There are hundreds of baseball players who have served as the face of a franchise. A team always has to have one, even if that face is nontraditional, a rookie or a midseason acquisition or a fifth starter, that says as much about the state of the club as anything else possibly could. The face of the franchise does not have to be of the franchise so much as he simply has to be in it—which separates those from the players who have defined a franchise. These serve as not so much its face as its soul. Their public identity becomes inextricable from the club, and vice versa: Mr. Cub. The Captain. Mr. Tiger.
The basis of this relationship is usually greatness, but there is something else in it, too—a glorious alignment of fortune and timing and finances that lets a roster spot last for a generation. There are only a few dozen of these scattered across a century and a half of history, and just 60 players to ever spend a career of more than 15 years with just one club.
And there is one player whose relationship with his team has been altogether more enchanting than any of the above. He was the face of the franchise, yes, and its name became his own, but he did something more: He and the franchise grew up alongside one another.
