The most iconic athlete in Seattle sports history is in the Hall of Fame, which means it’s the perfect time for us to reflect on his legacy, his induction speech, and whether or not any of today’s local athletes can match his status atop this city’s Mount Rushmore.
Plus, how does our perception of athletes change as we grow up, and what do we want from our sports stars off the field?
All of that, plus Russell Wilson’s new poster, a fair amount of grumpiness, Slick’s love life exposed for all to hear, and a new installment of Tindermonials!
Ken Griffey, Jr. has no idea what he has done for my family, so let’s begin there.
We love baseball, my family. When I was little, my dad would take us to games at the Kingdome a few times each year. We would get there two hours beforehand, as soon as the gates opened, and race up the concrete ramps until we reached the first base side of the 300 level.
It made little sense, arriving so early to take in batting practice from a location where not a single batted ball would travel, but we did it anyway. We liked being up there and soaking it all in.
On November 15th, 2007, a man by the name of Barry Lamar Bonds was served an indictment by a federal grand jury. The indictment alleged counts of perjury and obstruction of justice against Bonds, who, four years earlier, had sworn under oath that he had never used illegal substances provided to him by a Bay Area pharmaceutical company called BALCO.
Had Bonds held any other occupation, the story may not have been nearly as widespread. Bonds, however, happened to be a Major League Baseball player. And at the time of the indictment, the 43-year-old outfielder was resoundingly considered one of the best players in the history of his sport. Bonds was alleged to be nothing short of a liar, and as a result, a criminal. He never played baseball again.
Eight weeks before Bonds found himself indicted, another baseball player, also an outfielder, was fielding his position when he collapsed to the turf.
The legendary sound of one of Seattle’s most revered sports radio hosts graces the airwaves this week, as we welcome Mike Gastineau onto the show and kick Slickhawk to the curb (for the time being).
Gas leads us down memory lane, as we reminisce about the greatness of Ken Griffey, Jr. on the day he becomes a first ballot Hall of Famer. (And be sure to pay close attention to that Dave Niehaus story.)
We break away from the Junior lovefest to discuss the Seahawks venture to the frozen tundra for their playoff matchup with the Vikings. Marshawn is back, the temperature will be well below freezing, and our guest co-host once saved someone you probably know from getting arrested in Minnesota.
Breaking news demands our attention, with Athletic Director Scott Woodward leaving Washington for Texas A&M. What will his legacy be at UW, and how did Woodward shape the current landscape of sports on Montlake?
Finally, Husky hoops takes center stage with a monumental weekend sweep over the L.A. schools to open conference play. Are the Huskies for real? We debate the legitimacy of these young pups.
Some of baseball’s Hall of Fame voters are idiots. We know this because every single year they do stupid shit like lose their ballots, over- or under-peruse player statistics, mock the system by handing their vote over to a third party, and just generally make decisions from a moral high ground so lofty and full of bullshit that the average person can’t simply fathom the pompous arrogance that goes into an act as simple as voting.
This isn’t a difficult process, either. Members of the Baseball Writers Association of America are given a single sheet of paper upon which is printed the names of eligible ex-players. Beside each name is a check-box. Voters are then asked to check up to 10 boxes corresponding with the names of the players they’d choose to induct to the Hall of Fame. This is easier than correcting your neighbor’s elementary school math homework. And yet there are those who can’t complete the process without suffering an aneurysm because, well, who the hell really knows.