’s Target Field. The long, slow death of this once-great July tradition has been painful to watch over the last 12 years.
Nothing beats this.
It started in 2002, when, with the National and American League teams tied at seven runs apiece through 11 arduous innings, both teams ran out of players to use. The prevailing thought at the time was that it’s a meaningless game, but dammit, we’re going to try to use every single player so that everyone who showed up will be able to one day tell their kids or your kids or someone else’s kids that they played in the great Midsummer Classic.
After both managers and the umpiring crew conferred with Commissioner Bud Selig, who was conveniently seated in the front row behind home plate of the Milwaukee ballpark where the team his family still owned played its home games, Selig declared the game a tie.
Selig had been the commissioner since 1998, though he’d spent the six years prior as acting commissioner after leading a the owners in a coup to remove Fay Vincent from the role, presumably for his crimes of trying to maintain revenue equality between the players and owners, his aggressive handling of George Steinbrenner’s erratic and maniacal behavior and his desire to see the designated hitter removed from the game entirely.
To all outward appearances, Selig and the owners ousted Vincent because he less concerned about acting in their best interests than he was in acting toward the best interests of the game—a far cry from when the owners, hats in hands, approached former federal judge and noted racist old loon Kenesaw Mountain Landis about becoming baseball’s first commissioner following the fixing of the 1919 World Series and granted him absolute power over the game.
So there, in his home ballpark with the game tied after 11 innings, committed one of the game’s greatest sins and allowed it to end in a tie.
Baseball games don’t end in ties. In a way, that’s part of the sport’s poetic beauty. You’re never fighting against a clock, you’re never running out of time. There are no penalty shots, no points system dictating standings and no letting up. You can play into the next day, postpone the game so that everyone can get a few hours of sleep, then pick it back up in the exact scenario where it was left off and compete until you’re blue in the face, then compete some more. Baseball is played until one team wins and another loses.
Selig’s mistake was assigning value to a game that needed no additional value. As the commissioner, endowed by the owners with absolute power, he could have allowed players who’d been removed from the game to re-enter it. Such provisions exist even in the Little League World Series—anything in the name of finishing with a winner and a loser. By stopping the game and sending an enraged crowd home deprived of an extra-inning thrill ride which could have easily been one of the most memorable and fun games in the sport’s history.
Instead, the commish took the cowardly way out. Operating under the absurd notion that fans wanted the All-Star Game to be a meaningful affair rather than a fun exhibition—a mindset which was at the least revisionist and at the most stupidly antiquated—Selig declared that the following year, the league which won the game would receive home-field advantage in the World Series.
Prior to 2003, the leagues had alternated World Series home-field advantage each season, which, while not as sensible as granting the honor to the team with the better record, still makes a hell of a lot more sense than assigning it based on the outcome of an exhibition game played in July.
No other sport functions this way. The NBA, which unquestionably has the best All-Star weekend of all the major sports, understands that the game isn’t about bragging rights, even if it used to be—it’s about everyone involved having fun, from the players on the bench to the fans up in the nosebleeds, all the way to everyone watching on TV.
TNT’s David Aldridge, who’s easily one of the sharpest, funniest and best reporters ever to cover the NBA, once brilliantly dubbed NBA All-Star Weekend, “Black Thanksgiving.” As someone who barely follows the NBA, the skills competition and All-Star Game are still appointment viewing for me.
Here are a few notes I’ve taken while watching NBA All-Star Games:
· Dwight Howard just referred to himself as “Chocolate Shoulders.”
· (Kevin Durant hits a 3) Steve Kerr: Kevin Durant is the most athletic guy in the league.
· (Howard dunks) Kerr: Dwight Howard is the most athletic guy you’ll see in this league, along with LeBron James.
· (Russell Westbrook dunks) Kerr: Westbrook is probably the most athletic guy in the league right now, guys.
· Craig Sager and Justin Bieber have an in-game, courtside condescension-off: Sager: So are you in school or something? Bieber: It’s the weekend, Craig.
· Sager: Kobe, I saw you whisper something to D-Wade before tip-off. What’d you say to him? Kobe: Oh, it was nothing. Nothing to do with the game. It was something else that was humorous.
Fast forward to last Tuesday.
