Thursday, August 12, 2004
a city turns its lonely eyes to you
We all knew it was coming. In fact, we were hoping for it; better this than watching Edgar paint the final strokes of his masterpiece in foreign robes. I would have watched all of his postseason games with a new team, hoping for a dramatic moment from our local bat-wielding deity - even if he was on the Yankees, yes. (Sorry John, I like you, but I’m hoping you cost the Yankees a game or two). But this is the right way, the way it was meant to be. This is, quite permanently, the end of an era.
In the beginning, there was losing. And God saw the losing, and it was of no consequence, because it was baseball. But to us, it was important. And depressing. We watched the likes of Phil Bradly, Alvin Davis, Rupert Jones, Mark Langston, Jim Pressley, and (if you’re a bit older than I) Tom Paciorek and Floyd Bannister represent Seattle in All-Star Games. We saw game after game of empty seats, season after season of losing records. We watched Mike Kingery appear to soil himself every time he stepped in the box, and we saw Dave Valle lose a home run to a speaker in center field (I swear – I was there). But something happened as we entered the age of glossy and multi-branded baseball cards – the Mariners started to play ball. The early 90’s brought us a winning season, defensive wizardry that electrified the crowd (thank you Omar), and a no-hitter. A Kid named Griffey gave us our first glimpse of Hall of Fame talent. But most importantly, a man came to be the quiet constant in the heart of the lineup.
Throughout the 90’s we were lucky to watch Ken Griffey Jr., Randy Johnson, and Alex Rodriguez, and Jay Buhner play every day. Buhner was the most fan-friendly, Griffey the most exciting. We adored him - he was Seattle’s savior, our golden child. Sports Illustrated put him on the cover with the words, “The Natural,” and he beat the jinx. (sadly, it looks it has caught up to him in Cincinnati). Watching games with my friend Jason, we would stand with our hand over our heart when he batted. But Edgar was always the tie that binds. He brought us the batting title in 1992, spraying hits wherever there was open grass or turf, and became a hero in ’95.
The replay was impossible to ignore; it was everywhere – SportsCenter, local news, and the inside of our eyelids even to this day: Griffey, racing to right-center on a long fly ball (you just knew he was going to get it) leaps in the air, catches the ball, and right there, right as he hits the wall, you see his left wrist bend in a not-so-good, yet not-so-bad way, but as he unsticks his cleats from the wall and plummets towards the warning track turf, you see him curl it up to avoid a carpal landing. As he walked off the field with that mix of pain and sorrow on his face, we knew our hopes for the year were following right behind.
But we were wrong; we stayed alive. Edgar kept us alive. Throughout that summer the man could not be held down – he hit doubles to all parts of every stadium, got on base at an amazing (pre-bondsian) clip, and drove in Mariner after Mariner. Edgar made September and October of 1995 possible through a magnificent season. And then he became a legend.
Ken Griffey Jr. hit 5 home runs in the 5 game series with New York. Randy Johnson came out of the bullpen in game 5. But Edgar finished the job. In Game four, with the game tied, he crushed a grand slam off of the unhittable John Wetteland to force the deciding fifth game, pumping his fist high in the air as he rounded the bases. That image lasts because it was so rare – emotion on the field was not part of Edgars performance; he just stuck to hitting. Griffey smiled, Johnson pointed to the sky, and Alex Rodriguez clapped, but Edgar just hit. And we loved him for it.
One by one the Mariners drifted away. Randy Johnson tanked his way to Houston, Ken Griffey Jr. forced his way to Cincinnati, and Alex Rodriguez followed the money to Texas. Jay Buhner stayed. He fought through injuries in his last two seasons, reaching 300 home runs and remaining productive when healthy, but eventually he had to call it a career. But we still had Edgar. All we had to do was look to the heart of the order to find the heart of the Mariners. Sadly, that time is coming to a close.
When Edgar retires this fall, this team will change forever. This will no longer be the team that I grew up with; no longer the team that conquered a city and built a baseball town in its place. Edgar is the last vestige of the true “Seattle Mariners,” and losing him will be nearly impossible to overcome.
Yes, I love Ichiro, and he is the star that bridges the gap from glory days to the uncertain future. He is a unique spectacle in the field, with his surprising arm and unmatched bat control, but he is no Edgar. Maybe in a few years Ichiro can fill those slow shoes, but for now there is some empty – and large – footwear in the clubhouse and on the field. Without Edgar, this becomes a new team. They are no longer “your Seattle Mariners.”
Maybe I’m being overly dramatic. I will still wear my hat and 1970’s jacket with pride wherever I go, and will continue watch the M’s, read about them, and offer loving advice and analysis through the blogsphere; I will still call them my team, and still root for none other anywhere near as much as the Mariners. But it will take some time get acclimated to the new team. Checking the box scores will no longer be the same; they will be filled with free agents and players with established records in different cities.
