In January of 1988, Ken Griffey Jr., then only 18 years old, attempted suicide by swallowing over 200 aspirins. He was rushed to the hospital, had his stomach pumped, and survived. I can tell you without pause that I would not be anyone if he had succeeded. Without Griffey, I would not be interested in baseball. Without baseball, I would not have been interested in sports, and without sports, I would be nowhere.
Finally, someone said about the game this past year “Griffey is the kind of person that you can put into a crowded stadium with 40,000 people cheering for him and only one person booing, and he will hear the boo. At that game, no one booed.” No one. And I can honestly say that I would sacrifice 2 or 3 years of playoff appearances if it meant I could watch Griffey play in a Mariner uniform again, because it is thanks to him that I will be able to enjoy baseball long after he’s gone.
So here’s to you on your 38th birthday, Griffey. I hope you have several more years of health and happiness, and I will continue to check the Cincinnati box scores until the day you retire. You may not have saved the Mariners, but you still saved baseball for me.