1995 Mariners

Bob Condotta is now the Seattle Times’ reporter on the University of Washington sports beat, covering men’s basketball and football. But back in ‘95 he was covering the Mariners for the old Bellevue Journal-American, attending most of their games at the Kingdome, the final regular season series in Texas, and all of their playoff games. I wrote to him after seeing a posting that mentioned the ‘95 Mariners during his relief appearance on Geoff Baker’s Mariners blog earlier this year. The eventual result was the following interview about the season.

Q: What were your feelings about the Mariners and major league baseball in general coming into the ‘95 season, after the strike ended? And, did the Mariners’ comeback change your attitude?

A: I was a little less jaded back then and so happy to have a job reporting on sports in the Seattle area, which had always been my dream, that I didn’t really let the strike influence my feelings about anything all that much. I knew it would be an exciting and pivotal year for the Mariners as a franchise, and since I wanted the team to stay, I hoped it would turn out well. So once the strike ended and they were back playing ball, I quickly forgot about it and just focused on the season at hand.

I remember that there were a lot of mixed feelings at the Kingdome on Opening Night among fans — I think that’s the last Mariners’ opener that didn’t sell out — but I was just glad to have baseball back. I might not feel that way if the same thing happened now (the NBA is close to losing me forever over its handling of the Sonics’ situation) but I did back then. So that said, how the season evolved really didn’t bring me back to baseball since I came back pretty quickly anyway at that time.

Q: Which game do you see as the most remarkable/most memorable one of the Mariners’ regular season?

A: Like a lot of people who were there — and there really weren’t that many as the official attendance was 17,618 — I’d say the Aug. 24 game against the Yankees at home when Griffey hit a game-winning home run. Most view that game as the beginning of the streak that brought the team back and saved baseball in Seattle. My personal memory of it is that I almost missed the game. I was also assigned to do a Seahawks story that day so I was at their practice in the early afternoon and decided at the last minute to try to get to the Kingdome for the M’s game, as well — it was a 3:30 (or right around there) first pitch. I’ve seen hundreds of games since then and barely remember any of them.

But I have all kinds of vivid memories of that game (some of which I’m sure may be a little embellished with time) — Andy Benes getting hammered early and Piniella leaving him out there; Vince Coleman almost striking out with two outs in the ninth, then drawing a walk and stealing second and third; Cora hitting that little liner that Tony Fernandez misplayed; and then Griffey’s never-a-doubt home run. I won’t say I had any idea that day that what ended up happening would happen. But I did know that something was happening.

Q: Could you compare Edgar, Randy, and Junior. Which of the three was the best Mariner of ‘95, and which do you have the most appreciation for now as a major leaguer, and as a Mariner?

A: I must confess that I covered mostly just home games in 1995 and then never was a regular Mariners beat writer again. The Journal-American covered only home games then (except we went on the road for the last series and the playoffs and a lot of spring training) so I never got close to any of the players the way the regular guys did. So I don’t necessarily have great personal insight into those guys that would be a lot different than the everyday fan.

Edgar was the consummate professional in every way, from the way he dealt with the media to the way he approached his at-bats. He always was respectful and tried to answer your questions. Johnson was incredibly dominant that season, but even then some of his prickly personality came out. I remember a game in July when he pitched well and the team won, but he didn’t get the win because Bobby Ayala blew the save (imagine that?) only to have the Mariners win it in the bottom of the ninth. Despite the team’s win, Johnson seemed unhappy afterward, talking about how frustrating it was to pitch like that yet get nothing for it — that had happened to him a few times that season. I’m one of those who thinks the way his Mariner career ended puts a pretty big smudge on his legacy. On the other hand, that season wouldn’t have happened without him, so he deserves a lot of gratitude, as well.

As for Griffey, everybody knows he missed much of that season and batted only .258 for the year. But I’d forgotten a little bit just how great he was in the playoffs that year. It seems like everybody always focuses on how incredible Edgar was. Yet Griffey hit .391 with five homers in the series against the Yankees, and .333 with another homer against the Indians. If he’d ever been on the right time, I have no doubt Griffey could have been a Mr. October, since that was the only time he ever really had that chance. Not sure I can pick a “best” of that season — take out any of them and the season doesn’t happen. And for overall contribution to the Mariners, I couldn’t pick between Griffey and Martinez. To me, they are the two most-defining players in franchise history, which is why it’s so fitting that they were the two key players in the defining moment in franchise history.

