Griffey's Friendship Is Stuff Of Hollywood
They were the oddest of roommates.
One solid, stolid, a seen-it-all veteran of 10 years in the minor leagues.
The other . . . well . . . Ken Griffey Jr. . . . at 18.
They spent two months together in Vermont a decade ago, the summer of 1988.
Roger Hansen was playing out the string, virtually a player-coach at Class AAA Calgary, but hitting .330 and fanning the flickering flame of a dream all but gone.
"They called me into the office and told me I was moving," Hansen recalled last week during his 10th Seattle training camp as a minor-league instructor. "I remember thinking for just a second, `Maybe this is it, a callup to Seattle.' After all, I was hitting .330, you know."
But it was not a promotion. It was a demotion - to the Class AA Burlington (Vt.) Mariners of the Eastern League.
"They told me they wanted me to go down and room with this kid, some kind of super prospect," Hansen said.
They told him it was Griffey.
Hansen replied: "Who? Who's Ken Griffey Jr.?"
"I didn't know," Hansen said, shrugging apologetically. "I had never heard of this guy. Here I was expecting some pain-in-the-butt kid . . . and I was right . . .
"Just kidding. Junior was all right - after we got a few things squared away."
Dick Balderson was the Mariner general manager then. He was Kansas City farm director when the Royals drafted Hansen in 1980, and trusted him to be a good shepherd.
"It was not a baby-sitting situation," said Balderson, Colorado farm director. "It was just important to surround Kenny with as many good influences as possible. I couldn't think of a better one than Roger. He was a no-nonsense guy, still is. He was a pro, and if his arm hadn't gone bad, he'd have played in the major leagues, too."
Griffey had been promoted from San Bernardino, where he had torn up the California League with a .338 average, 11 homers and 42 runs batted in in 58 games, then tore up his back, chipping a vertebra making a diving catch.
He was put on the disabled list and shipped to the Eastern League, where he walked into his hotel room and met . . .
"Crash Davis," Griffey cackled. "That was the year `Bull Durham' came out. I saw it in San Bernardino. And now I felt like I was in it. I mean, here was the veteran catcher, and Roger looked just like Crash Davis."
Almost. Hansen is rarely mistaken for Kevin Costner, who played the broken-down Davis in one of the most popular baseball movies.
First night in the room, 10 p.m.: Hansen is trying to fall asleep. Griffey is talking on the phone to his mom.
11 p.m.: Hansen is tossing, turning. Griffey is still on the phone.
11:45 p.m.: Hansen has his pillow over his head. Griffey is still on the phone.
11:50 p.m.: Hansen has had enough.
"I took the phone," Hansen said. "I said, `Mrs. Griffey, Kenny's got to go now, he's got to get his sleep.' Junior took the phone and said good night.
"After that, we got along great. Not that that was bad. Junior was 17."
"Eighteen," Junior replied.
"Eighteen," Hansen said. "He was young, a kid. He was just being a kid. I understood."
It was not all early nights. Griffey asked thousands of questions - mostly in the room after coming back from the ballpark - into the wee hours.
"Rog is country," Junior said. "Just give him some chew and a six-pack. Of course, I couldn't go in and buy the six-pack for him. So I gave him the money for it instead. He'd be all set and we'd sit up all night."
Griffey wanted all of Hansen's baseball knowledge. What was it like at Class AA? At Class AAA? Can I play there?
Swimming was part of the rehabilitation process for Griffey.
Tom Newberg, assistant to Seattle trainer Rick Griffin, was the Burlington medic. He met Griffey at the hotel pool and asked if he could swim.
"I'll never forget it," Hansen said. "Kenny didn't answer. He just did a double back flip into the pool."
"Single back flip," Griffey said. "I started swimming when I was 6."
If it was the stuff of "Bull Durham," there was also a touch of "My Bodyguard." Griffey was resented by other minor-leaguers - for being drafted first in the country, for his contract, for being the son of a major-leaguer.
Patrick Lennon, a hulking infielder who was the first-round pick in 1986, made things toughest for Junior, once with a prank that sent Griffey to the hospital.
"They put salt in my drink, a Sprite," Griffey said. "I have allergic reactions to too much salt. I gulped the soda down and my throat started to swell and made it tough to breathe."
While Griffey headed for the emergency room, Hansen, 6 feet 3, 230 angry pounds, went looking for Lennon.
"I told him to ease up," Hansen said. "Patrick didn't like being talked to that way. He made like he wanted to fight."
Hansen was shrugging again. "I said, `Whatever . . . if you want.' He didn't want."
Chuck Carr was another who hassled Griffey. He was the Burlington center fielder and told the youngster emphatically that center was his place. The first game Griffey played, in mid-August after two months on the DL, was in right field.
"The next night I was in center and Chuck was in left or right, I don't remember," Griffey said. "I stayed in center."
Eight months later he was still in center, in the major leagues. Carr eventually got there with the Mets, and is now with the Brewers.
To this day, Mariner people are shocked to hear that Griffey and Hansen were roommates for even a short time. "I can't think of two more different people," Edgar Martinez said, laughing.
"It wasn't so weird," Griffey protested. "We had a blast. Roger is good people. He's like Jay. If he's your friend, he's your friend forever."
The man Griffey fondly calls "Crash" just laughs.
"He asked me once if I thought he could play," Hansen said. "I said, `Are you kidding?' You could see he was going to be something special, even that young. And he hasn't changed. He's older, but to him the game's a double back flip into the pool."