Sayin' Goodbye to the Kid

Where was the parade? Where was the red carpet, the streets lined with mothers crying and the father's following suit? Where was the outpouring of gratitude and the stories of yester year and the grand send off? There was none of that this past Wednesday June 2nd (save for those people in the Pacific Northwest) when the greatest professional ballplayer of my childhood decided to hang up his cleats and call it a career. Now granted, there was a NHL Finals game 3 being played and also the "Nobody's Perfect" game being played out in Detroit, but all we got was a breaking news alert on the ESPN bottom line and a short blurb on SportsCenter. This can't be the way this finality actually plays out, right? Not for the man who was known by the nickname Jr. and played his entire career like he was back in the Pee Wee fields having a catch with his childhood buddies and enjoying the summer sun. For me Griffey was more than just a Hall of Fame ball player, he was the reason I became such an avid sports fan (or degenerate if you would) and the reason I use sports as a release. See, right around the time that Griffey started his career was when I started follow sports. I often used sports as my safe haven, the place where no matter what was going on in my young life, I could turn to and suddenly everything was ok. Through my parents divorce and difficulties in my childhood, I could turn on the TV and watch a ballgame and everything seemed ok. Now, don't get me wrong, I am Philadelphia through and through, born and raised in the Northeast corridor and I often refer to myself as a "4 for 4" guy who roots for my hometown team (save for my Black and Gold addiction). But there was something different about the Kid playing centerfield for the Seattle Mariners. He was loveable on so many levels. As a kid, you noticed the little things. The way he seemed to never take the game too seriously. The way he wore his cap backwards (no one was doing that at the time). The way he smiled throughout the game, seemingly oblivious to the pressures of being a million dollar ball player. I emulated him, hell, I wanted to be him. He of one of the sweetest left handed strokes in baseball history who could hit for power and average. The man who ran like a gazelle and who could have played all 3 outfield positions at the same time. He was that good. He also put up Nintendo numbers at a time where the steroid era was soon to reach it's crescendo. Now, I know at this point, no one can be fully exonerated because until we know for sure, there will be a haze of doubt that will fall over everyone who played at that time. But I swear I would give up my left arm if Griffey were ever named because in my eyes he was genuine, clean, and pure. At the time of his retirement, Griffey stands at #5 all time on the homerun list. Just imagine where he would stand today if he had not most of the first five years of this century due to injuries while playing in Cincinnati. It would be him, not Bonds, standing atop the leader board and being revered as the greatest homerun hitter ever while also doing it the right way. Free of needles and a bulked up physique. See, this is how it has to be, for my childhood, for those sleepy summer nights spent staying up until 2am to watch the highlights from a game just ending 3 time zones away. He embodied everything you looked for in a childhood hero. The grace, the smile, the attitude. He was larger than life and I swear that once he took off his jersey, the red cape would be revealed. So, what I would like to do now his thank him. Thank him for taking me away from reality for awhile. Thank him for doing the right thing. Thank him for playing the game like it wasn't for the endorsements, the fame, the glory. Thank him for playing for the love of the game. Make no mistakes. In five and a half years, the Halls doors will open up wide for him, giving him the credit he so rightfully deserves and we can all remember what a privilege it was to watch him play, as the Willie Mayes of my era. It's tough to watch a great athlete's career play out at the end. For every Brett Favre there are 100 Michael Jordans. Athletes who continued to play for different teams then what we were used to, on battered knees and diminished skills, holding on to the possibility there may be one more touchdown or goal or basket or homerun. Griffey was similar in this regard. To say the least, his last few years (Cincinnati, briefly with the White Sox and back with the Mariners) were uninspiring. But he still showed up with that smile! I won't remember these years though. The images that I'll remember are the Spiderman climbs on the Kingdome walls, the dog pile on homeplate when scoring the winning run against the Yankees in the playoffs, and hitting a homerun back to back with Griffey Sr. How cool is that? Playing baseball with your dad in the Show. So, with misty eyes, I say thank you. Thanks for being my escape. Thank you for entertaining a kid from the Northeast 3,000 miles away. And thank you letting us all see what greatness truly is.