But the price of a single tea bag at the Giants' home stadium has managed to stun even the most battle-hardened Bay Area wallets. We're talking the kind of markup that would make a pharmaceutical company blush — a lonely tea bag, a cup of hot water, and a price tag that suggests the tea leaves were hand-picked by monks on a mountaintop and blessed by the ghost of Willie Mays himself.

As one Bay Area resident perfectly put it, channeling their inner Lucille Bluth: "It's one banana, Michael. How much could it cost, 10 dollars?" At Oracle Park, that joke isn't a joke — it's a business model.

And fair question from another local: "How much for the cup and the hot water?" Because at these prices, the itemized breakdown must be fascinating. Is the cup artisanal? Is the water sourced from a glacier? Someone in accounting needs to explain the math.

Of course, the real question one SF resident raised is the most honest of all: "Who the heck gets tea at a baseball game?" Fair point. But that's not really the issue. Whether it's tea, a pretzel, or a bottle of water, the concession pricing at Oracle Park has become its own kind of spectator sport — except nobody's entertained.

This is what happens when you have a captive audience and zero competition. Once you're past those gates, your options are pay up or go hungry. It's a miniature monopoly, and the Giants know it. The team rakes in revenue while fans increasingly question whether the ballpark experience is worth the financial hit.

Here's a radical idea: maybe treat your fans like customers you'd actually like to see return, not ATMs in Brandon Crawford jerseys. A little pricing sanity wouldn't just be good PR — it might actually get people back in those seats that have been looking a little empty lately.