For most people, the end of childhood comes gradually. The final stroke of this elemental phase of your life usually takes time to develop, and most people are often unaware of the measured, minuscule changes taking place that land them in the throes of adulthood. There is rarely a defining point, a singular moment where you can pinpoint the conclusion of this primordial stage of your life.

For most people.

For me, childhood ended February 10, 2000. Well, that's technically when those last vestiges of my early days were snuffed out. The beginning of the end came a couple weeks before, when Ken Griffey Jr., one of the greatest outfielders the game of baseball has ever seen, officially demanded a trade from the Seattle Mariners. It was in this instant that the meaning of tragedy became painfully apparent. Granted, tragedy is relative. You see, I'm blessed enough to not know the loss of a parent, or a precarious life on the streets, or even the failure of being rejected from a college. Regardless, for one reason or another, I have been fortunate through the entirety of my life.

The sports teams I followed were no different. My Mariners of the mid-1990s played superbly - unlike their modern counterparts - and were anchored by my childhood hero: Ken Griffey Jr. He embodied everything my pre-teen self sought to be. He was a comic book hero come to life: The Batman of batsmen, so to speak. His lithe stature and Ruthian aura made my seven-year old eyes sparkle with wonder and amazement whenever the lefty scaled the padded, sky-blue outfield wall to bring the ball back from the land of home runs, or when his swing combined with the speeding white sphere to create a majestic arc that air-mailed the ball from whence it came.

Ah, his swing. If beauty were to ever die, its tombstone would contain only three words: Ken Griffey's swing. That swing, the astounding perfection of shoulders, elbows, wrists, torso, hips, knees, ankles, and feet, could make women swoon and men renounce their masculinity. Babies would cease crying, kings would offer their daughters, and wars would instantly end merely through seeing Ken Griffey Jr. slice the air with his redwood rapier.

But February 10th came, and just like that, it was all gone. The newspaper ink, reading "GRIFFEY SENT TO CINCINNATI," acted as judge, jury, and executioner, officially confining my childhood to the realm of memory. He was my hero. And he had abandoned us. Nothing could ever be done to change the weight or depth of his exodus.