Yankees shortstop Derek Jeter, playing his 32th and final major league season at the age of 57, got a much-deserved standing ovation when he came to bat for the first time. In deference, Cardinals pitcher Adam Wainwright stepped off the mound and allowed the crowd to give Jeter all the love they wanted before he stepped in to hit. It was a nice moment—not quite on par with Ted Williams’s appearance at the start of the 1999 All-Star Game when the famously prickly Red Sox great, who vowed never to tip his cap and acknowledge the crowd, did both after being surrounded and greeted by all of the players as he shakily made his way out of a golf cart to deliver the game’s ceremonial first pitch, but a nice moment nonetheless.
And then Wainwright did what any good guy pitching in a stupid exhibition game would do: he threw Jeter a few fat pitches, giving the old man an opportunity to collect what should have ostensibly been an honorary hit—a chance for the guy to stand on first or second base and take in another few seconds of near-universal love before walking away from the first half of his life having fulfilled not just every last one of his childhood dreams, but allowing the millions of kids who grew up watching him play to experience some semblance of those dreams vicariously through him.
Showing deference to an outgoing great like Jeter is the only one of baseball’s unwritten rules worth a damn. On August 30, 1942, outfielder Tommy Henrich played his last game before shipping off to spend three years in the coast guard during World War 2. It was an afternoon affair at Yankee Stadium and everyone wanted to see Henrich, whose popularity on the Yankees was second only to that of Joe DiMaggio, go out on a high note. After all, there was a very real possibility that he might not come back.
This wasn’t lost on Detroit Tigers starting pitcher Dizzy Trout, who later admitted that he threw Henrich fat, hittable pitches all game. Henrich finished 3-for-3 with a double and a pair of walks, and the Yankees beat the Tigers, 4-3, in a regular season game. The Yankees were pretty good that year, the Tigers were middling at best.
But that was a real game that counted for both teams, and could very well have had playoff implications later on in the season. It didn’t matter to Trout and the Tigers—they wanted to give Henrich something nice to take with him.
There are probably hundreds more instances just like this of guys grooving pitches and conceding hits out of deference and respect to worthy opponents. It’s not the childish eye-for-an-eye code that determines who gets balls pitched directly at their heads, and it’s not at all sinister in the way players used to commonly associate with known gamblers and throw games for money.
Maybe Adam Wainwright shouldn’t have admitted to a reporter that he threw Jeter a couple of easy ones, but I’m glad he did. Wainwright plays for a pretty good team—a team to which home-field advantage in the World Series could mean something come October. But in admitting that he went easy on Jeter in order for the Yankee captain to best enjoy the moment qualifies as a tacit endorsement of the notion that the All-Star Game having postseason implications is flatly absurd.
The fans feel that way and at least some of the players feel that way.
But Selig will be gone from the game soon. Here’s to hoping he takes his ill-conceived notions about what matter in baseball with him, and that the future of the Midsummer Classic isn’t about making it count, but making it fun.
John Kruk made known how terrified he was of Randy Johnson, and Johnson responded in kind.
Four years later, Johnson had a similar exchange with Larry Walker.
I don't think Chan Ho Park was grooving that pitch to Ripken. I think he was just being Chan Ho Park.
Man, that ball went a long way.
Barry Bonds was the most reviled man in baseball when this happened, but that didn't make this any less fun for anyone involved, even Bonds.
Nothing beats this.
Thursday, June 19, 2014
Though I grew up watching baseball, I don’t recall living long under the impression that the players I most admired were admirable people. That notion was dispensed with in the early ‘90s, when certain Pirates who shall remain nameless (Carlos Garcia, Bobby Bonilla, Barry Bonds) completely blew off a young fan hoping to get their names on a ball.
After that, it didn’t take long to figure out which guys were straight up assholes. It was as visible through their body language during batting practice and games as it was when they’d walk by a crowd of fewer than five kids who’d waited outside Three Rivers Stadium for more than an hour after a game on a school night, just hoping to get a little attention from someone whose livelihood was to play the game those kids loved so unconditionally.
It’s what led me to love players like Jay Bell and Jack Wilson, who on top of being exciting shortstops, brought a sense of humility, enthusiasm, and gratitude for the improbable status they’d achieved as professional ballplayers.
While those two were the guys I went to watch — they played for my team — nobody exemplified those qualities more than Tony Gwynn. Gwynn died this week at 54 following a lengthy battle with cancer.
Around the time I discovered that ESPN was a thing, and that athletes who played on teams in cities all across North America were accessible via Channel 72, nothing made me happier than seeing an interview with Tony Gwynn.
