Dear Catie Griggs: Tell us more about who this “fan experience” is designed for at Camden Yards?

Dear Catie:

It’s late March in Baltimore and it’s time to play ball, even if you don’t want to discuss the realities of who is paying the bill here in my city, and the next rented spot on your Ivy League executive resume tour of Major League Baseball.

Many people around town ask me if I’ve made an attempt to “meet” you or “interview” the semi-new Orioles team president but I can report that I have found your far-less-than-sincere ear back on January 8^th to be further personally insulting to me, my role and our audience.

You have mistreated me for no apparent reason and it’s unfortunate that you feel that your power position and “leadership” would mistreat any local baseball fan who seeks good things for the team and our community.

There is absolutely nothing on-or-off the record for me to recommend you, your leadership or spending money with you to anyone I know who loves the Baltimore Orioles. You made it clear you don’t want my support or me at the ballpark because I’m not “your kind.”

Two months ago, you shook my hand all doe-eyed, took my Baltimore Positive business card at a local networking function that I actively participate in with Mike Tich and his great group of Connex community folks monthly, somehow believably feigned that “we’d be in touch” – I foolishly took you at your word – and then your bush league team continued the Angelos tradition of sending along ridiculously insincere replies (or none at all) and your mostly unprofessional Lieutenants have all lined up to pretend that I don’t exist or that my questions on behalf of your fans are somehow irrelevant.

They’re not; and I’m not.

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I’m here holding a mirror up for you. That’s my role.

You hold the power; I hold it accountable.

Always.

The half million people who stayed away last year and the large contingent of angry Birdland Membership folks – none of which you, David Rubenstein, Michael Arougheti or any of the “new” people have any real trust or relationship with in my community, all speak to me right after they run to social media to shit on you and right before your social media managers started blocking lifer fans for legitimate criticism of your business practices on team threads. Apparently, 13 really is an unlucky number?

Collectively, your franchise continues to have its head in the sand as a local business with a fan base that has been traumatized – or absent – over more than a generation of sheer, historic awfulness.

I’m familiar with this process, personally and professionally, because you and “your people” have treated me like yesterday’s garbage from the outset. And I don’t appreciate it or deserve it.

As Don Rovak is finding out in adding up the orange beans being counted in the master working bank account, Baltimore doesn’t hold endless riches and resources and Fortune 500 companies and there are only a few of us who still really care enough to stay engaged after a lifetime of Orioles tragic, on and off the field here.

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As people like Charles Steinberg and Rick Vaughn, who helped build the brand when it achieved it’s Truist civic greatness have said to me publicly and privately, you should treasure every one of us who loves baseball in Baltimore because, truth be told, there aren’t enough of us and you clearly have no idea how to solve that crisis on a nightly basis with an empty stadium and more premium pricing.

Hell, most nights over the last decade, just figuring out whether the game is on television, my smart phone, computer screen or whether we can find it at all is often its own perilous search. And I’m not the old, white people holding a remote control that make up 90% of your fan base.

But, I still love baseball, and my last name is Aparicio so I’m not going anywhere.

This is my job and always has been whether or not you think I’m “worthy” of your very valuable time or breathing the same rarefied last-place air up on your elevated perch at The Warehouse.

The calendar says “renewal season,” the city says “hope,” and the ballpark says…well, the ballpark says a lot of things lately.

Premium.

Membership.

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Curated.

Experiences.

Activations.

More swag.

Oh, and a big television in centerfield!

This kind of vocabulary that sounds terrific in Rovak’s pitch deck – but always winds up landing like a downtown parking ticket or a wallet-jacking on a Tuesday night when a family is just trying to watch nine innings without taking out a second mortgage.

So, here we are again.

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It’s Opening Day and I have plenty of questions, Catie!

Your billion-dollar MLB franchise acts with arrogance, dissonance and total avoidance of anyone who dares question your incredible Ivy League business acumen, revenue strategy, hipster City Connect swag and gear, and what the real master plan might be (or if there even is one?) for the future of the Baltimore Orioles in my hometown.

I wasn’t looking for a selfie when I woke up at 6 a.m. on a cold morning two months ago in Hunt Valley to finally show you that I’m a sentient, decent, accountable human at the Connex event. Virtually everybody in the room that day knows who I am; you are the out-of-town stranger attempting to curry favor and extract credit card digits from people I’ve been serving for 40 years in local media.

