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 Understanding Griffey
Posted: Monday May 24, 1999 01:35 PM
I have only had one conversation with Ken Griffey Jr. Actually, nix that. Unless two words can be considered a conversation, I have only had one encounter with Ken Griffey Jr. It was this past February, in Phoenix, at the Mariners' spring training site. I was in the clubhouse, waiting to speak with Jay Buhner. Griffey, walking by, accidentally dropped his bat. "Good hands," he said to me with a self-depreciating laugh. I nodded. "Yeah." That was the conversation. Over the weekend the two old friends caught up. I was in the Seattle clubhouse, following the Mariners' solid 7-4 win over the Royals in Kansas City. I was hovering near David Bell. I was minding my own business. I was quiet. Griffey, heading toward the chow room, walked by. "Hey," he said. "Where's your hat?" "Oh -- I left it in the hotel." Griffey laughed and strolled on. The oddness of young George Kenneth's remark didn't hit me until 20 minutes later when I realized the greatest player in baseball -- a man consumed by interview requests and autograph hounds and the occasional two-run tater -- had recalled my headwear of three months back. Coincidentally or not, I had used this night in K.C. to watch Junior from afar, to find any little nooks and crannies that had not been previously exposed. Here's what I got: Griffey is a weird bird, way too complex a package for the tidy summations that have usually been written of his life. He comes off to the public as a gentle, happy-go-lucky sort, but is known within the baseball world as 50% genuinely caring, 50% scathingly harsh. Griffey will refuse to converse with a reporter and go days without giving in. He will tell a journalist "five minutes" and then speak eloquently for an hour. In my opinion, he is, outside of Tony Gwynn, the game's most intelligent hitter, but he despises such questions as "What kind of thrill do you get from the home run?" or "What's your career highlight?"His favorite subject is his father -- but never, ever, ever suggest Senior was not the player Junior is. Griffey will tell you, straight up, that his dad was way better. Junior's finest trait, everyone remarks, is memory. Griffey has a splendid memory, not just for baseball, but society. He holds people accountable for their actions. Not long ago he asked a writer to refrain from printing something. The writer printed it. Griffey scolded him -- immediately. He can be your worst friend or your best enemy. Your best friend or your worst enemy. He can pop a remark that will make you feel so small, then pat you on the back like a brother. In early April, I was staying at the same Anaheim hotel as the Mariners. There was a skateboard convention in town. In the lobby, a bunch of shaggy-haired boarders spotted Griffey. He spotted them, walked over, shook hands, asked about the artform. There was sincerity -- true interest. It reminds me of this Saturday, when he inquired of my hat. Sports Illustrated staff writer Jeff Pearlman offers his unique view on baseball every week.
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