(6 of 8)
There's no shame in this for Senior, though, because Junior has since eclipsed everyone playing the game, McGwire included. At the age of 28, he has already hit more than 300 homers; only three players in history have done it at a younger age. During one stretch in 1993, he homered in eight consecutive games, tying the major league record. Last season, after hitting .304, leading the American League in runs and RBIs, socking 56 home runs and winning an eighth straight Gold Glove, he was unanimously voted the league's most valuable player. "When you look at what Junior's done and the skills he possesses," says his manager, Lou Piniella, "you have to say that in this era he's as good as anyone who's played. I can't think of any player in the past 30 years to compare with Junior."
Better than his stats is his abandon, which belies the fact that superstardom is his birthright. "I still go out there reckless," Griffey told TIME last week. "That's how I play. I don't know any other way." Which is why so many legions, especially kids, love him: 4.2 million voted him onto the All-Star team this season; 1 million bought a candy bar named after him when it was introduced in 1989--despite the fact that it contained no nougat whatsoever.
His fans can be so overwhelming that at the end of Seattle home games, officials park his black Mercedes (license plate: SWINGMAN) just outside the Mariners' locker room for an Elvis-style getaway. As he gave an interview in front of his locker last week, Griffey affixed his signature to an endless flow of posters, caps and balls. Many were given to him by other players.
Only rarely does his grin crack. He takes the rare criticism directed at him by the press and fans a little too personally, but even then only because, at heart, he wants to be liked. "At the ball park, I understand there are certain obligations," he says. "I just want people to treat me as a human being. When I leave the ball park and go home, I'm just Ken." And some topics are still off limits, no matter who the questioner. Before a game last week, seven-year-old Michael Foster spent an hour with Griffey through the Make-a-Wish Foundation, tossing a ball around and touring the clubhouse. But at one point, when Foster mustered the courage to ask, "Are you going to break the record?" Griffey responded with a shrug. Clearly, his no comments need some work.
Work he understands: Griffey outpractices everyone on his team. "He's the first one here every day," says Mariners' backup catcher John Marzano. "And the better he's hitting, the harder he works." Griffey brushes off such praise. "I've broken both my hands in the last three years--I don't have a choice but to take extra hitting," he says. "A lot of people forget that." Still, he is too proud and aware of his abilities not to believe he can accomplish more. Last year, for instance, a mild slump in June and July cost him a chance at breaking Maris' record. "Most people don't know July was when my mother-in-law died," he says, sighing. "I have a three-year-old son, and I had to tell him he was never going to see his grandmother again. It was tough." No one begrudges Griffey that explanation. But it suggests he believes that but for a death in the family--he would have beaten Maris.