We bought 4 strips of tickets for the playoffs. We had to: it was big bucks and all, but I was a little league coach and our boys were at the prime age for memory making. We had nosebleed seats with our backs literally against the wall. Now some venues will provide a little extra space for those intrepid souls who expend all the energy to get up to those seats, but not the Kingdome. No, we sat bolt upright against the curvature of that concrete at the top of the 300 level. The noise level was far above anything I have ever felt before or since. Palpable, physical pain, no doubt caused by some quirk of sonic physics, was assaulting our ears. We shouted in each others ears to be heard. The wave would start and go on and on, separating by levels and then joining back up. We laughed and screamed like fools. We hugged strangers and we chanted Edgaaaar, and Juuuniorrrrr, and Joeeeey all the way to the parking lot. When I think back to those nights in the dome and remember the Frozen Malts and King Dogs I smile. The kids are grown and scattered. My wife and I are empty nesters and when we talk about the M’s, it’s never about the 116 year. It is and will be forever about falling in love with a team for the first time in my life.

By John Mitchell

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, miniscule 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 strived 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 10^th 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.

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.

The next few months flew by and before I knew it, June 21^st 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.

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 poster children 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 11^th 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.

And that night, everything was more than all right. Everything was perfect. And it was that perfection that people from all over had now traveled to Safeco to remember. So twelve years later, when Griffey finally emerged from the visitor’s dugout, the accumulated weight of all those years without him was lifted.

In the foreign colors of red and black, Griffey approached the microphone stand, hands held behind his back as he gathered his thoughts. But we wouldn’t let him. For three straight minutes, we cheered for him. We cheered because of all he had done for us; we cheered for his honesty in an era of steroid-induced deception; we cheered because of the nasty fortune he had been dealt. I cheered for my childhood hero, whose arms soon extended in thanks to the fans who will always consider him one of their own.

As soon as he managed, “I never knew how much I missed this place,” I felt the first tear sneak its way out and onto the back of my hand. Tears found their way to Griffey too, namely when he was greeted by former teammates Edgar and the bald-pated, recently-retired Jay Buhner.

Although the Mariners would go on to lose that game by the astounding score of 16-1, the worst loss in Safeco Field history, it didn’t matter. My hero had returned, and, for the weekend, I was a kid again.

By Casey Michel

I moved to Seattle in 1989, and, upon attending a game at the Kingdump, my first reaction was to turn to the person I was with and ask, “Do the games here really count?”

I grew up in New York, and spent scads of my summer free time at Yankee Stadium. Don’t get me wrong; I grew up with the horrible Yankees teams of the 1960s — Horace Clarke, Jerry Kenney, Fritz Peterson, Mike Kekich, Buddy Barker. Yes, I saw Mickey Mantle play, but his legs were shot by then, and maybe his liver was, too (although I still remember him hitting two home runs on Old-Timers Day, only to have the Yankees fall 3-2). Like Seattle fans, I remember Jim Bouton — but I remember him coming into a Yankees game in relief in 1967, where the world champion Orioles blew out the Yankees 14-2, and it was so bad that my 9-year-old self began to cry. I hated George Steinbrenner from the moment he bought the team, practically — he cut injured Mel Stottlemyre, my favorite player, in spring training so he wouldn’t be obliged to pay him a full year’s salary. And I remember what it was like in 1972 when the Yankees stopped stinking so badly, and actually began to compete for the pennant again. Then Steinbrenner treated Dave Winfield like dirt — all Winfield did was have the best 1980s of any player on the planet.

So when I came to Seattle, my loyalties were still with the Yankees.

It got no better when the 1994 season was destroyed by the strike. I actually had season tickets to the Mariners in 1992; I bought them with some of the money I inherited after my father died. I knew my father would appreciate that; he was the main reason I was a baseball fan. But when the strike ended baseball, I vowed never to pay for a baseball ticket again. (The fact that the ceiling tiles had fallen in the Kingdump, sending the Mariners out to play nothing but road games like the team in Philip Roth’s THE GREAT AMERICAN NOVEL, didn’t help, either.)

