2.03.2007
BASEBALL FOLK
The young outfielder drove in from Triple-A Louisville the night before, curving along the northern Kentucky hills, seeing the Queen City spread lit and waiting below. He'd gotten the elusive call-up. Surely, arriving felt a lot like heaven. Ken Griffey, Jr. recounted his first meeting with Dernell Stenson. It was Aug. 13, 2003 and the Diamondbacks were in town.
Dernell, thick-chested like a power hitter, wore his mesh Reds jersey, a rookie's end-of-the-summer number 63.
"Hey, six-three," Griffey said across the spacious clubhouse. "I think you may be in the wrong stadium. Try next door." The Bengals new riverfront home sat colossal just down Second Avenue. And, Stenson had the body of a linebacker.
"Mr. Griffey," Dernell said, introducing himself with a smile.
"Just call me, Junior."
This August moment began Dernell's six-week string of big league baseball, twenty starts, a few home runs, the culmination of a million swings and also only the beginning. But, this was to be it, the end of things. Shot and killed in the November following his call-up, the object of a dark and chilling story, his summer in Cincinnati was his sad high note.
"You've made it now," Griffey told the 25-year-old in one of several clubhouse talks. "Now, just play."
***Dernell's story will be published in the Oxford American this summer.
The young outfielder drove in from Triple-A Louisville the night before, curving along the northern Kentucky hills, seeing the Queen City spread lit and waiting below. He'd gotten the elusive call-up. Surely, arriving felt a lot like heaven. Ken Griffey, Jr. recounted his first meeting with Dernell Stenson. It was Aug. 13, 2003 and the Diamondbacks were in town.
Dernell, thick-chested like a power hitter, wore his mesh Reds jersey, a rookie's end-of-the-summer number 63.
"Hey, six-three," Griffey said across the spacious clubhouse. "I think you may be in the wrong stadium. Try next door." The Bengals new riverfront home sat colossal just down Second Avenue. And, Stenson had the body of a linebacker.
"Mr. Griffey," Dernell said, introducing himself with a smile.
"Just call me, Junior."
This August moment began Dernell's six-week string of big league baseball, twenty starts, a few home runs, the culmination of a million swings and also only the beginning. But, this was to be it, the end of things. Shot and killed in the November following his call-up, the object of a dark and chilling story, his summer in Cincinnati was his sad high note.
"You've made it now," Griffey told the 25-year-old in one of several clubhouse talks. "Now, just play."
***Dernell's story will be published in the Oxford American this summer.
posted by TB at 10:28
