Years later, Griffey still inspires imaginations

At first, Ken Griffey Jr. was my refuge from bedtime. Before I could grasp his brilliance, I knew Junior was great because he could make my father forget his No. 1 rule: Lights out at 10 p.m.

The Kid saved this kid, always. I could be a night owl as long as Griffey came through. Dad was mesmerized by his flair, his swing, his ability to transform a mundane baseball game into a breathtaking exhibition at any moment. From Paducah, Ky., we adored Griffey. From the central time zone, we tweaked our internal clocks to make sure we didn't miss the blessing of a nationally televised Mariners game.

It didn't happen enough, but when it did, we were there, sitting before a 32-inch screen. And if it ever got so late that Dad had to send us to bed, he would awaken me and my brother if Griffey did something spectacular while our eyes were closed.

I can still hear Dad's late-night wake-up calls. He pushed open the bedroom door with so much force that it sounded more like a yelp than a creak.

"Griffey hit another one!" he'd exclaim. Or he'd say we have to see the catch Griffey just made — right now. Then we tried to race to the television for the replay.

There were maybe 20 of those nights spread throughout my early teens. The sprinkles of joy served as a respite from my attempts to awkwardly exercise independence from my parents. In those moments, I was happy being a kid. Thanks to The Kid.

Griffey just hit his 600th home run. His Hall of Fame résumé needs no more accomplishments. If he wants to continue playing and pursue a reunion with the Mariners, that's great. If he wants to chase a championship, that's even better. But he doesn't have to do anything; the cement on his legacy is dry.

The greatest tribute to Griffey doesn't involve numbers. The 600 homers, the 13 All-Star Game appearances and the 10 Gold Gloves are outstanding, but they are only the obvious accomplishments. His impact has been much more intimate.

From 2,200 miles away, I felt how Griffey could move an audience. When I moved to Seattle, I realized I had experienced only a pinch of it.

Some of you grew up with Griffey. Some of you stayed young because of Junior's zest. He was your treasure.

You saw every facet of him, from the 19-year-old wunderkind running alongside his father to the most dominant and charismatic player in baseball to the heartbreaker who left for Cincinnati after 1999.

You saw him smile like a child and whine like a child. I watched him; you lived him. I'm jealous, so jealous.

At the queasy age of 30, there aren't many times I wish to be older. But it would've been great to be old enough to work here during Junior's heyday.

Oh, to be born 10 years earlier.

Then again, those memories of Dad soothe the envy.

Dad is a lefty, like Junior. Only he could mimic Griffey's upright batting stance accurately. I could never make it look correct from the right side, could never make it look intimidating during lousy switch-hitting attempts.

"Son, go back to the right side and bend your knees," Dad would say. "You can't hit that way."

He never said, "You're not Griffey." He didn't have to.

Truth be told, Spokane's Ryne Sandberg was my childhood idol because I was a second baseman. But Junior made baseball hip. He made my occasional stints in center field feel like an opportunity instead of boredom. I always wanted to attempt the Spiderman catch.

In high school, the opportunity presented itself, but my spikes slid down the concrete wall at Brooks Stadium, our home ballpark. I fell on my back. The ball caromed off the top of the fence and tumbled away from me.

The batter got a triple. I got a cursing.

"What was that, Brewer?" Coach asked in a not-so PG manner.

I scurried to a seat at the end of the dugout. Then, with my glove covering my mouth, I laughed for the entire half inning.

Charles Caleb Colton said imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. Well, what would he say about failed imitation?

No doubt, there will never be another Griffey.

He has joined Hank Aaron, Babe Ruth, Willie Mays, Barry Bonds and Sammy Sosa in the 600-homer club. The common reaction is appreciation, followed by an astonishing realization: If not for all the injuries, he could have about 750 by now.

It doesn't diminish the accomplishment, however. In a sense, it's appropriate that his career leaves something to the imagination.

I often went to bed dreaming of what Junior might do next. Later, Dad would bolt into the room. Reality was always better than the fantasy.

Jerry Brewer: 206-464-2277 or jbrewer@seattletimes.com. For his Extra Points blog, visit seattletimes.com/sports