And I made it through the 1995 season, not expecting much after Griffey injured himself, and watching the team sit at the mark of mediocrity for much of the year.

But then the Mariners began to win — stunningly, improbably, spectacularly. Each night a different player was the hero, whether it was Tino Martinez or Joey Cora, or Norm Charlton resuscitating his seemingly dead career. Jay Buhner — it was me, not George Costanza, who first yelled, ‘Why did you trade Jay Buhner?’ — urged the Mariners to play on to win the division and not to limp into the Wild Card. And then Griffey came back and put the team on his back.

And yet, I was only listening to the games on the radio, only occasionally catching them on TV.

But when it looked like the Mariners might actually make the playoffs, I went and ordered playoff tickets. I believe I ordered them in sets of three. Somewhere, on an old computer, I still have a very big TIFF file of the entire sheet. (I also have the sheet from 1996, when they missed the playoffs.) I took the day off to watch the Mariners/Angels playoff game on television. Mariners fans may love Dave Niehaus (as I loved Phil Rizzuto, who also had difficulty dealing with what was actually happening on the field), but to me, the signature call of the 1995 season was Rick Rizzs calling Luis Sojo’s double, concluding with his haggard, “Everybody scores!”

And then, before the Mariners could even get home, they were down 2-0 to the Yankees.

And the series turned around. Clutch hits were contagious. And I remember the feeling, standing way up in the upper deck behind home plate, believing firmly that the game was not over when the fifth game went to extra innings, even after Randy Johnson gave up the lead. The Kingdump was known for keeping noise in (although my main recollection was, as a new spectator, shouting something derisive at a visiting player, and HEARING THE TAUNT ECHO throughout the building), but what I remember the second-most about that game was the never-ending waves of the decks jouncing and bouncing as newly born Mariners fans — I don’t think there had been fans prior to August of 1995 — shouted and screamed and jumped and jumped. And when Edgar stroked that double, and Griffey came tearing around third — well, that may indeed have been the most exciting game I’ve ever attended. Fans chanted for minutes after Griffey touched the plate, stood for minutes before leaving, and it was as loud OUTSIDE the Kingdump as it was within.

But still, my favorite memory is of Game 6 of the ALCS. The Mariners actually led the Series 2-1, but fell in the final three games, sending Cleveland on to the World Series to lose to the Braves. When it became obvious that the game would probably end with the Mariners losing, I turned to my seatmate, and said, “I hope that the fans give the Mariners a round of applause for this great effort.” I know that in New York something like that could never happen, not at least for the Steinbrenner Yankees.

And so, when the final out was made, I was pleased. The crowd stood and shouted approbation and applauded. That would have been enough.

But.

Even as Joey Cora cried in the dugout, there was no sign that the applause would end. Seattle fans got it that night. They understood that they had witnessed six weeks of baseball that have rarely been equaled in the sport. (Maybe last year’s Rockies matched the streak the ‘95 Mariners put on, except that the Rockies did it for two fewer weeks.)

That moment is the moment I treasure the most from 1995. Yes, I remember many great moments, and, sadly, the older I get, there are some I no longer actually remember. But standing in that stadium, knowing that the Mariners had given the city of Seattle everything a baseball team can give a community, and knowing that the community got it — that was heaven in a real sense.

By Mike Flynn

My dad was always a baseball fan, and being that his family is from New England and growing up during Yastrzemski’s glory days, he was a die-hard Red Sox fan. I was born in 1987 (the birth of his child was what finally got my dad out of his ‘86/Buckner depression), and like my dad was a big baseball fan, going through his magazines and watching games with him. Rather than just going along with the Red Sox, at a very young age I settled on the Mariners as my favorite team… for the childish reasons that I liked the colors of their costume and their uniform, liked their team name, and they had a big slugger star I could idolize.

