And Why the Rockies Might Need One the Most
One of the more interesting essays in the 2026 edition of Baseball Obscura, written by David J. Fleming, raises a strange but compelling question. What if baseball fans organized themselves the same way players do? What if fans formed unions?
Players have the MLBPA. Owners coordinate through the league office. Television networks negotiate billion dollar rights deals. Yet the people who ultimately fund the entire system have no organized voice.
Fleming’s essay explores the cultural logic behind the idea. Once you sit with it for a moment, the premise stops sounding radical. Baseball fans spend billions of dollars each year on tickets, concessions, jerseys, streaming subscriptions, parking, and cable packages. But they spend it individually. Every fan acts alone.
That fragmentation removes any real leverage.
The interesting question is not whether a fan union is an intriguing concept. The real question is whether one could exist in practice and what power it might realistically have.
To explore that idea it helps to look at a franchise where the imbalance between fans and ownership is especially visible.
That franchise is the Colorado Rockies.
Fans Already Control the Economic Engine
The economics of baseball are simpler than they sometimes appear. Nearly every dollar entering the sport originates with fan attention and fan spending.
Teams generate revenue through tickets, stadium spending, television contracts, and licensed merchandise. All of it traces back to fans choosing to watch baseball.
Individually a fan has no power. If one person stops attending games nothing changes.
Collectively the situation looks very different. If ten thousand fans change their behavior at the same time, ownership notices.
That is the core premise behind a fan union. It would not operate like the MLB Players Association negotiating a labor agreement. Instead it would function more like a collective consumer organization. Members would contribute modest annual dues and the organization would use those resources to coordinate information, advocacy, and economic pressure.
Other sports already have versions of this model. Supporters’ trusts in European soccer sometimes hold direct ownership stakes or advisory influence over club decisions. Baseball has never attempted anything comparable.
But the underlying economics suggest it could work.
What Membership Might Look Like
Imagine an organization called Rockies Fans Union.
Membership dues are set at $40 per year. The number is low enough that most fans could join without hesitation but high enough to build meaningful resources when thousands participate.
Ten thousand members would generate roughly $400,000 annually.
Twenty thousand members would generate $800,000.
If membership grew large enough, say fifty thousand fans across Colorado and the broader Rockies market, the union could approach two million dollars in annual funding.
At that scale the organization becomes more than a fan club. It becomes an institution with the ability to hire analysts, run public campaigns, commission economic studies, and maintain a permanent presence in the local sports conversation.
Some of that money would support research. Independent analysts could track payroll trends, attendance revenue, and the use of revenue sharing funds. One of the persistent frustrations in baseball economics is that teams often claim financial limitations that outside observers cannot easily verify. A well funded fan organization could challenge those narratives with transparent data.
Another portion of the budget would go toward organizing campaigns. If the union believed ownership was neglecting competitive investment, it could coordinate symbolic attendance boycotts, media campaigns, or targeted messaging designed to force the issue into the public conversation.
But the most interesting use of those resources might come from something more ambitious.
Eventually the union could attempt to buy a seat at the table.
When Money Becomes Influence
If a fan union generated a million dollars or more annually, it would not simply represent moral pressure. It would represent a financial partner capable of participating in the business of baseball.
At that point the organization could propose a formal structure with the franchise itself.
Imagine a negotiated agreement in which the union receives advisory representation in roster strategy discussions in exchange for providing predictable annual revenue streams tied to membership campaigns and ticket initiatives.
The model would resemble something like a cooperative partnership.
The team receives guaranteed revenue from organized fan initiatives. The union receives structured access to front office decision making.
Fans would not be selecting starting lineups or negotiating contracts. But they could participate in the strategic conversation that shapes payroll allocation and long term roster direction.
This kind of arrangement sounds unusual in baseball, but similar structures exist elsewhere. Several European clubs maintain fan advisory boards that regularly meet with club leadership to discuss financial planning, stadium policy, and sporting direction.
The Rockies would not be turning over control of the franchise. They would be acknowledging that organized fans represent a meaningful stakeholder.
Once fans begin contributing measurable revenue through union membership, the argument for representation becomes stronger.
A Moment That Might Have Played Out Differently
Consider a moment that still frustrates many Rockies fans.
In December 2018 the Rockies allowed DJ LeMahieu to leave in free agency. The contract he ultimately signed with the Yankees was not enormous by modern baseball standards. Yet the Rockies declined to match the market.
LeMahieu went on to become one of the most productive hitters in the American League, winning a batting title and finishing near the top of MVP voting.
At the time the decision produced scattered criticism from fans and local media. But the reaction remained fragmented. Within weeks the story faded.
Now imagine that a Rockies Fans Union already existed with twenty or thirty thousand members and a seven figure annual budget.
The union commissions a public analysis of LeMahieu’s projected value compared with the Rockies’ payroll flexibility. The study circulates widely through Denver media outlets. Union leadership requests a formal meeting with the front office to discuss the decision.
Ownership faces a new kind of pressure. Not just angry tweets or sports radio complaints, but an organized constituency representing tens of thousands of paying fans.
The union makes a public commitment. If the Rockies match the competitive offer to retain LeMahieu, the organization launches a membership drive and ticket initiative designed to generate a million dollars in additional stadium revenue over the next season.
Suddenly the financial equation changes. Retaining the player no longer appears as a pure cost. It becomes part of a partnership between the franchise and its most committed supporters.
Would LeMahieu have stayed in Colorado under those conditions? No one can say for certain.
But the decision would have been made in a different environment. Fans would have been participants in the conversation rather than spectators watching it unfold.
Why Baseball Has Never Tried This
If fan unions offer even modest leverage, why has the idea never taken hold in Major League Baseball?
Part of the reason is cultural. Fans see themselves as loyal supporters rather than organized consumers. Coordinating economic pressure against a team you love can feel uncomfortable.
Another reason is fragmentation. Baseball communities exist across thousands of forums, podcasts, and social networks. Turning that scattered attention into a structured organization requires leadership and infrastructure.
But the largest barrier may simply be tradition. Baseball has operated under the same institutional assumptions for more than a century. Owners control the business. Players negotiate labor agreements. Fans watch.
A fan union changes that equation.
It introduces a new actor into the ecosystem. An actor representing the people who ultimately fund the entire enterprise.
The Long Term Possibility
The most interesting part of Fleming’s idea is not the immediate influence a fan union might have. The real significance lies in what it could become.
Once fans begin organizing economically, larger possibilities emerge. Advisory boards could evolve into partial ownership stakes. Organized fan groups could participate in stadium financing negotiations or influence ticket pricing policy.
For most of baseball history fans have been treated as customers rather than stakeholders.
But the economics of the sport tell a different story. Without fans there is no television contract, no stadium revenue, and no billion dollar franchise valuations.
A fan union simply acknowledges that reality.
And if any franchise illustrates why that might matter, it might be the one playing summer baseball at altitude in Denver, where the ballpark remains full even when the standings say otherwise.