I worry sometimes that the last several seasons of struggle have chipped away at the memory of what Felix Hernandez was like in his prime. He had a swagger, a smile, and a casually intense way of pitching. He had a fastball he commanded, but never quite controlled, and a 12-to-6 curveball that was devastatingly beautiful. Before he even hit the big leagues, his pitching potential broadcast itself in flashing lights on every marquee in town.
He came along at a time when I was mad at baseball for tarnishing my childhood memories with steroids, and I was disappointed with the Mariners for squandering the chance to become a real baseball team.