Lineup Has Some Pop in It

Ken Griffey and Ken Griffey Jr.--or, as I like to think of them, Batman and Batboy--are out fielding in the outfield together for the Seattle Mariners, revolutionizing baseball’s traditional father-and-son games.

I wonder what Mariner management is going to think the first time Griffey Jr. is thrown out trying to steal and his father takes him out back to the woodshed.

Or the first time Dad says: “How many times do I have to tell you? Don’t leave your dirty socks lying all over the locker room!”

For every father who has ever played catch with his kid, this has to be the most heartwarming story of the season. It is Harry Chapin singing about the cat and the cradle and the silver spoon. It is “Field of Dreams” come to life, starring Ken and Ken Jr. as the ultimate block and chip.

Talk about child’s play.

Griffey & Son hung out their shingle at the Kingdome just the other day. Senior had been working for the Cincinnati Reds, who decided to go with younger players. Griffey then got in touch with the Mariners, who can use any kind of players they can get.

And, even though Senior has had a long and distinguished career, it is Junior who is on his way to becoming a superstar. This is one father who might have to ask his kid for an allowance.

What makes the Griffeys unique is that they are playing on the same team at the same time. On Senior’s first night with the team, he and Junior stroked singles, one after the other, in their first turns at bat. It looked like a company picnic.

Then they took the field together--the double-mitt twins.

Senior played a ball off the wall and gunned down Bo Jackson at second base, trying for a double. Senior smiled. Junior smiled. Even Bo smiled. Everybody knew Old Man Griffey was just showing off.

He just wanted to make sure his kid knew he was still drinking Gatorade, not Geritol.

Previously, we had seen plenty of like-father, like-son routines--the Boones, the Bells, the Bondses, the Schofields, the Stottlemyres, the Franconas and many more. But never on the same side.

We also caught brother acts--the Waners, the DiMaggios, the Deans, the Alous, the Perrys, the Niekros. We saw brothers playing on the same team, too, like the Ripkens, whose father once managed them. Earlier this season, we even saw twins playing baseball together, and we don’t mean Minnesota’s--the Cansecos.

But the Griffeys are unique. They are what the Unsers and Andrettis are to auto racing, only they don’t compete against one another. They bring new meaning to the baseball term home games.

About the only thing that would make the whole story more charming is if the organization they played for was the Padres.

I can’t help but imagine what their dugout conversation is like.

“Where were you last night, Junior? I waited up until 2 a.m.”

“Uh, I had a team meeting, Dad.”

“No, you didn’t. I’m on the team.”

“Oh, yeah, I forgot.”

“Where were you, Junior?”

“Well, we met some girls in the hotel bar. Er, I mean coffee shop.”

“And why wasn’t I invited?”

“Dad!”

“Just to chaperon, I mean.”

“Chaperon?”

“We could have taken everybody back to the house. Looked at some slides from our Florida vacation when you were 3.”

“Dad . . . “

“Oh, you had the cutest little bottom then . . . “

“Dad, look. We’d better discuss a few things if we’re going to be teammates.”

“Sure, son.”

“First off, stop calling me off every ball in the outfield. I’ve been here longer than you. Stop giving me orders.”

“It’s for your own good, son. You’ll thank me for it someday.”

“No, I won’t! I’ll crash headfirst into you someday.”

“OK, Junior. What else?”

“And quit telling me if you catch me cussing again you’ll wash out my mouth with soap. It’s embarrassing.”

“I understand.”

“And speaking of which, stop using my soap!”

“Now why should we waste two whole bars of soap when we’re . . .”

“This is major league baseball, Dad! We can afford two separate bars of soap!”

“I see.”

“And another thing: It might be better if you didn’t ask me to borrow the car all the time.”

“You borrowed mine when you were young.”

“Yours wasn’t a Ferrari.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning I don’t trust you with it, Dad. And you always forget to put gas in it!”

“You can afford gas.”

“Listen, Dad, you think money grows on trees? I work hard to put bread on the table.”

“Where have I heard this before?”

“And one more thing, Dad.”

“Yes, Junior?”

“When I hit a home run?”

“Yes, Junior?”

“Don’t kiss me anymore.”

“OK, Junior.”

“Just pat me on the butt, Dad, like everybody else.”