Watching the Mariners crawl their way toward respectability like the first fishes onto the world’s beaches, I never would have believed that Ken Griffey Jr. might ever not be the best player in baseball, much less that he would end up being considered junior to his dad. It’s happening, though.
It’s Wednesday night, and I didn’t write my column early because I was watching the Mariners-Athletics game. Now I sit down, feeling a little vindicated for my season-long fight against local anti-Mike Cameron sentiment.
The Mariners face the A’s again tomorrow, starting Joel Pineiro against Cory Lidle. The Angels have John Lackey facing Colby Lewis. I don’t think this particularly unfair to the Mariners; it’s not as if they didn’t have their chances to beat up on bad teams, or anything. Their pit is one they’ve dug themselves with crappy pickups and a low-key battle between the manager and GM, where Piniella seems determined to put the awful pieces he’s been given (like Jose Offerman) in crucial game situations where their failures are magnified. Gillick in retaliation doesn’t care.
Certainty changes everything. Baseball’s exciting, if for no other reason, because the Devil Rays–an abjectly bad franchise–can beat the Yankees every couple of times they meet. Unlike in football, the outcome of a single contest between a defending champion and a perennial cellar-dweller is relatively uncertain, thus every game has the ability to provide a legitimate sense of drama. It’s the lack of certainty that makes it the greatest sport in the world.
MONKEYS EQUALS WINNING
“You have to respect the monkey, that’s for sure. Every time he peeks his little head out, something happens for them. You got to respect him or kidnap him, one or the other.”
–Desi Relaford, Mariners infielder, on playing at Edison Field
I can think of only one good thing about Ken Griffey Jr.’s injury: it’s a legend in the making, right up there with the Curse of the Bambino, and it reinforces why baseball is the greatest game on earth.
Seattle Mariners