#048 - Farewell.

Hard to believe this guy is now retired.

There are very few words I could use at this point to elucidate my feelings on George Kenneth Griffey, Jr. He's been my favorite athlete in any sport, for my whole life. In my Google profile picture, you might be able to notice that I'm wearing a Seattle Mariners sweatshirt. Who can they thank for that? Griffey. I once tried out for the reality show ESPN Dream Job where you compete to become a Sportscenter anchor. What play did I recall during my "Favorite Play-by-Play Memory"? Edgar's double down the line against the Yankees, scoring Griffey from first. Anytime I pick up a baseball bat, I can't help but rock my hips back and forth a bit, emulating his timeless pose. Unfortunately, I was only able to see him play in person three times, something I'm already greatly regretting. I had hoped to travel out to the Chicago and catch a couple last games of him with the Mariners in July, but as this news has broken, it's clear that's not going to happen.

It's sad to see him go.

It's sad to see him go like this. He's batting .184, no home runs, scant contribution and relegated to designated hitter (or designated walker, most appropriately). He never was chiseled, he was lean with a thick waist that would generate locomotive power. Now one might say he's a bit paunchy, his belt size a few notches bigger, father time taking his toll. His quickness has been sapped, moving from center field to right a few years ago. His fluid, picture-perfect swing has been drained of its speed, making him an easy mark for even middle of the road pitchers. It's not the way you envision it happening when you're 10 years old. You envision him standing up to bat, last game of the season, perched at 755 career home runs. Of course it would make sense to walk him, but in your head, there's no room on the bases. They've gotta pitch to him, even though it's obvious to everyone in the park what's going to happen. A mistake middle-in, and there's no doubt. He's carried around the bases by his teammates, his smile as brilliant as ever, his eyes lit up to show the little kid inside of him. Hank Aaron's at home plate to congratulate him. Carried off into the sunset.

That's how you want it to go down. That's how the story was written.

Written by all of us 10 year olds, glued to our sets as he homered in 8 straight games, leaping from our seats as he dismantles the Yankees with one of the all-time great performances, raising our fists as he turns in back to back 57 HR / 140 RBI seasons.

Covering our eyes as he crashes head first into walls.

Hanging our heads as he changes allegiances.

And welcoming him back with open arms.

The old legend has it that children, who are always said to be innocent, can cut right through all the bullshit facades and see you for who you really are. So it's no wonder schoolyards in the early 90s were packed with Griffey impersonators, littered with Mariners caps. Griffey was my first hero, as I'm sure he was for others. He jumped out at you as a guy you wanted to emulate, and for a change, parents had no problem with that. The same things that made him such a great player, wonderful teammate, and jubilant personality are the same things that bring him to today, his cleats hung up, his number on its way up the flagpole. Griffey never shied from the spotlight, but it's without question that his smiles were the brightest at the bottom of a mob of teammates.

In his statement to the team, he told his GM that he didn't want to be a distraction. He didn't want to hurt the team. He didn't want to take up a roster spot without providing anything in return. Being a good teammate has led him to being no teammate at all. But the parallels don't end there. In his prime, he was explosive and fearless, crashed into walls, laid himself out onto the Kingdome turf, piled up injury after injury, ripped his hamstrings from the bone. He always impressed with his grace and fluidity, and the years of bodily harm added up. Being such a fantastic player for so long ended up doing him in. Physically, he's not the same. He had a long swing, one that is etched into my brain as history's prettiest home run producer, but old age unmasked giant holes in it. Genuine old age. Natural old age. If there's anything you can say about Junior, it's that he was genuine. He comes out with his true feelings, whether it's pure joy as he cranks a homer, disappointment as his team falls short year after year, or the sadness of accepting his declining skills and bowing out. He foolishly thought you could get an edge by being a good guy. While all his contemporaries turned to the needle (or "flaxseed oil") and debuted bulging muscles and screaming line drives late into their 30s, Griffey let the game go naturally. His weight went to his hips. His fly balls started dying at the track. Once destined to barrel through Aaron's 755 barrier, Griffey limped across the line with 630 home runs. To 99.99999% of people, 630 homers is unreal. But for Griffey, there's always going to be a lingering "what if?" in the back of everyone's heads. He's almost unfairly being criticized because he didn't reach the lofty goals that were set for him. While it's humbling to get to this point and have to accept that Griffey wasn't going to be the one to break all those records, I don't think it should diminish what he was able to accomplish at all. If anything, it should just stand to commend Hank Aaron on what a machine he was. From ages 31-36, Griffey played in 554 games and hit 125 homers, as compared to Hammerin' Hank, who played in an astonishing 920 games and hit 226 home runs. Junior just couldn't stay healthy when he hit the wrong side of 30, and too many people are going to slight him based on the games he missed as opposed to the games he played. He still hit 630 home runs. He still drove in 1836 runs. He still accumulated 2781 hits. Those numbers are dumbfounding. Especially when you add to it an MVP award, 13 all-star appearances and 10 gold gloves. In 1998 he was already a first-ballot Hall of Famer. What is he now?

Now, he's the owner of one of the most incredible resumes ever seen in any Ken James or SABR anthology. He's the curator of the league's Jackie Robinson Day, coming up with the idea that he wanted to honor Jackie's memory by wearing his number one day a year--just his number, without a name. He's the savior of one franchise, one that was in physical and financial ruin before he came along and starting tearing the cover off the ball. He's a family man, something we saw as early as 1990 playing side-by-side (and homering back-to-back) with his father, Ken Sr. It's something we've witnessed throughout the years playing with his kids (sometimes to his detriment) on the ballfield, just as he did when he was a kid. And it's something he's struggled with this year, having to spend long stretches of games away from his family. He's a prankster, known for his clubhouse gags and for coming in and lightening the mood of a downtrodden Seattle team on the verge of pushing away its franchise player in 2009. He's the force behind a tiny plaque on the wall of the B&O Warehouse at Camden Yards, a tribute to his mammoth blast during the 1993 Home Run Derby. He's the star of one of the most impressive highlight reels in all of sports, one that I'll enjoy watching again and again until the day I die. He's a legend, but even more than that, he's a person.

I think it'll take some more time for people to truly appreciate Griffey for the player that he was. Playing in the steroid era cost him. It cost him home run titles, MVPs, and his place in history. Of his generation, he'll be joined in the 600 home run club by Sosa, Bonds, and A-Rod. The catch? Those three have been under constant steroid suspicion, whether it be rumors, grand jury testimony, or failed drug tests. Griffey? Clean. In fact, I've stated on many occasions, that if he's ever found out to NOT be clean, I think it will officially end my relationship with baseball altogether. I can't face that. Luckily, I doubt I will ever have to. But once all the dust settles from this tarnished period of the game, the players will likely be dumped into two categories: those who did, and those who didn't. For all his achievements, I can say without hesitation that Griffey will stand at the front of the steroid-free class, and rightfully take his place in baseball history with Aaron, with Mays, with Clemente--not above or below them, but alongside them.

Maybe it makes no difference to you, but to me, baseball won't be the same without him.

(Thanks to user rkuehn24 for this video. It's fantastic.)