I approached you decently, quietly and professionally and personally asking for a private audience to actually meet the appropriate way – a grown-up, off-the-record conversation about the business of the Baltimore Orioles and my role in covering the team professionally. Five times, I offered to bring Faidley’s crab cakes by your office to chat.

Doing my lifelong job: asking about access, affordability, transparency, MASN, the Camden Yards “district” that like Harborplace always feels “coming soon,” and a franchise that learned and lived truly horrific human habits during the Angelos years and now has a chance to be reborn with a new ownership group.

But, other than spending some money on baseball players (and this is no small thing), all I see, feel and hear are the ghosts of the worst ownership era in the history of my city that exhausted trust, lost a ton of baseball games and whole seasons and destroyed the basis of business community support and good faith that used to be tethered to all of those suites, club suites and box seats behind home plate back when you were a little girl and I was on the radio pimping the Larry Lucchino mindset for how a professional sports team could win over a city for a lifetime.

And I’m writing again because the league and everyone around it is giving us signals about the pending labor war everywhere. Other clubs, including the vaunted St. Louis Cardinals (whom we’ve foolishly believed to be the mid-market Holy Grail you’re chasing) are promoting cheap seats like it’s a revolutionary act. You’ve spoken publicly about wanting Baltimore to host an All-Star Game in 2028 or 2029. Ten MLB teams don’t even have a local media deal to showcase the only product you truly have: the freaking games!

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The industry is staring down its next labor showdown like it’s a scheduled dental appointment – everyone knows the root canal and extraction is coming, nobody wants to talk about the pain until the bill arrives.

After 30-plus years of Angelos ownership, that numbness we feel when we reach for our wallets and time doesn’t resemble Novocaine and even the coldest, discount beer doesn’t wash away the 2025 last place finish and your late summer memo devaluing the Birdland club members, who have been getting bilked most of my lifetime with a less-than-honest effort to put a credible, winning baseball team on the field.

I’m old enough to remember the Andy MacPhail era philoshopy of telling my late, great friend Mike Flanagan (whom I’m guessing you might’ve never even heard of): “Why serve them steak when they’ll eat hamburger?” on behalf of the two kids and their mother who walked off with $1.8 billion plus 30 years of juice two years ago today.

Meanwhile, we’ve got the same fundamental question we’ve always had in this town:

Are the Orioles selling baseball…or a bunch of out-of-town corporate balderdash imported to sell faux “Baltimore pride” back to Baltimore at a big-league markup?

Let’s cut to it. I’m not asking you to be everyone’s friend. I’m asking you to be the President of Business Operations in a civic trust business where public money, private wealth, and community identity are tangled together like a cheap, dusty extension cord hidden under a desk at The Warehouse.

You already know my terms – truth, accountability and fair access – which is why you refused to allow me to bring you a Faidley’s crab cake last month to actually meet you beyond that little show you performed in front of a room full of people back in January.

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You wanted to recruit EVERY fan of baseball back to Camden Yards.

Every one of them but me…and well, maybe La Canfora.

I’m worthless and not worth meeting the rarefied likes of you and your big-league people because I’ve been a bad boy for telling the truth and exposing the absolute reality over the last 25 years about how lousy the Baltimore Orioles “experience” has been – on and off the field.

Sure, you can play dumb but you have seen the actual damage on your spreadsheet and Rovak even acknowledged this to me in the 10 minutes when he actually treated me like a sentient human being.

Imagine that? Kindness? It goes a long way…

(Thanks, Don, but think that I don’t think that you’re not in on it and absolutely know better. So does my “friend” Mark Fine.)

The game never changes: truth over access, names over euphemisms, and a hearty laugh and some garbage phone call right before the knife turns. Gatekeeping disguised as credentialing is still gatekeeping.

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And “truth beats access” isn’t a motto – it’s the job for me.

What in the world do you have to hide?

Let’s start here: Who is your actual customer?

I’m going to ask the question nobody wants on the record:

Is your business model built around regular Baltimoreans – or around extracting maximum dollars from the people who already have expense accounts?

Because when you redesign a stadium experience around club levels, VIP hospitality, and “exclusive” spaces, you aren’t just changing where people sit. You’re changing the temperature of the ballpark. You’re changing the soundtrack. You’re changing who feels like Camden Yards is their place.

