Hall of Famer Ichiro Suzuki's legacy through the eyes of a lifelong Mariners fan

In 2001, I remember hearing the buzz, whispers at first, about a guy playing for the Seattle Mariners named Ichiro Suzuki. I was 13 years old, and to be honest? I didn’t care. At least not at first.

As a lifelong Mariners fan, I was still picking up the pieces from the heartbreak of the Ken Griffey Jr. trade the year before. My baseball world had already been shaken. Griffey was the guy. My guy. I stayed loyal to the Mariners, still cheering on the 41-year-old Rickey Henderson and getting behind Mike Cameron in 2000, but my heart was guarded. Why should I care about some 27-year-old rookie out of Japan?

Why Ichiro Suzuki still means everything to Mariners fans

At the time, I was living in Richmond, Virginia. I didn’t fully grasp how rare and historic it was: a foreign star in his prime, carving a path into Major League Baseball with the pressure of two nations watching. But 2001 would change that. Ichiro would light the baseball world on fire with both offensive and defensive highlights — and the Mariners couldn’t stop winning.

And you know what that meant for a 13-year-old kid living in Virginia? The Mariners were suddenly everywhere. ESPN couldn’t get enough of them. Couldn’t get enough of him. Imagine the wall-to-wall coverage Shohei Ohtani received for his 50-50 season, but ten times bigger and for several seasons. That was Ichiro in 2001.

And just like that, I was hooked all over again. I stayed up late to catch highlights on SportsCenter and watch West Coast games alone in my room while everyone else slept. No one else in my family cared about baseball like I did. But Ichiro gave me a reason to feel like it mattered.

What I loved most about him? He wasn’t some hulking slugger blasting 500-foot home runs like the McGwires and Sosas of the late ’90s. Ichiro was different. Slim. Fast. Surgical. He didn’t just hit, he was disruptive. He legged out infield singles. Laid down bunts. Stretched singles into doubles. It was beautiful chaos. For me, it was everything.

When my parents gave me the chance to play Little League, I wasn’t hitting balls over the fence either. I couldn’t. I got on base the only way I could with bunts, choppers, and beating out grounders. But once I was on? That’s when the fun started. I stole bases. I created havoc. And watching Ichiro do those same things on the biggest stage made me believe in something I didn’t even know I needed. He made what I thought was impossible, possible.

And I wasn’t the only one who felt that way. Some of today’s athletes grew up with a similar sense of wonder and identification. Cleveland Guardians outfielder Steven Kwan, who’s of Japanese and Chinese descent, put it perfectly:

“He was a player who looked like me: left-handed, played the outfield,” Kwan said. “It kind of gave me hope at a really young age to see that someone who looks like me, plays like me, is able to succeed at the highest level and, not only that, gain the respect of everybody in the league too.”

That’s the kind of impact Ichiro had. Not just with numbers, but with presence.

Fast forward to 2011. I’m 23 years old, bartending at Buffalo Wild Wings — yeah, not the proudest job I’ve ever held, but it fits this part of the story. The Mariners are deep into another unwatchable season. They were bad. Uninspiring even. But they’re playing the Washington Nationals, and I’m watching at the bar. Then it hits me.

What am I doing? Why am I not there?

On a whim, I ask my boss for the next day off, hop in my car, and head straight to Washington, D.C. to finally see my first Major League game.

At the ticket window, I ask for a seat in right field. I want to be behind Ichiro.

“Seven dollars,” the attendant says.

Seven dollars. To see my childhood hero in person. I stood there stunned.

It’s a Thursday day game, and yeah, both teams are bad, but it doesn’t matter. I sit in the right field bleachers and watch Ichiro, live and in front of me. He goes 1-for-4. Michael Pineda and Jason Marquis carve up the lineups. The Mariners lose 1–0 in the ninth. But I’m not there for the score. I’m there for him.

Ichiro’s departure taught us about growth, grace, and moving on

Two years later, Ichiro is traded. I’m 25 now, old enough to understand the business of baseball in a way I didn’t when I was 12 and Griffey left. This time, it’s grief mixed with gratitude. Grief that he’s going to the New York Yankees of all teams, and gratitude for the player who made me feel like I belonged, even if I never had the size or support to chase the game fully myself.

Ichiro made it okay to be the undersized guy. He made preparation cool. He showed me that discipline, precision, and individuality could coexist. And watching him move on, I understood: Sometimes you outgrow the place that made you who you are.

I admired the move. I admired the maturity. And no matter where he went, I never stopped rooting for him.

I don’t think I fully realized how much Ichiro impacted me until 2022. By then, I was grown, and out of place. After spending my entire life in Virginia, I began to feel like I no longer fit. Something was missing. So I packed what I could fit into my car and drove across the country. Destination: Seattle.

The city I had fallen in love with from afar. The one I only knew through baseball broadcasts, drone shots between innings, and the idea of possibility.

On August 27, 2022, I stood in T-Mobile Park. Now a season ticket holder and surrounded by fans I now call friends, as Ichiro Suzuki was inducted into the Seattle Mariners Hall of Fame.

He stepped to the mic.

“What’s up, Seattle?” he said.

I was teary-eyed. Because in that moment, it all came together.

Twenty-one years earlier, this “skinny, undersized guy from Japan” (his words, not mine) pulled me into a game, then a city, and ultimately a way of living that changed everything. He motivated me to stay connected to the sport I grew up loving — not as a player, but as a voice. Today, I follow the Mariners closely, offering my perspective on the team I’ve supported for more than three quarters of my life. And now, I have the chance to honor the player who led me here.

He taught me that it pays to be disciplined and prepared. To be meticulous, but also playful, funny, and mischievous. To take risks, even when they’re uncomfortable. That what makes you different can be what makes you unforgettable. And that when you commit to your own style, your own voice, everything else has a way of falling into place.

That’s what Ichiro gave me. And all it cost was seven dollars.