Rod Beck

I occasionally take a passing interest on players for other teams. The endeavor can be worthwhile. When I was a college student in the 1980s, I would attend (sometimes alone, sometimes with my dad) Spring Training games in the greater Phoenix area. In those days, for ticket price, parking, sight lines, seating and beer, the best place to be was Tempe Diablo, then home of the Seattle Mariners. In those days, Mariner manager Dick Williams would send a skinny teenager out to center field to play the final two innings. There was no thought of the kid making the big club in those years; it was clear Williams was trying to give the kid a taste of major-league life in front of a receptive audience--and we were receptive.

We knew his father. The skinny kid, of course, was Ken Griffey, Jr., who--despite some troubles recently--went on to great feats.

Occasionally, since then, some player will snag at my attention. Rod Beck always stood out--how could he not, with that gut, that crazy hair, that goatee--but never so much as when, the best part of his career behind him, he accepted an assignment to Triple-A Iowa, purchased a recreational vehicle, and took up residence beyond the team's center field scoreboard. I remember him being interviewed on ESPN, and his descriptions of having the younger (sometimes teenaged) players over for cookouts after games made me think, Hey, not bad.

Well, now he has died at 38, and the outpouring from fans and reporters alike testify to someone who will be missed. RIP.