My mental picture of Ken Griffey Jr. isn’t the oft-injured Red or aging Mariner missing pitches he used to crush.
No. Griffey, who retired this week, will always be the 20-year-old kid shouting to Will and me in the Comiskey Park outfield.
Our time in Chicago for the ballpark’s final two games produced an unimaginable stream of baseball adventures, and Griffey starred in one.
You have to understand the scene. It was the time before the final game, and the assembled media was allowed to wander the field, at least the part in foul territory.
That’s not usual. Go to a game and you’ll see a handful reporters and lensmen among the players taking batting practice.
The White Sox, it seems, didn’t deny a single media request. Ours were shaky, but still legit since I was in fact a reporter and Will was in fact a sports editor. It was not the first time – nor the last – that we would have credentials.
But there were people walking around that field with media credentials around their necks snapping photos with disc cameras, which no semi-serious photog, much less a professional, would be caught dead holding.
It was a surreal scene. Ron Karkovice walked around with his toddler daughter, Ozzie Guillen signed autographs with his uniform number shaved into the back of his head. Infamous DJ Steve Dahl of Disco Demolition Night fame held court by a dugout. Our favorite was a television guy wearing a mobster suit, and up close we noticed that the gray in his hair was sprayed on.
So Will and I walked around, taking this all in. Then we spotted Griffey and two others walk out to a spot in the outfield on the first base side, down the line a little.
Griffey was in his second year and already dominating, and this was in that short period when the Mariners also had his father on the roster. We were able to see father and son, playing side by side in the outfield.
So we scurried near the spot where Griffey was standing. One of the people with him was a photographer, but we didn’t know who the other guy was.
We walked right up to the foul line as Will started snapping away.
Then it happened. Our conversation with Junior.
“Hey! Who you work for?”
We looked around. Ken Griffey Jr. was talking to us.
“Who you work for?”
“The Flint Journal,” I sheepishly replied.
“You’re all right.”
Then Junior, bat in hand, looked at Will, .
“Who you work for?”
“The Flint Journal,” Will also replied.
“Not a card company?”
“It’s a newspaper.”
“You’re all right.”
Given Junior’s blessing, Will started snapping away. This drew the attention of the third guy.
“Fellas, this is a private shoot,” he said, holding up his hand like a traffic cop. “A private shoot.”
We looked at each other and smiled. The idea that there could be anything private about that afternoon was comical, much less the hottest player in the game posing in centerfield.
Aside from all the people in the stands, there was an army of legitimate and illegitimate photographers ready to snap photos of anything and everything. And they all had already documented Ozzie’s hair and Karko’s kid.
We kept clicking away.
Later that year, Will came across a baseball card of Griffey distributed only on the West Coast, distributed by a cookie company called Mother’s.
There was Griffey, in his Mariners road uniform and the unmistakable arches of old Comiskey Park in the background. It also explained why Griffey asked if we were shooting for one of the card companies.
No. Griffey, who retired this week, will always be the 20-year-old kid shouting to Will and me in the Comiskey Park outfield.
Our time in Chicago for the ballpark’s final two games produced an unimaginable stream of baseball adventures, and Griffey starred in one.
You have to understand the scene. It was the time before the final game, and the assembled media was allowed to wander the field, at least the part in foul territory.
That’s not usual. Go to a game and you’ll see a handful reporters and lensmen among the players taking batting practice.
The White Sox, it seems, didn’t deny a single media request. Ours were shaky, but still legit since I was in fact a reporter and Will was in fact a sports editor. It was not the first time – nor the last – that we would have credentials.
But there were people walking around that field with media credentials around their necks snapping photos with disc cameras, which no semi-serious photog, much less a professional, would be caught dead holding.
It was a surreal scene. Ron Karkovice walked around with his toddler daughter, Ozzie Guillen signed autographs with his uniform number shaved into the back of his head. Infamous DJ Steve Dahl of Disco Demolition Night fame held court by a dugout. Our favorite was a television guy wearing a mobster suit, and up close we noticed that the gray in his hair was sprayed on.
So Will and I walked around, taking this all in. Then we spotted Griffey and two others walk out to a spot in the outfield on the first base side, down the line a little.
Griffey was in his second year and already dominating, and this was in that short period when the Mariners also had his father on the roster. We were able to see father and son, playing side by side in the outfield.
So we scurried near the spot where Griffey was standing. One of the people with him was a photographer, but we didn’t know who the other guy was.
We walked right up to the foul line as Will started snapping away.
Then it happened. Our conversation with Junior.
“Hey! Who you work for?”
We looked around. Ken Griffey Jr. was talking to us.
“Who you work for?”
“The Flint Journal,” I sheepishly replied.
“You’re all right.”
Then Junior, bat in hand, looked at Will, .
“Who you work for?”
“The Flint Journal,” Will also replied.
“Not a card company?”
“It’s a newspaper.”
“You’re all right.”
Given Junior’s blessing, Will started snapping away. This drew the attention of the third guy.
“Fellas, this is a private shoot,” he said, holding up his hand like a traffic cop. “A private shoot.”
We looked at each other and smiled. The idea that there could be anything private about that afternoon was comical, much less the hottest player in the game posing in centerfield.
Aside from all the people in the stands, there was an army of legitimate and illegitimate photographers ready to snap photos of anything and everything. And they all had already documented Ozzie’s hair and Karko’s kid.
We kept clicking away.
Later that year, Will came across a baseball card of Griffey distributed only on the West Coast, distributed by a cookie company called Mother’s.
There was Griffey, in his Mariners road uniform and the unmistakable arches of old Comiskey Park in the background. It also explained why Griffey asked if we were shooting for one of the card companies.
