Welcome Back, Old Friend

This past week I succumbed once again to the Major League Baseball All-Star Game. It’s been years since this game had any value, and likely, all meaning was lost with that tie in Milwaukee. But like organized crime, once I thought I was out, they pulled me back in.

This year’s game was different, though. Like most fans, I quickly lost interest after the second inning and left the game on in the background as I did other things around the apartment. Then, in the top of the fourth, I looked over as the announcers got excited about Alex Rodriguez trying to score from second on a short single to right field. My gaze hit the screen just as Ken Griffey Jr. fielded the ball and fired home a rocket of a toss that beat A-Rod by five steps.

In that moment I was catapulted back to junior high. A friend of mine sent me an IM at the same moment saying, “he’s still my favorite,” and we were both awash in the memory of what baseball could be.

As much as the NFL wants you to believe it’s top dog, baseball is still the sport that wholesome American youths grow up playing. And for those between twenty and thirty years of age, Ken Griffey Jr. was baseball. He debuted with the Seattle Mariners at the age of 18 and was actually able to play in the same outfield as his father. Junior was labeled a “can’t miss” prospect, hitting monster home runs with his beautiful, natural swing. He spent his life around the game, but he was never jaded, nor did he treat it like a job. Every baseball card or magazine cover revealed a kid, with a huge smile that encompassed the majestic history of our national pastime.

My generation didn’t get to experience a Sunday afternoon at Ebbets field or the kind of camaraderie between players and fans that our fathers and grandfathers relive with such joy at each retelling. For us, there was only Griffey.

Watching now, those days seem much longer than fifteen years ago. Do you remember when the most controversial issue in baseball was whether or not it was disrespectful for Griffey to wear his hat backward during batting practice? Our lives have changed, and our world along with it. The game of baseball has become a metaphor for our lives. The game is in turmoil; it’s complicated and now it’s certainly not the simple, unadulterated national pastime that occupied our every adolescent thought each summer. It seems that as we’ve encountered adulthood with all of its worries and responsibility, baseball has come along for the ride.

Even the mighty Junior Griffey was not immune to baseball’s free fall into the real world. He lost nearly three seasons worth of prime production to reoccurring and downright frustrating injuries. As exhilarating as it was to enjoy the ease and beauty of Griffey at his peak, it was equally humbling to see him hobble down the first base line like an old man, worn by the cares of the world. It’s as if our only escape from the drudgery of life was taken from us at the exact moment we needed him most.

So this evening, as Ken Griffey Jr. launched that ball towards the plate in that characteristic style that we thought existed only in our memories, perched on that throw as we were perched on the edge of our seats, was every kid who grew up watching baseball in the late 80’s and early 90’s. Gone, if only for a moment, were steroids and players’ strikes, nine figure contracts and tabloid headlines. Gone, if only for a moment, was the long-buried, unconscious notion that the large man across the diamond was about to take the record that rightfully belonged to our guy.

Think about it. All things being equal, if baseball had played out the way it was supposed to, Ken Griffey Jr. would be approaching 755 this summer and Barry Bonds would be ending an illustrious, if under-publicized first-ballot Hall of Fame career with his 600th home run. This summer should have been Griffey’s coronation, not Bonds’ crucifixion.

Maybe I’m living in a “Field of Dreams” world, but watching Ken Griffey take the field everyday, hitting home runs with that same smooth swing, gunning down runners with impossible ease turns my thoughts to a baseball future. There has got to be something beyond all the controversy, something that can bring baseball back for our children and our children’s children, something that can restore the honor and innocence to the game we love. Some would say it’s an impossible dream, but watching Junior play this most beautiful game, gives me hope.