The next few months flew by and before I knew it, June 21st had arrived. Christmas Eve had nothing on this Thursday. Unfortunately, my dad was - to use a cheap sports analogy - temporarily on the disabled list, so I had to scrounge up some replacements. I found two to join me on the drive up: Mike, a fair-weather fan if there ever was one, and Clement, who, although more sheltered than most home-schooled students, enjoyed nothing more than a heated sports argument.

The uneventful drive to the Emerald City took place in my clunky, fire-engine-red 1990 Volvo station wagon, complete with the years-old GoGurt stain above the passenger seat. Plodding shrubbery and pale green plains marked the tedious, uneventful trip. But as we finally crested the last hill to Seattle, seeing the aptly named Space Needle sitting alongside the skyscrapered downtown, I could feel the anticipation building. I'd taken this drive, passed the green and white metal sign pointing to Safeco Field innumerable times before, but never before had I felt this yearning in my chest, this warmth in my gut as I imagined what was to come. As we drove up, the home of the M's came into full view - affectionately called The Safe, this mass of evergreen girders and guttered metal looked more like a Boeing airplane hangar than a ballpark, but I loved it nonetheless. It had replaced the dour Kingdome, a pile of concrete that was more an eyesore than the oft-maligned Minneapolis Metrodome. The one aspect that The Safe had kept was a short right field porch, built in the hopes of retaining a certain left-handed slugger . . . ah, what could have been.

Since the summer sun had burned off the damp Puget Sound fog, the retractable roof had opened and cast a shadow over us as we walked through the empty, weed-filled lot on the west side of The Safe. After giving the ticket to the teal-colored geriatric attendant, I ascended the stairs behind left field. As I finished my climb I looked to my right to glimpse the shimmering green, the deep brown dirt, and the stark white chalk-lines meshing to create a magnificent spectacle, one that I could never tire of seeing. And all around me, people donned Griffey shirts, jerseys, caps - both Reds and Mariners. Everyone was here for him.

Bumping my way through the packed concourse, I finally made it to my seat, 40 rows directly behind home plate. Looking out, I could see the swath of every color of the palette filling the 45,000-plus seats. Sprinkled throughout the wave of fans were signs, painted in red and blue marker, reading "No 'Roids in Griffey" or "Welcome Back Junior, We've Missed You." It seemed wherever my gaze fell, I found someone who reveled in this day just as much as me. Like a much-praised war hero returning from years of fighting abroad, Griffey's fans had gathered en masse to offer him the warmest welcome the Evergreen State had ever seen.