The ‘95 ALDS game 4 and 5 are some of my earliest baseball memories and some of my earliest concrete memories ever. I was 7 (about two weeks away from turning 8) in October 1995. Being on the East Coast, these games at the Kingdome started at 10:05 pm eastern time (on the Yankee’s former cable station, MSG, before Steinbrenner started his own network). I remember it being very late, WAY past my bedtime, but my dad would let me stay up (not because he cared much about the Mariners, but because as a Red Sox fan, he relished any opportunity to see the Yankees lose in the playoffs). I have memories of Randy Johnson blowing away batter after batter, and Edgar Martinez’s grand slam AND series winning double (in my mind, it was all the same game, and it was a series winning grand slam in the 11th).

I recently bought a copy of the game on DVD from a bootlegger and watched it, enjoying the glory years of the Mariners from my childhood (Griffey, Johnson, Edgar, A-Rod, Buhner, Dan Wilson) when I was collecting baseball cards. Watching the 13 year old game brought back a lot of memories, and since I hadn’t seen it in so long, I think from the 8th inning on in that game 5 is probably the most exciting baseball game of all time — with the possible exception of all of the close calls in the Red Sox-Yankees 2004 ALCS. Good memories from my childhood contained in that game.

By Dain Goding

One phenomenon that came out of the ALDS in ‘95 was the long “Eeeed-gaarrrrrrr” chant that would accompany Edgar Martinez at-bats through the end of his career. Based on an ad I heard at the time of Edgar’s retirement, the Mariners seemed to think it had something to do with the Kingdome announcer’s reading of Edgar’s name when he came up to bat. It had nothing to do with that. Its origins were in the Yankees defeat of the Mariners in game 2, a game in which the hapless Darryl Strawberry appeared for one at-bat and struck out in the 11th inning of an eventual 15-inning Yankee win. In his only appearance in Yankee Stadium during the series, Yankee fans had chanted, “Daaa-ryllllll” when Strawberry came to the plate (to no avail; he struck out swinging) and of course Seattle fans had heard that during coverage of the game. In game 4 at the Kingdome, the Yankees again brought in Darryl to pinch hit in the 9th after the Mariners, in a come-from-behind effort capped by Edgar’s grand slam in the 8th, had overcome a 5-run deficit to lead 11-6.  So when Darryl came up to pinch hit in a game the Mariners were already winning, the ecstatic fans taunted Strawberry with the same “Daaaaa-rrryllll” chant, this time mockingly as he made the first out of the inning. The next night, when Edgar came up in game 5, the chant returned as the soon-to-be-famous “Eeeeed-gaaarrrr!” in an expression of our confidence in Edgar’s bat and the euphoria of that incredible come-from-behind win in game 4. In future seasons, the chant would sometimes arise in an isolated section or row, but that night, the whole Kingdome reverberated with multiple waves of “Eeeeeed-gaarrrrr!” chants leading up to the greatest roar of the season when Edgar slammed that fateful drive.

By Scott Bessho

I had been blessed and cursed by having a dad who loved the game of baseball. I was drug to the Kingdome sometimes kicking and screaming my entire childhood. I of course learned to love the games, win or lose I would keep score and root on the boys. Of course that all changed in ‘95, I was in college at the U at the time. My dad had been successful the years before and a season ticket holder since the beginning so we had kick-ass seats. We were right behind third base, row 4. I’d gone to the other two games up until that point. The whole thing was surreal. I remember waking up at like 4 in the morning, not being able to get back to sleep thinking of baseball. I remembered how everything stopped during that incredible run. Nobody seemed to work, the city was totally abuzz, it was magic.

October 8th, 1995 was my 22nd birthday, if you want to see where my seats were, just watch the tape of the end of the game, I’m holding a sign that reads “House of Blues,” my creative attempt of a double play on the Mariner’s colors and how the Yankees were feeling.

What I remember most about that game is after the 10th inning, wanting it to be over, for better or worse. The stress it was causing me was indescribable, and I just wanted it over, it had been a great run and I was ready for it to end… After Griffey rounded third and was pig-piled, I was right in line to see his big-white toothy grin from under the pile. I kid you not, my legs buckled, I knelt on the dirty box-seat metal and wept. That’s it. One of, if not, the most single happy moment of my life. Happy birthday to me.

