Jobu's Altar: The Man Who Should Be King

Posted by Rob Rabies on 07.02.2007

In preparation for the media's turncoat circle-jerk of Barry Bonds after he hits 757, we should all take a look back and remember who should have taken his place in a fair world...

August 1993: This time was the halcyon of my baseball card collecting days. For a period of several months, I was a loyal customer of Beckett's baseball card value guide, and nearly every trip to the local Wal-Mart ended with another packet of foil-encased Upper Deck Cards in my possession. I horded them voraciously, hoping that each packet would include the one-in-twenty plus chance of Gold Signature card—which at the time ranged anywhere from 25-250 bucks (if you were lucky enough to get the Nolan Ryan Golden Sig). I only got one Golden Signature—Rondell White, and I hate the bastard to this day for being so damned worthless. If the sorry sonofabitch would have been Nolan Ryan, I could have bought 4 games for my Super Nintendo. Bastard.

August 1993 also marked my eleventh birthday. I had a horrible haircut; absolutely abysmal. I can't even make the excuse that it was the oh-so-common at the time bowl haircut, just a standard block chop inspired by the best wishes of my well-intentioned, but nevertheless off-base mother. Looking back at some photos of my formative years is the self-esteem equivalent of having my fingernails pulled out with Vise Grips. Slow, methodical torture. There's only one gift that I even remember from my eleventh birthday, and it's present in almost all of the photos of my follicular tragedy—a 1989 Upper Deck complete factory set with the plastic still on the box.

I'd wanted this particular set for over two years, not because it was the coup de grace of my baseball card collecting frenzy, but because it was the first set Upper Deck ever made—that in and of itself made it valuable to me—but what made it even more valuable was card #1 of the 800 or so in the box.

Ken Griffey Jr.'s rookie card.



Look at that exquisite Jherí Curl

There's really no logic behind why a kid chooses their particular favorite athlete in a given sport. I'm sure that Bill James could cook up some stupid formula weighing media coverage, statistical success, and championships won or competed for, but in reality it's a lot like physical attraction—mostly subjective. I can't explain why I liked Griffey other than the fact that I liked him. That he had a good repoire with the media was inconsequential to my decision, as the sports media at the time was a completely different animal, occupied moreso by information than entertainment.

Griffey had a megawatt smile and a 16 year old's face—he still does. His long, effortless swing and gazelle-like patrolling of the Kingdome turf added more to his Q factor.

How could you not like someone that cool?

Griffey was supposed to be the one. He was going to be the Tiger Woods of baseball—the prodigy groomed to be a superlative competitor, who came in and destroyed every record, loved the entire way he was burning a swath through the statistical almanacs.

Griffey, like Bonds, was the son of a major leaguer, and still to this day, is the only man to ever homer in the same game in which his father did the same. A lot of people forget that the quintessential debate of the first half of the 1990's was who was the better player—Griffey or Bonds. Bonds supporters could point to his power and speed numbers (after all, he is the only 500/500 guy), but although he was more dangerous on the basepaths, he wasn't the hitter that Griffey was—it wasn't really even that close until 2001.

From age 23-30 Griffey had over 40 homeruns every year, save for 1995, in which he missed the majority of the season due to an injury to the hamate bone in his hand. Over the same age span, Bonds hit over 40 one time—1993 (although to be fair, he had 37 in 1994 and would have probably hit near 50, but he was also 3 homers behind Griffey that year as well). Junior was a better average hitter and the superior defensive outfielder of his generation.

Griffey also wasn't a bad guy. Before it became the Livestrong fad of MLB, it was originally Griffey Jr.'s idea to wear Jackie Robinson's number in tribute

But age, SafeCo, Big Mac and Sammy, his own failing body, and modern chemistry derailed the foregone conclusion.

After the plans for Safeco field were released, Griffey saw the writing on the wall. Knowing that it was going to be a predominantly pitcher-friendly park, and using the added leverage of his familial ties to Cincinnati as well as its proximity to Orlando, he orchestrated a trade for 60 cents on the dollar. Although his power numbers remained hefty the next several years, karma eventually caught up to him.

He hasn't played over 130 games in any season since his first for the Reds. One could make the argument that its comeuppance for his own Bonds-like boorishness towards the tail end of his stay in Seattle, and his increasing bitterness with the media following his lack of success with the Southwest Ohio Communists. In reality, it's just been bad luck. The karma factor doesn't hold water, as there is any number of philanderers, assholes, wife beaters, herpes distributors, tax evaders, cheaters, etc. on major league rosters. Karma didn't screw Ken Griffey, Vince McMahon didn't screw Ken Griffey, and Ken Griffey didn't screw Ken Griffey.

Luck did.

As baseball prepares for the tepid celebration of Barry Bonds as the homerun king, it would behoove all of us to remember that he didn't necessarily make it there because he deserved it (I think we all know that), and he didn't ascend that throne because he was the best (although he was clearly among the best). He just happened to be the luckier guy with transcendent skill.

In 100 years someone will speak as glowingly of Bonds as idiotic sportswriters do of Ty Cobb now. Lest we forget that he was a racist, blowhard, and perhaps the preeminent prick of his sports generation. It's not the end of the world that an asshole holds the biggest record in all of American sports, but it would be nice if it were a guy like Junior in Barry's stead.

Can you really imagine Barry Bonds getting a 15 minute presentation of his career highlights in Pittsburgh? A four minute standing ovation from the same fans who threw money at A-Rod?

Of course, sports ultimately isn't about Q-factor and it's not about who is the nicest guy—but the decline in honorability between Henry Aaron and Barry Bonds is about as large as the shot that #25 hit off of Troy Percival in the 2002 World Series.

In a time of declining credibility, baseball needed a guy like Ken Griffey to take the torch. Unfortunately the script wasn't written that way.