I will always remember the last time I saw Ken Griffey Jr. play in person. Last summer, a buddy and I went to Safeco Field to see a pitchers’ duel between Felix Hernandez and Mark Buehrle. We got much more.
Junior was not in the lineup that night, but with two outs in the bottom of the fourteenth, the game still scoreless, a familiar and mystical electricity grew in the stadium. The Mariners put a man on first, and backup shortstop Jack Hannahan worked the count to 3-1. Then, as the remaining crowd began to make some noise at the prospect of a runner in scoring position, I grabbed my buddy Jon and pointed to the on-deck circle where Griffey was suddenly warming up. One more ball and Junior would come to the dish.
One pitch later, the Mariners had runners on first and second, and that same feeling that used to fill the Kingdome grew at Safeco as Griffey strode to the plate.
***
The Mariners were my first love. I grew up listening to their games on the radio at a time when only a handful of games were televised each year, long before the M’s ever sniffed a winning season. I used to mimic the calls of longtime M’s broadcaster Dave Niehaus while playing Wiffle Ball in the back yard with my brother. I used to wear an M’s jersey and baseball pants to the Kingdome. Stirrups and cleats too. The Mariners were the most important thing in my young world.
But it wasn’t until a nineteen-year old kid showed up in Seattle’s lineup in 1989 that I believed the M’s could be anything more than my hometown team. That was the power of The Kid. Ken Griffey Jr. captured my imagination, and the city’s too. In his first major league at bat, he doubled off Dave Stewart. A week later, he hit his first big league home run on the first pitch ever thrown to him in the Kingdome. He was my hero, as much a part of my childhood as school and birthdays parties.
When a strike threatened baseball’s livelihood in 1994, Junior was becoming the greatest player in the game, and by 1995, every Griffey at bat was an event. You planned your trips to the bathroom or concession stand around his spot in the order. You’d wait to drive through a tunnel until after Griffey’s at-bat was over because you didn’t want to miss hearing something spectacular.
I remember one day at the Kingdome, a high school friend and I were roaming the concourse of the empty second deck in right field on our way to better seats behind home plate when Griffey came up. No sooner did we stop to watch than he launched a blast toward us. It banged down in an empty section in front of us. It was like he knew we were there. That was the magic of Griffey.
I was in center field with my old man in 1995 when Griffey scored in Game 5 of the ALDS. Edgar Martinez's double down the line and Griffey's sprint was the the most joyful moment of my life up to that point. Say what you want, but you will not convince me anyone has ever covered the distance from first to home faster.
I was at Safeco Field the weekend it opened, watching Griffey on the beautiful green grass on a magnificent Seattle summer day. And like everyone else who understands the history of baseball in Seattle, I know that stadium wouldn’t be there if it weren’t for Junior.
Even when he left for his hometown team, there was something different about Griffey. He wasn’t a superstar who said he wanted to win but took the money when push came to shove. He was traded to Cincinnati and took less money than he could have earned elsewhere.
His time in Cincinnati was tough. Injuries dimmed the possibility that he might some day eclipse Hank Aaron, and in the absence of Griffey’s tape-measure blasts and gravity-defying catches, McGwire and Sosa and then Bonds conned America with their prolific numbers and—at least for many—permanently tainted America's pastime. First Maris’s record fell. Then, perhaps the most hallowed of all, Aaron’s 755. Numbers that could have belonged to Junior.
Finally when the curtain was pulled back to reveal rampant abuse of steroids and other performance enhancing drugs, baseball fans were left to wonder if anything was sacred, if anything could be trusted. PEDs were as much a part of the baseball lexicon as RBIs, and no slugger’s character was beyond reproach. Except The Kid’s. Never did Griffey’s name arise. Never was his name dragged through the Juiced Muck.
No asterisk will ever attach itself to Griffey, maybe because instead of bulking up in his 30s, Griffey broke down. Maybe because his waistline grew, not his hat size. Maybe because deep down, we saw that he was still just a kid playing a game. Whatever the reason, Griffey remained the hero I remember from my childhood. His legacy will not only be that as one of the greatest of all time, but as one who never succumbed to temptation.
Now, as a 40-year old man, he retires fifth* on the all-time home run list with 630, his numbers as pure as his swing. Sadly, he may be the last man to enter the pantheon of Aaron, Ruth, and Mays without anyone suspecting he had extra help. Ken Griffey Jr.'s retirement Wednesday marked the end of an era.
The game has become a business, no longer the place for a free-spirited nineteen-year old shagging flies, hat backwards, smile as wide as the eyes of kids watching him for the first time.
More than anything, Griffey’s smile will be what I remember most about the greatest player I ever saw, the last great slugger. It was the smile he wore in the batting cage, the smile on his face at the bottom of the pig pile after he slid into home to win the ‘95 ALDS, the same smile I saw last summer.
When Griffey decided to return to Seattle at the beginning of the 2009 season, there was perfect symmetry to it. And while his numbers weren’t what they once were, he still brought that same magic with him every time he stepped to the plate in front of the Seattle fans.
***
Like the President walking into a room, everyone was standing as Griffey stepped into the batter’s box last August 12th.
After falling behind in the count, Griffey, in the winter of his career, gave us one more brilliant summer memory. With that picture perfect swing, he lined the 1-2 pitch down the right field line, bringing in the winning run from second. Moments later, as his teammates poured out of the dugout, Griffey, a grown man now, ran from the mob of Mariners chasing him on the shallow outfield grass, smile stretched wide, just like The Kid I'll always remember.
