Todd Helton stood next to the 17-foot, 1,000-pound bronze statue of himself.
Surrounded by adoring fans at 20th and Blake outside the main entrance at Coors Field last Saturday, Helton talked passionately about the people who helped make the most iconic player in Rockies history. While he spoke, Helton repeatedly glanced up at the newly unveiled statue, looking a bit overwhelmed by all of the pomp and circumstance.
I couldn’t help but wonder what he was feeling. Pride? Certainly. Gratitude? Of course,
especially for his family and teammates.
And I’m sure there was a nervous energy inside him, screaming, “Please get this over with!”
While Helton loved playing on a big stage, he’s always hated talking on a big stage, especially if the TV cameras were rolling.
I’m not going to pretend I know what makes Helton tick. He’s a smart, complex, often guarded man. But of all of the athletes I covered during my sportswriting career, I grew closer to Helton than anyone else.
I’m not quite sure why we bonded, but when I retired from The Denver Post at the end of June after a nearly 28-year career at the paper, Helton sent me heartfelt congratulations via a video.
“I enjoyed our time together, I really did,” he said. “When you came walking up to my locker to interview me, I was always excited to see you. Well, maybe not always. The biggest thing is, I could trust you, and that’s pretty rare.”
It’s also rare, in this day and age, that a sportswriter becomes friends with a Hall of Fame athlete. So, please indulge me as I share some of my personal memories of No. 17.
Many years ago, when the Rockies still held spring training at Hi Corbett Field in Tucson, Ariz., I was able to procure a field pass for my wife, Nancy. She met Matt Holliday and Troy Tulowitzki and a number of other players, and they were all friendly, but it was Helton who made her feel special.
We stood outside the batting cage, and I introduced Nancy to Helton. Ever the smart-ass, Helton pointed at me and said, “So, you have to go home with this tonight? You need a hug.”
Nancy laughed.
After Helton took his turn at BP, he chugged around the bases and then cozied up to Nancy.
“So, let me get this straight, you have to sleep in the same bed with him tonight?”
Yep, Nancy answered.
“Come here, you need another hug.”
That’s Helton. The more he picked on you, and the more often you were the object of his cutting humor, the more you knew he liked you.
Another time in Tucson, I picked up a random baseball. Trying to be a bit of a smart-ass myself, I signed the ball and presented it to Helton in the clubhouse.
“Hey Todd, look, I signed a baseball for you,” I said.
He grabbed the ball, looked at it for a moment, and said, “Yeah, real nice.” Then he chucked the ball across the room and straight into a trash can.
Touché.
Helton, who sometimes liked to play the part of a southern redneck, though he has anything but, once lined me up next to Brad Hawpe in the Rockies clubhouse at Coors Field.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“I’m trying to decide who’s the whitest man in America,” he deadpanned.
Helton’s humor is not only razor sharp, it’s often bawdy. Thomas Harding, my best buddy from MLB.com, can attest to that.
When Helton got the call to Cooperstown in January 2024, he welcomed Harding and me into his home outside Knoxville, Tenn. It remains one of the most memorable days of my career. I never saw Helton so nervous as when he waited for the call to baseball immortality.
Through the years, Helton was one of my best sources. He would give me the inside scoop on the real state of the team. I rarely quoted him about hot topics, but his views were invaluable.
Helton battled personal demons, during his 17-year career and especially after it was over. I wrote about some of his struggles in a story for The Denver Post upon his induction into the National Baseball Hall of Fame in July 2024.
The fact that Helton, and his wife, Christy, cracked open a door into his personal life, meant a lot to me. Trust is a precious thing.
Helton retired in 2013 and he now lives in his native Tennessee. I don’t see him often. Occasionally, I’ll get a random text from him, such as the time he sent me a photo of an elk he’d just bagged in New Mexico.
As one of Helton’s former teammates told me last weekend, “Todd is like a human submarine. You won’t hear from him forever, and suddenly he surfaces. That’s just Todd.”
Now, Helton is immortalized in bronze at the gates of Coors Field. Generations of fans will look at the statue and remember the moment that clinched the Rockies’ improbable trip to the World Series in 2007.
When I look at the statue, I’ll remember much more than that.
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