It hasn’t been the people’s house since the day that Angelos went to New York and lied to his partners to swipe the team and then systematically destroying virtually every aspect of the brand.

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That was 33 summers ago.

Camden Yards didn’t become sacred in the 1990s because it had the best “premium inventory.” The Orioles, as a brand, were once sacred because it felt like Baltimore’s front porch stoop – a place where a kid could keep score, a grandfather could tell stories, and a broke college student could sit in the upper deck and still feel like part of something.

What percentage of a sellout crowd, in 2026, is supposed to be “normal people” who decide on a whim to go to a game – versus planned corporate hospitality and pre-sold packages? (I’ve heard your “we compete with your couch” refrain twice now in my presence.)

And please don’t answer with vibes. Answer with numbers.

As for ticket pricing: “Affordable” can’t be a press release adjective. Ask around about the Ollie’s bargain nights but more than that, ask what the impetus to come to Camden Yards might be for those of who aren’t collecting bobbleheads or nifty orange swag.

You and I both know what’s happened in baseball: dynamic pricing, tiered memberships, “all-in pricing” that isn’t all-in when you hit checkout, and fees and Birdland points that multiply like rabbits. I’m not here to pretend that the Orioles invented capitalism. I know you need to turn a buck. I get it.

But I’m also not here to pretend fans are stupid.

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So, Catie, try this exercise with me:

A family of four decides, this week, they want to go to a game. Not Opening Day. Not a Saturday fireworks night. Just…a game. A Tuesday. A Wednesday. The kind of night that used to be the heartbeat of the season.

What’s the real, out-the-door cost for:

Four tickets in the lower bowl (not club, just lower bowl),

Parking (or transit, if we’re pretending we’re New York, like Michael Arougheti, who is really and very quietly running the show)

Four hot dogs, four sodas and a souvenir for one kid?

Now tell me the same total for the upper deck.

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Because here’s the business truth: fans don’t remember face value. They remember the total when it hits the credit card at the end of the month. And right now, a lot of people in this town feel like they’re being asked to subsidize “premium” with their dignity to come to the ballpark.

And this doesn’t include many of your off-the-rails right wingers out in the counties who truly hate Baltimore (despite “loving” the Orioles) and have vowed to never set foot in downtown until hell freezes over or the next country music show happens two blocks from you. Or maybe a World Series game until they figure out that they won’t have the five grand it’ll take come October and Santa is coming.

How many seats, per game, are truly available under $30 without gimmicks, without scavenger hunts, and without requiring a PhD in the Orioles ticketing ecosystem?

What’s the plan to keep Camden Yards accessible on weeknight – not just “special nights”?

Are you willing to publish a simple affordability index for a “typical” game night (tickets + fees + parking + basic concessions)? If not, why not?

And, of course, the club level and VIP question nobody answers out loud: where are all of these rich people coming from in our community who want to do $100+ nights at an Orioles game?

Now we get to the part where everyone smiles politely and nobody says what they really mean.

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When I look at club levels and VIP seats, I don’t just see revenue. I see a philosophy. A declaration of who you want in the building and where you want them.

So:

What is your occupancy goal for premium inventory – and are you hitting it?

If premium seats aren’t being used (and yes, fans notice empty “exclusive” sections), what’s the plan to prevent the ballpark from looking and feeling hollow on TV and in-person?

Are you pricing premium inventory to sell – or pricing it to maintain “value” for a small group, even if the seats (and most of the ballpark most nights) sit empty?

Because you can’t claim “fan experience” while half the park is priced for people who treat games like networking events.

And here’s the dagger:

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A ballpark filled with empty premium seats and full upper decks isn’t “premium.” It’s a mood. It’s a message.

Baltimore isn’t short on businesses. It’s short on big businesses that feel like they’re still of Baltimore. And you’re sitting on one of the last true civic megaphones left.

So, what is the Orioles’ sponsorship strategy for local companies – the ones who can’t buy the whole outfield wall but can be meaningful partners?

How much of your revenue plan is built around “national category partners” versus the kind of Baltimore-rooted sponsorships that make fans feel like the team is woven into the city?

What’s the plan for the next wave of revenue that doesn’t come directly out of fans’ wallets? (Because if the answer is “more fees,” we’re going to have a problem.)

