I miss Junior. Miss having him around. Miss his family. Miss having him in the locker room. I miss some of the crap he used to talk, ragging the pitchers. I miss watching him run down everything in sight. I miss watching him play at such a high level that he belonged in his own league. I miss having him in the lineup, being a threat every single at-bat. No doubt.

I miss Randy, too. I miss having him on the mound every fifth day, sticking it up the other team's butts. I miss the way he used to intimidate the other team. I swear, some days, you could hear the other dugout saying, "Don't be throwing at anyone today, because they're throwing Randy tomorrow, and we don't want to deal with that."

And, of course, I miss Alex. He is the complete package as a player and a person.

But the page has been turned in Seattle. We all know this game is a business, and that side of baseball can be cruel, so you can't dwell on what might have been. Randy, Junior and Alex helped save baseball in Seattle and helped build Safeco Field. Going into the '95 season, we pretty much thought that was going to be the end of the Mariners. We were playing and campaigning to keep the team in Seattle at the same time. Everybody knew if the team moved, there'd never be a major league team in Seattle again. But winning changed everything overnight.

We were an organization where, for years, our goal was to be .500. When we hit it for the first time -- in '91 -- we had a champagne toast. Guys were going crazy, like we'd won the World Series, and I can just remember scratching my head, thinking, this is unbelievable. Talk about selling yourself short. I said to myself, "Something's gotta change."

So, in '95, we're finally in a pennant race in August. We're not in first, but we're feeling good about our chances, and I come in one day and I notice that the banners hanging from the upper deck in the Kingdome, showing the division standings, have been changed. They've got the wild card standings. Well, I got pissed off. All those years trying to get above .500, and here we are, coming down to the wire, and they want us to settle for second best? I didn't want to go there. That chapped me bad. I chewed out the guy who did the banners big-time, and I said, "If anyone gives you a hard time, tell them to come down and talk to me." And from there we took off.

The more we won, and the way we won -- in our last at-bat, down to our last pitch -- the more it became an addiction. It got in our blood, and we couldn't live without it. Seattle got hooked on the team. And I became attached to the city. I knew then I'd never leave.

I'm proud to say that in the 13 years I've been here, Seattle's become a great baseball town. It used to be that no one talked baseball, and I'm not even sure they understood baseball. Now they recognize when we make a good fundamental play, like moving a runner over with a ground ball, or hitting a sac fly. The biggest thing, I think, is you turn on the talk shows, and the fans are into it. They're second-guessing Lou, speculating on trades, doing all the things baseball fans are supposed to do.

I'm glad I haven't missed any of it.

This article appears in the July 23 issue of ESPN The Magazine.