Thus, the lean years began.

Yet in an odd twist of fate, I was not the only one who began suffering after that infamous swap. Griffey, who I once thought could outrun a cheetah - or at least a Randy Johnson fastball - was soon hampered by injury and fatigue. The free-wheeling, balls-to-the-wall days of his youth had caught up to him, and his body, once nimble and graceful, was forced to pay the toll of time. After six seasons in Cincinnati, injuries deprived Griffey of over half of the games. Karma was truly a cruel mistress.

But as fate - in the guise of Bud Selig, the commissioner of the MLB - would have it, Griffey's days in Seattle were not quite over. With the advent of interleague play, the great barrier of league membership was beaten down and teams from both National and American Leagues could face one another during the regular season. Rivalries once sequestered solely for the World Series could flourish under the gentle May sun, and teams that had never seen the lush ivy at Wrigley Field or the, um, catwalks of Tropicana Stadium in Tampa Bay now had the chance. And at long last, I would have the chance to see my hero return with all the gusto and fervor of his youth. I would have the chance to see Griffey play in Seattle once again.

This return did not come about immediately. Patience, as with anything that is worth waiting for, would be required. Years came and went, but - since the thick-skulled Mr. Selig failed to realize what the gravitas of Griffey's return would be - there was no sign of my hero's arrival on the horizon. And while my love for the Mariners matured, a dearth of World Series appearances had me longing for the glory days of yesteryear.

At long last, my patience was rewarded in early 2007. As I sat at my hardwood desk, barricaded from the harsh February winds by the windows on my right, I saw on my glowing laptop screen what I had been longing to see since the day that I stopped watching Nickelodeon: June 22-24, 2007, Cincinnati at Seattle.

Griffey would be returning.

I immediately began singing - I think it was "Oh Happy Day" - and skipping down the carpeted hallway in nothing but a pair of shimmering athletic shorts. Weird looks ensued, although my neighbors really should have been used to my antics by now. Once the skipping had worn me out, I quickly called my dad, since he is my comrade in attending baseball games - and ticket-purchaser. And, after a couple minutes of reveling in the imminent return of my hero, we cemented our agreement to buy the tickets to those games.