There's usually no way to know when your childhood ends. You get a job. You get married. You have kids. Probably somewhere in there. But for thousands of people who grew up watching Ken Griffey Jr., their childhood ended June 2, 2010. It's impossible to overstate what Junior means to Seattle or to baseball. The 630 career home runs and the 13 All-Star Games don't even scratch the surface. Defensively, Willie Mays is the only other centerfielder who can compare. Offensively, Junior's swing is one of the most fluid things I've ever seen. The guy was born to play baseball.
I've said it before and I'll say it again, I'd rather watch Junior strike out than see any other player hit a home run.
Many will lament about how injuries ravaged Junior's career. But doing so completely disrespects Griffey's legacy. Even with the injuries, Junior put together one of the greatest careers in baseball history. And in an era where his most of his contemporaries have been linked to performance enhancing drugs, Griffey stands among few who can honestly say that they played the game the right way.
A number of people have told me that they don't love anything as much as I love Junior. While I realize my passion for all things Griffey is a little intense, I'd like to think it's more a result of falling in love with baseball at the exact time that Griffey started his career. To have the best player in the world playing in your city as you're growing up is an incredible gift.
Seattle has seen it's share of great athletes. But Junior is the only one who was the absolute best in his respective sport.
I'm lucky enough to say I saw Junior's last home run and his last hit. I am beyond grateful to have literally hundreds of Griffey moments that replay in my mind on a daily basis. But the best part about those moments is that I got to share everyone of them with my family and my best friends.
This season did not go as planned. The Mariners were supposed to contend, and Griffey was supposed to provide some pop to a lineup that couldn't rely solely on Rob Johnson's potent bat. But in a tragically ironic way, it's a fitting end for a player whose career did not go as planned.
Even as the season continued to unfold at frustrating levels, I still maintained that I had 50 games in me. I could handle Griffey as a glorified pinch hitter. Having Junior in the stadium provided a sense that you could see something special. Now I'm not sure if I have ten more games in me.
Baseball just doesn't seem as much fun anymore.
