Friday, February 11, 2000
Griffey proves there's no place like home
BY PAUL DAUGHERTY
The Cincinnati Enquirer
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Ken Griffey Jr.
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They all come back, sooner or later. Something about Cincinnati brings them home. I can't explain it. I only know it to be true. It's the same something that has kept people living in Price Hill for generations, sending their sons to Elder and their daughters to Seton. It's the same truth that kept Anthony Munoz, a native southern Californian, in Symmes Township.
Cris Collinsworth came for a career and stayed for a lifetime. Some never leave: Oscar Robertson, Barry Larkin, Joe Nuxhall, Dave Parker. Larkin turned down more money to play elsewhere, because the town suits his personality.
Now, Ken Griffey Jr., Moeller '87, has returned, seeking something only he can define. It's a feeling. That's what they all say.
“My dad (Ken Sr., erstwhile Big Red Machinist, current Reds bench coach) gets to take my son to the ballpark,” is how he explained it. “I look forward to having my kids run around the locker room just like (I) did when my dad played.”
The chain is broken almost everywhere else. Families split. Kids grow up and away. The trip home is more ordeal than joy. Not here, not for Griffey Jr. Not now.
To return to his hometown, Griffey accepted a contract that will pay him upfront for the next nine years less than half what he could have earned elsewhere. The Seattle Mariners had of fered Griffey a seven-year extension worth more than $17 million a year; beginning this season, Griffey will play here for about $7 million a year, a figure that doesn't include 16 years of deferred money.
That's remarkable.
That's like buying Indian Hill and paying for it with Blue Ash.
It's not Manhattan-for-beads. But in the twisted world of baseball economics, it's close.
Griffey did it for the simplest reason: It made him happy.
So many players say the same things: “I want to play close to home. I want to be near my family.”
Kevin Brown said it. Then he signed with the Los Angeles Dodgers. Brown's family lives in Georgia, which is close to L.A. if you live in the Ukraine.
Greg Vaughn left the Reds last year, deciding he wanted to play closer to his Sacramento, Calif., home and on a grass surface. Vaughn then signed for many millions to play indoors, for Tampa Bay. Uh-huh.
I don't intend to god-up Griffey before he plays an inning here. Someone the Reds will pay $117 million over the life of the deal is ripe for benevolent gestures. I mean, how much money does a body need?
But ballplayers (and to a lesser extent, the rest of us) measure their worth by the money they make. If Player A is making $10 million, Player B wants the same or a little more, if his production is similar. At that ridiculous rate, it's not the money; it's what the money means.
For Griffey to take what amounts to a pay cut required more than simply his affection for Cincinnati and his roots. It took a massive reduction of his ego.
As Cris Collinsworth said Thursday night, “This isn't the modern-day athlete I know.” A decade ago, Collinsworth told me he liked Cincinnati because he never felt he needed to lock his door at night. Thursday night, he said, “People in New York laugh at me because I live here. But when you're raising four kids, I kind of like it.”
Of course, all the planets were perfectly aligned. The Mariners needed to trade Griffey; Griffey wanted to be here. Bud Selig, whose biggest challenge as commissioner will be to balance baseball's economic scales, no doubt was pleased that a small-market team landed a big-time player at a Value City discount.
But it was the town that swayed it. Cincinnati leaves fond memories. Ask your college kid about it the next time you ship him a case of chili or a slab of ribs.
Deion Sanders loved it here. In 1994, at the height of his Prime Time phase, Sanders could ride his bike to the ballpark from his Mt. Adams apartment and not be besieged. He could go shopping. He could go out to eat. He was amazed, and well pleased.
Boomer Esiason loved it here, because Children's Hospital offered excellent care for Gunnar, his son who has cystic fibrosis. Eric Davis enjoyed it here, because it was inexpensive and easy to get around. Being an L.A. guy, Davis knew the value of that.
Griffey knows all that; he lived it. “I'm just happy to be home,” he said.
On Thursday, we celebrated him home. Those of us who didn't grow up in Cincinnati can only imagine what Junior knows. But if you live here long enough, you have an idea: It's an easy place. Little traffic, little crime, good schools. We're polite. We don't intrude. We're too down-to-earth to worship celebrity. We let our celebs breathe.
It's a win for small-market baseball and for beating long odds. It's a win for Cincinnati, mostly. The best player in the game will play in Cincinnati because he likes it here. It's home. Soon enough, Jeff Ruby will name a steak after him.
Cincinnati is back on top, in the game it damn-near invented. The gods are warming up in the bullpen, and they are well pleased.
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