No More Excuses

One of my absolute favorite things to do is get on Twitter and demand that the Colorado Rockies allow me to throw out an opening pitch. Perhaps you’ve seen me do it. It passes the time and scratches that need-to-tweet itch that if you’re like me, you feel six to seventy-five times a day, depending on that particular period’s feeling of self-worth. But I also earnestly believe I should be allowed to throw out an opening pitch. And not just because of my solipsism, like I’m some hot shit comedian that they’d be lucky to have throw out an opening pitch or something. No sir.

It’s because I’m such a good fan.

To wit: my father bought season tickets to the Colorado Rockies way back in 1993, the year the franchise began. Remember that controversy of gang bangers wearing the initial round of Rockies paraphernalia because they said the “CR” represented “Crips Rule.” Remember how some schools started banning their stuff? My private school tried to do that and my dad promptly told them to go fuck themselves. His boy was excited about baseball in the Mile High City and he would be wearing whatever he wanted. Keeping with that spirit, he also let me ditch school on opening day and I watched as Eric Young lifted that first home-run “Mile High and Outta Here,” announcing baseball at altitude to the world. I was there for that. I was also there for the All Star Game, when the Rox moved to Coors Field, a wide-eyed fifteen-year-old watching as Ken Griffey Jr. and Mark McGwire launch impossible, high-altitude moon-shots during the home run derby. I was there when they made the playoffs that same year, 1995. I was there  for “Rocktober,” when the Rockies made their improbable run to the World Series. I was at every single playoff and World Series game that year, including the one-game divisional playoff against San Diego where Matt Holliday did or did not touch home plate, and Coors Field erupted, and I wept openly because it was the most incredible sporting event I had ever witnessed and I cared that much. I was there two seasons later when the Rox made the playoffs again.

Because I’m a fan.

A fan who will always believe he was safe.

But you know what’s more impressive than me being at the stadium to witness all those events in person? All the incredibly bad baseball I suffered through. The Rockies celebrated their 20th Anniversary this year. In those twenty years they’ve made the playoffs three times. In my lifetime I’ve dutifully sat through seventeen unsuccessful seasons. I’ve seen pointless, seemingly unending games in late August, with the team woefully out of contention, where the moths circling the lights in the outfield outnumbered the fans in the RockPile. I’ve watched the geriatric hospitality staff flutter in and out of consciousness with nothing to do, wondering in their waking moments if this was perhaps some sort of weird purgatory before the maker had the final say on their ultimate destination, envious of their counterparts greeting travelers out at Denver International Airport. And the whole time, me and my ole man always just smiled and nodded at each other in those long, dull moments, popped some peanuts into our mouths and thought, “Damn. But at least we have Major League Baseball.” This year, the Rockies finished dead last in their division, 18 games out of first, fourteen under .500. I probably went to twenty games. My dad, thirty. It’s what we do. I’m well aware of the argument that the Rockies will never be good until the fans demand that they’re good and stop buying tickets to losing baseball. It’s the Chicago Cubs theory. Everyone’s so damn happy in that idyllic setting that the quality of the game on the field is an afterthought.

The team lost? Oh well. At least we had a few beers and flirted with some cute girls in the dying sunlight of late summer. Isn’t that what life’s about?

Sort of. But it’s also about winning baseball.

Unfortunately, I can never put my money where my mouth is. I like baseball too much. Screw it, I like the Rockies too much. I’ll always go. It’d be nice if they’d win, or even try to win, rather than telling us the same broken formula is going to yield different results next year, but you got me, Rockies. Hook, line and sinker. I’ll be there regardless. So you might as well let me throw the ball from the mound to home plate one of these 81 home games.

Because in addition to being such a good fan, I’m also hot shit comedian you’d be lucky to have throw out the opening pitch.

Nice job.

There, I said it. And for a brief moment there, it looked as if the Rockies might agree.

A little while back, on the day the Rockies were statistically eliminated from the playoffs – let’s call it June – I tweeted at the Rox once again. The message plain and simple: the boys were eliminated, what was the harm in allowing me to throw out an opening pitch now? Many of my Twitter followers agreed, as they kindly expressed in their retweets and their tweets directly at the Rockies. Then lo, something appeared in my Direct Message Twitter In-box! A message from the Rockies!

The gist: we can’t let you throw out an opening pitch, but we can get you into one of the many in-game promotions.

