From the Super Bowl to the sandlot, just as surely as players give 110 percent, the math of sports is always suspect.
Sports isn't like other businesses. What other investment becomes more attractive because of its unpredictability? Revenue can always be accounted for, but what of ego, pride, loyalty, stubbornness or even the microns that separate a catch from a muff?
In no other industry does a perennial also-ran continue to see its value increase.
That's why it's a mistake to get too wrapped up in the dispute between the wealthy Ricketts family that owns the Chicago Cubs and the owners of buildings adjacent to Wrigley Field who have turned their rooftops into garish, outsize extensions of the bleachers?
If it's just money, there's a price — and if there's a price, there's a solution to be worked out. If it's a game, the drama is best enjoyed with healthy detachment because logic may or may not dictate the outcome.
Like a hockey fight, one or both combatants will eventually run out of gas, then will be penalized with the loss of time and opportunity.
"What we are trying to do is resolve this right now," Jim Lourgos, one of the rooftop club owners, said recently during a visit to Tribune Tower. "If you're in court on something like this, my feeling has always been that by the time you're in court, you've already lost."
Unless, say, you're trying to run out the clock. But enough with the sports metaphors.
At the center of this dispute, for those late arrivals to this fight, is a nearly 99-year-old ballpark long overdue for a rehab. Wrigley must be brought into the 21st century, in the interest of the team but also all those who benefit from its standing as a tourist magnet, including those peddling rooftop seats.
The Ricketts family is said to finally have abandoned its quest for taxpayer help in funding the project.
It is true other sports franchises in town have received taxpayer help to build facilities that enrich their owners, but every bad idea has to end somewhere. This would at last be consistent with the philosophy of patriarch Joe Ricketts, who has said he considers it "a crime for our elected officials to borrow money today to spend money today and push the repayment of that loan out into the future on people who aren't even born yet."
Rather than hitting up the cash-strapped city and state, the Ricketts clan instead wants help in the form of concessions such as a relaxation of landmark restrictions and city ordinances that limit such matters as the number of night games and ads in the ballpark. They also want to turn one of the streets into a pedestrian mall.
The rooftop interests, which kick 17 percent of their revenue back to the Cubs as part of a nine-year-old settlement with the team, are terrified the loosened restrictions will result in their views of the ballpark being blocked by advertising signs.
Never mind that Wrigley Field itself has many seats with obstructed views, thanks to support posts.
The rooftoppers have offered to put advertising on their building facades with the money going to the team and city. And they think they have leverage via the 2004 contract they signed with then-Cubs owner Tribune Co. (Yes, that's the same Tribune Co. that owns the Chicago Tribune and still has a small piece of the ballclub.) They think they can parlay this into an extension of their current agreement with the team to 2023.
But the contract allows that "any expansion of Wrigley Field approved by governmental authorities shall not be a violation" of the deal, which means if Mayor Rahm Emanuel gets behind the Ricketts, look out.
Rooftop owners talk about the taxes they pay, the people they employ, the money they've invested to make their businesses safe and viable, the character they add to the neighborhood.
The basic argument, however, still seems a little like when your neighbor with the big-screen TV decides to start watching with the drapes closed on what's become movie night at your house. It's bad form to complain that they not only shouldn't shut the drapes but should open the window and turn up the volume so you and the people in your living room you've charged $1 a head can make out the dialogue better.
At the same time it's hard to sympathize with the Ricketts family, which invested $850 million to acquire the team and ballpark, effectively creating a family trust that's a tax-efficient structure for protecting and eventually distributing wealth across generations. It's not as though these people didn't know Wrigley Field was in need of work or the deals in place with the rooftop clubs. They ought to be able to come up with the cash to make this happen, with or without advertising.
That deal is really something, though. For example, the contract calls for the Cubs to help hype them in a variety of ways, advancing the argument that the rooftop clubs are part of the appeal of Wrigley.
There's a requirement that "WGN-TV will show and comment upon the Rooftops' facilities during the broadcasts of Cubs games and the Cubs will request other Cubs television broadcasting partners to do the same." There's also a mandate for the team to "include a discussion about the Rooftops on their tour of Wrigley Field" and to include stories positive about the Rooftops in The Vine Line," the team's publication.
What you won't read in The Vine Line is that this fight, like the ballpark itself, is a fight over something that may increasingly be quaint in the coming decades. The Los Angeles Dodgers last week announced a $7 billion, 25-year deal for their own cable channel, following the example of the New York Yankees, which already have their own.
With that kind of money coming in via television, the pressure to make money from ticket sales may be relieved somewhat, turning the stadiums into glorified studios. But that may be too logical for sports. For one thing, it assumes that player salaries won't escalate in response as owners ditch their budgets in order to get an edge that may or may not materialize.
That's the thing about sports. You never know how the numbers will add up.
philrosenthal@tribune.com
Twitter @phil_rosenthal