By Shane Savery

This is the single most emotional sports moment of my entire life. Not an avid fan and smarting from the 1994 baseball strike, I vowed never to watch baseball again. Then IT happened.

The 1995 Seattle Mariner Game was nearly orgasmic for the entire city. I was going to college and by mid-season, the Mariners were in their usual poor form and 13 games down. Then from nowhere, they started to not only win, but win in spectacular fashion. It seemed game after game, they would get behind and then through heroic effort, come back to squeeze out a win. And it seemed every night, it was a different hero until the entire city were in a near religious fever. For the first time in their 19 year history, we really felt like they had a chance for the World Series.

Every night, the city would practically shut down as everyone rushed to a television set. Forget getting a ticket because it was sold out every night. I was working as a security guard at the University and I would sit in front on a TV and ignore my duties for three hours (sometimes not even starting my lock-up rounds until after 10:00 PM and then spend half the night catching up.)

End of Game 5 vs. the Yankees

Far and away the single most emotional moment I’ve ever experienced as a result of sports. Little Joey Cora was on second and Ken Griffey, Jr. was on first. With two outs in the ninth, the Mariners were 1 run behind and all seemed lost. Then there was this moment.

I’ve watched the video and when they show Junior rounding third base, my eyes bulge. He is a home run hitter so not known for his base running speed but when he approaches third and rounds it, for the love of God he is accelerating like a wild, graceful, powerful animal. There was no need to wave him anywhere; he was going for everything and giving the same. When he gets to home and they miss the tag, the team rushes out and dog piles him and the entire dome erupts in a super nova. I thought Dave Neihaus’s heart was going to explode and expected to see glass shatter out his booth in a big explosion.

By Jason Grose

Many, many people claim they were at game 5 of the Mariners-Yankees ALDS game. I was actually there, sitting in the deepest right-field bleachers. I remember that I’d been out of town for several weeks; I had to rush to the Kingdome to get there on time, and I really wasn’t in the mood for baseball when the game started. My feelings built, of course, pitch by pitch. In the top of the ninth, Randy Johnson strode in from the bullpen and shut down a Yankee rally, but he yielded a run in the eleventh. Then, in the bottom of the eleventh, Cora bunted, Griffey singled, and Edgar doubled down the line. I yelled louder and longer than I’ve ever yelled in my life. I gave everyone around me death-grip bearhugs. I cried, unashamedly, and couldn’t stop crying. I stayed for at least an hour after the game, just yelling in and for joy, and was hoarse for a week. It’s one of the happiest memories of my spectating life, perhaps of my life, and I get chills even thinking about it now.

By David Shields

I rarely get to relive those last few days of the ‘95 season. I had season tickets which allowed me to be able to see those two games, the Angels and the Yankees. The one of four people who sat in front of us remains on my email list, and I’m going to forward this to him. I can’t recall the exact date when the Angels came to town for the one game play-off. I knew Langston was going to lose. The guy in front said at the start, “We’re going to win this.” I wanted so to believe him. The last pitch, he was done, and people poured out of the stands and raced to get some dirt from the mound. Langston was sitting in the dugout his head down. Then some man next to me kissed me, I’d never seen him before. We got on a bus to go back up town and the whole town was crazy. Our car was parked near the Center, we got off there, the whistles were blowing, cars were honking…all the way up to Queen Anne Hill.

Then the Yankees. I don’t remember anything about the games leading up to the end, but what an end. Griffey on first, Edgar up and Senor Double did it again, I think that’s the way it was. At any rate the ball was hit and Griffey ran faster than he’d ever run before. His legs were a blur. I have a picture I bought later, a photograph of his slide into home plate. In the background, Bobby Walcott, Mike Blowers, the trainer, straight up in the air. I can’t remember the name of the Yankee catcher stretched all the way out. Griffey was in. This time there were police on horseback to keep the crowd back. It was the happiest time of my life. I went home, went to bed, and never closed my eyes until the morning came. I thought there was something wrong with me so I called my Dr.s office. His nurse said she’d had the same experience.

Much later the man who sat in front of us said, “What if that’s all we’ll ever have.” It turned out to be true.

By Sally Flood