I usually don’t write about being “happy” or “liking” things, but the word of Ken Griffey Jr’s imminent return to the Seattle Mariners — pending a physical this weekend — is making me feel… what is this? Nostalgia? Wow, what a feeling. I can see why Baby Boomers are such self-indulgent dicks.
It was almost 20 years ago that I began collecting everything and anything Griffey — baseball cards, posters, t-shirts, even the crappy candy bars that bore his visage — and I did it all while living outside a pair of NL towns (Philly and St. Louis) before interleague play or the internet. I lived to read box scores, and I cursed the Eastern time zone for late games. But in the span of just a couple years, major league baseball had a strike, Griffey left for Cincinnati, the steroid scandal exploded, and before I knew it I liked football better than baseball. Which is fine. We get older; our tastes change.
I know that Griffey’s old now. I know that he’s useless in the field and can only help the team as a DH. And I don’t care. I’m going to watch more baseball this summer than I have in a decade. For nine innings at a time, I’m going to feel a little younger. Here’s hoping Junior will, too.