As fifth- and sixth-grader who, in successive years, dressed up as Mickey Cochrane and Lefty Grove for Halloween, Tony Gwynn was someone to whom I could relate. Here was someone who loved the game as much as I did — as much as anyone possibly could — and whose appreciation for that game shone through with everything he said and did. Tony Gwynn didn’t wear his love for baseball on his sleeve; he draped himself in it. If he’d ever tried to hide that love, he’d have been the world’s worst liar.
In 1997, someone at ESPN had a great idea: to sit Gwynn down with Ted Williams and turn it into a SportsCenter segment. The two already had something of a casual friendship, and the ensuing conversation, which I watched at least a dozen times the week it aired, was pure gold.
The audio is still out there on the Internet — I’ve listened to it a few times over the course of the last week — but the video was priceless. Gwynn, with his round face, wide smile and perfect teeth, answering a question Williams asked about his playing weight still rings in my ears fresh as the first time I heard it.
“You weigh 227?” said an incredulous Williams, whose playing weight was nearly 50 pounds lighter. “Holy shit!”
When Gwynn’s Padres played the New York Yankees in the 1998 World Series, I vividly remember watching the fourth and final game in my grandparents’ living room. My grandmother, a Brooklyn native who probably didn’t give much of a shit, was rooting for the Yankees. Everyone in the room was, and as an uncomfortable 15-year-old, I kept my mouth shut. But I felt terrible for the Padres, Gwynn in particular. Not only did I want a more competitive series, I wanted Gwynn to prevail.
As a player, Tony Gwynn was a complete anomaly, a throwback to the turn of the 20th century, when high averages were more common among great players and home runs less so. A casual review of his career numbers shows a .338 batting average, a .388 on-base percentage, and a .459 slugging percentage. What makes those numbers truly amazing are his strikeout and walk numbers. Tony Gwynn didn’t walk much — he took free passes in just 7.7 percent of his plate appearances. But he only struck out 4.2 percent of the time he approached the plate. The other 88.1 percent of the time Tony Gwynn went to bat, he put the ball in play.
Batting average on balls in play (BABIP) should normally sit around .300 for all players. Anything outside of five points in either direction is considered luck. But thanks to a hand-eye coordination that was nearly super-human, Gwynn had an inexplicable ability to place batted balls outside the defense’s reach. Through 20 Major League seasons, he never finished with a BABIP lower than .303, and his career mark rounded out to .341.
To those who embrace the new wave of sabermetric statistics, that’s unbelievable — most hitters should wind up around .300. But Tony Gwynn wasn’t most hitters. He took advantage of his superb coordination by using a bat that was shorter and lighter than the bats of what’s now become known as baseball’s Steroid Era. He slapped pitches to all fields, content to take singles and doubles at a time when more popular players injected themselves with all manner of substances to maximize their home run totals.
He finished his career with a paltry 135 home runs. But he also 3,141 hits in 10,232 plate appearances, walking 790 times and striking out just 434 times. This man approached the plate more than 10,000 times between 1982 and 2001, but only managed to strike out 434 times. That’s an uncanny statistic. He never struck out more than 40 times in a full season of play. Pedro Alvarez does that in any given three-game series against Milwaukee. Gwynn’s career average against Greg Maddux, a Hall of Famer who’s widely considered the best National League pitcher of their mutual generation, was .411. Tony Gwynn could hit anyone.
Players like this don’t exist in baseball today. Hell, they didn’t even exist when Gwynn was playing. And with the advent of batted-ball tracking and defensive shifts, the odds are decidedly against a player like this ever existing again, but that’s not even really the point.
Our grandparents grew up watching players like Babe Ruth, Lou Gehrig, Paul Waner, and Stan Musial. Our parents grew up watching the likes of Willie Mays, Mickey Mantle, and Roberto Clemente.
The generation of baseball fans now in their late 20s to 30s has had no shortage of incredible players to watch, but none quite like Tony Gwynn. When you grow up a baseball fan in Pittsburgh, which until last season was as painful as an appendectomy sans anesthesia, you have to really love baseball to stick with it. You have to really love baseball.
Tony Gwynn loved baseball the same way that people who stuck it out for 21 years of Pirates ignominy love baseball. Not only did he appreciate every minute of it, he made sure that those around him felt every last bit of the joy he did.
I never had the opportunity to meet Tony Gwynn, but in a lot of ways, I feel like that doesn’t really matter. His talent was exceptional, his enthusiasm infectious, his love for the game unimpeachable, and his character, by all accounts, every bit as genuine as even the most innocent, naïve fans would picture.
