Sitting down, I overheard someone mutter that batting practice had ended 15 minutes early for a "proceeding," and a knowing sensation spread throughout my body. I quickly pulled out my camera and prepared for whatever was to come, but my patience would not be tested long. A hush quickly fell over the crowd as images of Griffey appeared on the giant video monitor. There was his first at bat in a Seattle uniform, his slender frame looking lost in the white Mariners garb. There were the towering back-to-back home runs he and his father hit in 1990, a feat no one could - hell, should - have ever predicted. There was Game 5, the deciding game, of the 1995 American League Division Series. And instantly, I am transported into my seven-year old self again.

I am sitting in my dank, musty, carpeted basement alongside my dad as my mom rocks back and forth in the ratty armchair to my left. The yellowed walls are starting to peel, and the wooden shelves of Legos are, as usual, a mess. But we're not noticing this right now. All eyes are on the TV in front of us. The Mariners have made the playoffs for the first time in their 18-year existence and face none other than the pinstriped posterchilds of pompousness, the New York Yankees, in the best-of-five American League Division Series. Having dropped the first two games in New York, the M's had returned to Seattle with their backs to the walls. They somehow took the next two games to even the series, but right now, the Mariners find themselves down a run in the bottom of the 11th inning.

Facing the Paul Bunyan look-alike Jack McDowell, the Mariners sent their diminutive fireplug Joey Cora to the plate, whose bunt promptly carved a nice little resting spot on the first-base. With Cora on first, Griffey then sent a bullet through the hole at second, pushing Cora to third and bringing Edgar Martinez to the plate. Martinez, with the look of the grizzled veteran he would eventually become, laced a fastball down the left field line, scoring Cora easily to tie the game. The crowd, hoisting "Refuse to Lose" signs, rose out of their seats to cheer, but, as we immediately realized, the play was not yet over. A streaking blur was rounding second - it was as if Griffey was about to run out of his uniform - and it didn't take long to see that there was no way the relay throw would reach its destination in time. As Griffey slid into home plate, the horde of Mariners fans erupted in a cheer I thought would blow out my TV speakers. And as he was being dog-piled by his exuberant teammates, Griffey's face broke into the childlike smile he had become known for - the carefree smile that made you think, yeah, everything would be all right.