Like Edgar, Ichiro got his start with the Mariners at age 27, and we are likely to see a few young players from our system stick with the team over the next couple years. These guys have the chance to create a New Mariners, one that will carry us through to the next heartbreaking retirement. I only hope that they start soon, because losing Edgar, and my Seattle Mariners, leaves a gaping hole deep inside.
In the beginning, there was losing. And God saw the losing, and it was of no consequence, because it was baseball. But to us, it was important. And depressing. We watched the likes of Phil Bradly, Alvin Davis, Rupert Jones, Mark Langston, Jim Pressley, and (if you’re a bit older than I) Tom Paciorek and Floyd Bannister represent Seattle in All-Star Games. We saw game after game of empty seats, season after season of losing records. We watched Mike Kingery appear to soil himself every time he stepped in the box, and we saw Dave Valle lose a home run to a speaker in center field (I swear – I was there). But something happened as we entered the age of glossy and multi-branded baseball cards – the Mariners started to play ball. The early 90’s brought us a winning season, defensive wizardry that electrified the crowd (thank you Omar), and a no-hitter. A Kid named Griffey gave us our first glimpse of Hall of Fame talent. But most importantly, a man came to be the quiet constant in the heart of the lineup.
Throughout the 90’s we were lucky to watch Ken Griffey Jr., Randy Johnson, and Alex Rodriguez, and Jay Buhner play every day. Buhner was the most fan-friendly, Griffey the most exciting. We adored him - he was Seattle’s savior, our golden child. Sports Illustrated put him on the cover with the words, “The Natural,” and he beat the jinx. (sadly, it looks it has caught up to him in Cincinnati). Watching games with my friend Jason, we would stand with our hand over our heart when he batted. But Edgar was always the tie that binds. He brought us the batting title in 1992, spraying hits wherever there was open grass or turf, and became a hero in ’95.
The replay was impossible to ignore; it was everywhere – SportsCenter, local news, and the inside of our eyelids even to this day: Griffey, racing to right-center on a long fly ball (you just knew he was going to get it) leaps in the air, catches the ball, and right there, right as he hits the wall, you see his left wrist bend in a not-so-good, yet not-so-bad way, but as he unsticks his cleats from the wall and plummets towards the warning track turf, you see him curl it up to avoid a carpal landing. As he walked off the field with that mix of pain and sorrow on his face, we knew our hopes for the year were following right behind.
But we were wrong; we stayed alive. Edgar kept us alive. Throughout that summer the man could not be held down – he hit doubles to all parts of every stadium, got on base at an amazing (pre-bondsian) clip, and drove in Mariner after Mariner. Edgar made September and October of 1995 possible through a magnificent season. And then he became a legend.
Ken Griffey Jr. hit 5 home runs in the 5 game series with New York. Randy Johnson came out of the bullpen in game 5. But Edgar finished the job. In Game four, with the game tied, he crushed a grand slam off of the unhittable John Wetteland to force the deciding fifth game, pumping his fist high in the air as he rounded the bases. That image lasts because it was so rare – emotion on the field was not part of Edgars performance; he just stuck to hitting. Griffey smiled, Johnson pointed to the sky, and Alex Rodriguez clapped, but Edgar just hit. And we loved him for it.
One by one the Mariners drifted away. Randy Johnson tanked his way to Houston, Ken Griffey Jr. forced his way to Cincinnati, and Alex Rodriguez followed the money to Texas. Jay Buhner stayed. He fought through injuries in his last two seasons, reaching 300 home runs and remaining productive when healthy, but eventually he had to call it a career. But we still had Edgar. All we had to do was look to the heart of the order to find the heart of the Mariners. Sadly, that time is coming to a close.
When Edgar retires this fall, this team will change forever. This will no longer be the team that I grew up with; no longer the team that conquered a city and built a baseball town in its place. Edgar is the last vestige of the true “Seattle Mariners,” and losing him will be nearly impossible to overcome.
Yes, I love Ichiro, and he is the star that bridges the gap from glory days to the uncertain future. He is a unique spectacle in the field, with his surprising arm and unmatched bat control, but he is no Edgar. Maybe in a few years Ichiro can fill those slow shoes, but for now there is some empty – and large – footwear in the clubhouse and on the field. Without Edgar, this becomes a new team. They are no longer “your Seattle Mariners.”
Maybe I’m being overly dramatic. I will still wear my hat and 1970’s jacket with pride wherever I go, and will continue watch the M’s, read about them, and offer loving advice and analysis through the blogsphere; I will still call them my team, and still root for none other anywhere near as much as the Mariners. But it will take some time get acclimated to the new team. Checking the box scores will no longer be the same; they will be filled with free agents and players with established records in different cities.
Like Edgar, Ichiro got his start with the Mariners at age 27, and we are likely to see a few young players from our system stick with the team over the next couple years. These guys have the chance to create a New Mariners, one that will carry us through to the next heartbreaking retirement. I only hope that they start soon, because losing Edgar, and my Seattle Mariners, leaves a gaping hole deep inside.
# posted by Anonymous @ 3:08 PM 
Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home
<< Home