When someone like this dies, they never really leave — they remain omnipresent in the best of ways. You still hear their laugh, you know what they’d say if confronted with a particular dilemma, and while you miss them, you’ll never feel as if they’re truly gone, like that aunt or grandmother or cousin who departed this world too soon. It’s almost as if their attitude ingrains itself in your psyche. That’s not the mark of a great player, but a great person. And that’s the kind of thing that stays with you forever.
Thursday, June 12, 2014
The Pirates announced on Wednesday that they’d retained the services of a sports architecture firm to study the long-term future of PNC Park.
Per the Post-Gazette’s incomparable Michael Sanserino:
The goal, Mr. Coonelly said, is to make sure PNC Park lasts as long as Forbes Field, which housed the Pirates for 62 years, and that it doesn’t grow obsolete like Three Rivers Stadium, which was abandoned after 30 years in operation. PNC Park opened in 2001.
Though Coonelly’s point is paraphrased, the action speaks for itself. The Pirates are entertaining the notion that PNC Park could become outdated. Think about that for a second.
Sanserino’s article posted at 10:01 a.m. Seventeen minutes later, the Pirates (specifically Drew Cloud, executive vice president, chief sales and marketing officer), acutely aware of whose opinion really matters, sent me an e-mail.
PNC Park is in its 14th season! We are proud to play in what many believe to be the best ballpark in America. To that end, we are committed to enhancing and improving not only the ballpark but the overall fan experience. We are currently in the early stages of developing a Master Plan for the next generation of PNC Park.
How does this worry me? Let’s count the ways.
First, let’s be real about something: the American professional level of baseball is the highest in the world, and demands the nicest facilities. You’re not going to go to Japan or Central America and see a nicer ballpark, and they don’t play baseball in London, Paris or Dubai. The facility in question isn’t the nicest ballpark in the country, it’s the nicest ballpark on the planet. It has been since it opened 14 years ago, and not a single new park constructed since can touch it. San Francisco’s is the only one to even make it into the conversation, but it still makes for a short and unexciting debate.
PNC Park is architectural bottled lightening. It was designed and built so efficiently that it came in under budget, allowing its builders to use a higher quality of limestone on the exterior than they’d originally planned for. It’s a gem.
If your chief sales and marketing officer is only willing to tiptoe around that notion to the tune of “in what many believe to be the best ballpark,” you need to find a new chief sales and marketing officer — or at least hire someone to start writing his material for him (I’m available!).
Second, the entire point of building this ballpark in the first place was to give the baseball team a home as timeless as it is permanent. Now we’re not even two decades into its existence, mere months removed from a period of unrivaled futility, and these assholes are already looking to fix what’s not broken.
We have engaged Populous
I have no idea what that is.
Oh, HOK! Still have no idea who that is. Did the put the HOK in hoka hey?
There will be six (6) sessions taking place at PNC Park on Tuesday, June 17 and Wednesday, June 18. If you are interested in participating (unfortunately this invitation is nontransferable), please complete the very brief survey to determine when the session will take place and if there is still space available. For those that do participate in the sessions, as a "thank you" we will provide four tickets to one of a selection of Pirates games.
They want me to come to PNC Park and tell them what I think? I’ve been waiting years for this. I always thought it would come in the form of a desperate phone call, but this will do just fine.
I took the survey, telling the Pirates my name (Matthew), age (29-36) and the number of games I go to each year (5+, the highest available option). I was then redirected to a screen which informed me that there were no sessions open for someone meeting these criteria, but that I should feel free to fill out the comment box in the space provided with any feedback I might have.
Well that’s just fucking insulting.
On a hunch, I hit the back button and changed my answers to the latter two questions. Sure enough, if you’re younger and go to fewer than five games a year, they’d love to have you over for tea. I filled it out again with still different answers and found the same holds true if you’re older. I tried to definitively isolate the variable that was keeping me from participating in this exchange, though the website ultimately figured out after five or six tries that I had already taken the survey. That said, I have every reason to believe that the Pirates only want to hear from people who go to fewer than five games a year.
Since the Pirates aren’t interested in having me over for coffee and a hot dog, I’m going to use my special powers of editorial publication to drop a 10-ton truth bomb here and just assume someone will pass it along to them:
I know what you’re doing. I know where you guys are going with this. You don’t need to add more seats to the ballpark. You don’t need to put in a pool. You don’t need to find a way to add more luxury suites. You don’t need more dining options, racing pierogies or assholes shooting hot dog vouchers shaped like hot dogs into the stands.
You have a good thing going here. Don’t fuck it up.