This led to an e-mail exchange. I explained that I appreciated the offer to be in an in-game promotion, but that what I truly desired was to throw out an opening pitch. No can do, they said. That’s normally reserved for special friends of the club, sponsors, season ticket holders and celebrities. I immediately fired back that I was a season ticket holder, and while I’m no celebrity, per se, I do tell dick jokes to many people throughout this land, I have done so on the television a few times, and I’m doing quite okay in the world of stand-up comedy. They wrote back! They agreed! They said it was impressive how long my dad and I have had season tickets! Our loyalty was noted and appreciated! And, best of all, they told me they considered me a celebrity! A real-deal Denver celebrity! Like John Elway, Dealin’ Doug, and that pro-life, homeless nut who holds up all those weird signs at intersections!

Try and beat one of his deals. Try.

We can’t get you to throw out a first-pitch this season, they said, but we’ll work on next season. In the meantime, would you like to participate in an in-game promotion?

Why of course I would, I responded. I’d love to do the Frontier Fly Ball Challenge where you have to catch two pop-ups in the outfield, or the one where you run from the warning track, replace a dislodged second base, then sprint across the first base foul-line, all in under twenty seconds. I’d be happy to do an in-game promotion, to accept their olive branch. After all, I’m trying to build up a relationship here, I’m after my dream of that opening pitch.

Cool, the Rockies said. Let us know what games you will be there.

So I did. And they informed me that they would have me participate in a promotion during the last game of the season, Todd Helton’s final trot around the bases against the Boston Red Sox! Be in your seats by the second inning, they told me. Our staff will come get ya.

Picture me, in my Rockies T, shit-eating grin from ear to ear. Picture me anticipatory; nervous but confident. Picture me telling the many, many people I knew going to that game – it was a sell-out, of course: Helton’s last game, last game of the season, BoSox? Come on. No brainer – to keep their eyes peeled for some bonafide ACH heroics. Picture me telling them how my non-stop tweet assault on the club had paid off in the form of a peace offering from the franchise. An appetizer before my next season ceremonial first-pitch meal.

Now picture me watching after the first inning as the Rox did a tribute to Todd Helton in-between innings. Picture me thinking, “Huh, that’s funny, normally that’s when an in-game promotion would take place. Oh well, good for Todd Helton. Man is a goddamn Hall of Famer. Well deserved.” Then picture me watching it happen again the next inning, and then the inning after that, and then the inning after that. Picture me realizing that there would be no in-game promotions this outing. Can you see me? Yeah you can. It’s that sad hipster in a Rockies T-shirt eating peanuts in club level along the third-base line.

What a cliche.

Truth be told, I wasn’t all that sad. I loves me some Todd Helton and I would never even begin to think I should have any play on a night dedicated to the man. Shucks, I’m even inclined to look at it as an oversight on behalf of the Rockies promo team.

Whoops! We forgot, that’s the game with the tribute to Todd! No promo that game at all, our bad.

Put him in the Hall.

Of course, it would have helped if I’d received an e-mail telling me as such. Or any e-mail really. I thought the doors of communication were open, Rox? What gives? And doesn’t it all seem so damn convenient? Silence the douchebag comic on Twitter with a false gesture of placation.

But I shall not remain silent.

So as of today, as of right now, I am formally beginning my campaign to throw out an opening pitch in 2014. Call me crazy, say I don’t know when to quit or I don’t learn my lesson – clearly, I continue to watch losing baseball year after year – but come opening day, 2014 you will see a full-scale twitter assault, Colorado Rockies, if that is your real name, which it is. I will rally my base; I will campaign tirelessly, because this is something I deserve. For all the years of awful baseball I’ve gladly endured. For all the money my family has poured into your organization. For all the karmic futility you have poured into ours.

Let me throw out an opening pitch, Rox. I will do nothing stupid or silly. This will not be some goofy stunt I try to film and make go viral. This will be nothing more than a lifetime fan – a fan who you yourself said was kinda-sorta famous in a C-, Jake Gyllenhaal kind of way – stepping up and firing a strike across home plate.

Is that too much to ask? And if not, can you also add another decent arm to the rotation and a power-bat to the outfield to replace Cuddy moving to first?

Thanks.

And if after all this you still don’t think I deserve to throw out an opening pitch, then I beseech you: let my dad do it. He deserves it too.

Eagerly counting the days until spring training, as always, I remain,

Adam Cayton-Holland