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34 | Refuse to Lose

F

o heRt seAttLe MARineRs in particular and Major League Base-

ball in general the summer of 1994 was fraught with discontent.

Ken Griffey Jr., arguably the most gifted player in baseball, was fed

up with losing and wanted to be traded. Jay Buhner, another fan favorite,

also went nose-to-nose with Lou Piniella, the club’s fiery skipper. Then,

during warm-ups on July 19, a pair of 26–pound tiles came tumbling

down from the Kingdome’s ceiling. If fans had been sitting in the area

where they landed someone could have been killed.

Emergency repairs left the team homeless. The up side was that the

club bonded on its extended road trip and started winning—only to be

sidelined by a players’ union strike that canceled the World Series for

the first time since 1904. Like millions of other baseball fans, Gorton

was disgusted. But when other members of Congress and the White

House began talking about intervention he said they should just “butt

out.” Talk of repealing baseball’s antitrust exemption as a way to force an

end to the strike could end up prolonging the dispute, Gorton warned.^1

With its 20–year lease for the Kingdome expiring after the 1996 sea-

son, the Baseball Club of Seattle began a campaign for a new, retractable

roof stadium. The timing, to put it mildly, was inauspicious. Even base-

ball’s best friends were alienated by the strike. The Legislature authorized

a tenth of a percent increase in the sales tax in King County, contingent

on approval of the county’s voters. Despite being the equivalent of only 10

cents on a $100 purchase, it was going to be a hard sell.

After intense lobbying by the business community, the County Coun-

cil voted 7–6 to place the proposal on the 1995 Primary Election ballot.

The first poll found 70 percent opposed. Some of the Mariners began

investigating the housing market in Tampa. Then, as old sports writers

used to say, Mo Mentum swapped jerseys. The team caught fire behind

the hitting of Griffey, Buhner and Edgar Martinez, with 6–foot-10 Randy

Johnson, “The Big Unit,” in a zone on the pitcher’s mound, firing virtu-

ally unhittable left-handed fastballs and wicked sliders.