And if you want to talk about “community,” great. But “community” isn’t a 10-game plan. It’s a posture.

Then, there’s the MASN subscription and actually watching the baseball games, which is why I’m here. Let’s talk about the elephant wearing two jerseys.

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The MASN mess has been a decades-long civic wound – one that has affected revenues, fan access, and the basic modern reality of how people watch baseball. If you’re going to lead business operations in Baltimore, you don’t get to treat that like a baseball ops’ problem or that’s for legal. It’s your problem, too, because it impacts everything you’re trying to sell.

So here’s where I’m going to be very simple:

What is the Orioles’ plan for local media rights in a world where fans expect streaming, transparency, and availability?

How do you explain the MASN/Nationals financial mess to Orioles fans without hiding behind legalese?

If you believe the Orioles are positioned well financially now – prove it. If you believe the Orioles are constrained, always the excuse of the previous ownership and incompetent folks in The Warehouse – prove that, too.

And here’s the beauty of this moment, Catie: If I’m wrong about any of it, publish the numbers. You can end the speculation tomorrow with sunlight.

And, of course, your brought-from-Seattle All-Star Game dreams: Baltimore doesn’t need a summer pageant three years from now, it needs a plan.

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I understand why you want the All-Star Game here. It would be a win for the brand, a win for the city, a win for corporate partners, a win for the postcard version of Baltimore that everyone trots out when it’s time to sell something.

But I’m going to ask the question that matters more than the festivities:

What changes would you commit to now to make Baltimore “All-Star ready” in the ways fans actually live? Not just fresh paint and VIP events. And, of course, telling people if they spent thousands of dollars you could commit to selling them one ticket for a few hundred. I’m old enough to remember when that line of thinking actually sold season ticket books. But, those days are long gone, even if there’s a sucker born every minute. (Don’t worry: I won’t tell ’em that the All Star Game isn’t the big deal it used to be in summers when baseball was grand. Je me souviens!)

I’ve seen this city used as a backdrop. Baltimore deserves better than being a weekend MLB TV set.

The biggest issue in your seat is undoubtedly the labor war that’s coming: are you building trust or building defenses?

Baseball is headed toward a fight – a big one. Whether it’s a full stoppage or just the usual cold war, the economics are tightening and the PR scripts are already being drafted.

So, how are you preparing your relationship with fans for the next labor conflict?

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What will your messaging be when billionaires and millionaires start pointing fingers – and the fans are asked to pay higher prices anyway?

Will you commit, right now, to not balancing labor-related revenue disruptions on the backs of the fans who show up in person?

Because if your model depends on fans absorbing every shock – the price hikes, fees, “premiumization,” blackout nonsense – then it’s not a model. It’s a slow-motion betrayal.

And finally, about that “not worthy” credential part…

Let’s address the part you probably wish I’d stop mentioning: the gatekeeping.

Somewhere in the Orioles ecosystem, someone decided I’m not “worthy” of a press credential. Fine. I’ve been doing this a long time. I’ve seen regimes come and go. I’ve watched access get used like a leash. I’ve watched “brand protection” become a substitute for leadership.

But here’s what I won’t accept:

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That the Orioles can deny independent scrutiny and then ask for trust from my audience or anyone who supported me or WNST over a lifetime of doing this work.

So, Catie, what are the written standards for credentialing, and will you publish them clearly so that this doesn’t feel like retaliation disguised as policy? Who makes the final decision, and what is the appeal process? Are you willing to come on Baltimore Positive and discuss this – on the record – like an adult running a civic, mutli-billion dollar business?

(Of course, not…)

Because the irony is rich: you want All-Star attention, national applause, and premium partnerships while the people who have asked hard questions in this town for decades are treated like an inconvenience.

That’s not “fan engagement.” That’s message control.

So, I’ll end where I started:

What’s the plan, Catie?

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Not the slogan. Not the “we’re excited.” Not the “world-class experience.”

The plan:

For affordability,

For a ballpark that feels alive,

For sponsors who feel local,

For media rights that feel modern,

For transparency that feels real and for a franchise that stops acting like scrutiny is a threat.

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Because I’m going to tell you the quiet truth you already know:

Baltimore will show up – loudly, proudly, beautifully – when it believes it’s respected.

And respect starts with answers.

You’ve offered nothing.

But you’ll get plenty of feedback from me…