Let me tell you a story about a heartbroken little boy.

When the trade of Colorado Rockies outfielder Matt Holliday was announced late Monday, the tyke rummaged through his closet and pulled out his trusty glove and bat. He wandered out into his back yard, and stared for a time up at the unfeeling stars.

A solitary tear trickled down his face, splashing onto the coarse fescue.

And he yowled.

Yowled a string of profanities at the godless universe.

Ladies and gentlemen, that little boy was me.

Oh, you Rox, you stones, you less-than-senseless things, oh you hard hearts, you Monforts. You've done it again, haven't you?

As in any dysfunctional sports team/fan relationship, you've teased me with victories, good player acquisitions, winning combinations on the field -- then dashed my hopes as the wheels came off.

Oh, it's happened to me before. The Dan Reeves Broncos. The John Ralston Broncos. The Lou Saban Broncos. The Nuggets, in any given season. The Avs without Roy.

But it hurts more with you, Rockies, because I thought we had something real together. Remember how, when I was young, I prayed every night for a major-league team to come to town? How I faithfully went to Denver Bears games -- even stuck with them when they changed their name, weirdly, to the Zephyrs?

Then you came, and how happy we were! I didn't care about the losing records. I didn't care about the lousy Rocky dogs or the lethal nachos.

I honeymooned with the Blake Street Bombers. Andres, Vinnie, Larry, Dante. (OK, Dante, we gotta talk: Could you field? No. I saw you take a fly ball off the top of your head once.) My man-crush on Walt Weiss is still strong.

Then the trades began, and soon, year after year, you were dumping talented players by the dozen, in order to stock the roster with pitchers whose arms blew up faster than Commerce City meth labs.

Bret Saberhagen, Darryl Kile, Danny Neagle, Mike Hampton, Mad Marvin Freeman. The low point? When a disconsolate and intoxicated John Thomson drove his Corvette through the side of a house in Tucson during spring training.

And don't get me started about Dinger.

Then, that last magic September, the constellations aligned and we won and won and won -- and all those who scorned my love for you looked on with awe as, together, we went to the top!

And got swept by the dog-ass Red Sox.

And now you send Matt away. The tears flowed fresh again.

And then someone walked softly up behind me. A hand came down on my shoulder.

I turned, and gazed up into the face of my 9-year-old son. He smiled gently and whispered, "Geez, Dad, will you GROW UP? There's always next year."