Oh, these passing years!

Integer Vitae

The man of life upright,
Whose guiltless heart is free
From all dishonest deeds,
Or thought of vanity
The man whose silent days
In harmless joys are spent,
Whom hopes cannot delude,
Nor sorrow discontent;
That man needs neither towers
Nor armour for defence,
Nor secret vaults to fly
From thunder’s violence:
He only can behold
With unaffrighted eyes
The horrors of the deep
And terrors of the skies.
Thus, scorning all the cares
That fate or fortune brings,
He makes the heaven his book,
His wisdom heavenly things;
Good thoughts his only friends,
His wealth a well-spent age,
The earth his sober inn
And quiet pilgrimage.

Thomas Campian

There is an athlete taking center stage, who's current challenge to keep a job, makes me think of my fleeting years. His name is Ken Griffey, Jr.

As fine a baseball player as has been seen in the past 30 years; Griffey, Jr. is at the end of an illustrious career that may see him enshrined in the National Baseball Hall of Fame. And even though he has achieved wonderous things in his career, his age and loss of step; and salary requirements work against him in this off season. Will he fade into retirement; as I have? Or, will some team somewhere reward him for all he has done for the game? Nothing's certain in this close to a miserable winter.

I get a bit melancholy thinking of Griffey, Jr.

Our first sight of him was when he broke into Major League Baseball as a super-talented and athletic performer with the Seattle Mariners. His "persona" then--and even today, attracted fans like us to appreciate his skills, and his exhuberance. He might have always played with an opponent of our team; but much like Mickey Mantle before him, the fan in all of us held him in special esteem.

Today his step is slower. His defense not as reckless as in his youth. His booming bat not so dangerous any longer. And his options so much less...

We watched him as a man-child and were thrilled by what we witnessed. We watch today as his choices diminish.

Once upon a time, he was young. And we were young. But no longer; either he, or we. A sad and dark winter, it is!