Intended or not, Junior Griffey is blowing us all symbolic kisses.

They fly 400 feet.

He says he isn't lingering on the I-told-you-so's, though lord knows he could.

Given the obvious joy Griffey is getting from playing baseball in one piece again, he says he doesn't have time to dwell on last laughs.

Living well is the best revenge. Home runs ain't bad, either.

PHOTO GALLERY

Photos of Saturday's game

But think of the list he could make. The doubters, the cynics, the skeptics. We know who we are. As Griffey put it, "Four years of taking shots. Bobbing and weaving." Griffey won't make that list. Let's do it for him:

• Here's a homer for my friends in the media, who decided I was too old, too hurt and too out of shape;

• For everyone who thought I was an afterthought. Which was, indeed, everyone;

• For the clowns in the cheap seats who cheered last year when I hurt my shoulder diving for a flyball;

• For Jim Bowden, who brought me home, called me Michael Jordan, then tried to trade me for Phil Nevin;

• For every person who judged my character by the autographs I didn't sign;

It's interesting how peaceful it gets around Griffey when he's hitting lots of homers. "Nobody's bothering me. I don't have to answer the DL (disabled list) questions," Griffey said, knocking hard three times on the wooden steamer trunk in front of his locker.

• For every manager this year who walked Sean Casey to get to me;

• For Jack McKeon: Got my game jerseys?

• For every amateur shrink who wondered why I stopped wearing my hat backward. My goodness. He must not be happy.

• For my hamstrings, my knee, my ankle, my shoulder; for every weight lifted, soft cast worn and sling slung. For every stinkin' rehab minute;

"Like I always said, when I'm healthy, I can play," Griffey said.

"A professional satisfaction" is how Barry Larkin described his friend's mood. "It's saying, 'I'm still a good player, regardless of what you say.' "

• For every armchair doctor who decided I was an old 34. All those years on turf. All those major-league games at such a young age. He's worn out;

• For every armchair doctor who determined my legs were shot;

• For Reds ownership, who led me to believe they'd use my deferred salary to build a team around me. I once offered to defer another $1 million for Chuck Finley. Is he here yet?

• For every would-be hitting expert who decided I couldn't pull a good fastball anymore: There it goes, 390 feet to right-center, homer to the Moon Deck, just to the right of the "495" sign . . . the one they changed to "496" Saturday, almost before the ball landed;

• For every team that abandoned its infield shift on me;

• For Jack McKeon, Part II: Will you pick me for the All-Star team, if the fans don't make me a starter?

Griffey isn't acting like someone preoccupied with 500 home runs. In his last at-bat Friday night, he put down a bunt on his own.

"When it happens, it happens," he said. Five hundred homers is a punched ticket to the Hall of Fame. Which is all that needs to be said.

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E-mail pdaugherty@enquirer.com

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