April2007

Legacy

• WORDSChris Dimino

Class of ‘07

Cooperstown, NY

The guy who revolutionized the shortstop position and got millions of people back to caring about a sport that, one year before, was such a mess they cancelled the World Series; the Golden Glove-winning corner outfielder who picked up eight batting titles, never seemed to have a bad day at the ballpark, and always turned away from bigger, free-agent dollars to stay and play at home; one half of the summer of ‘98 ball/love fest that led to the pursuit and passing of the greatest single-season record, in all, of sports--the same guy who walked away from $30 million when he retired, with two years left on a guaranteed contract:

Ripken, Gwynn, and McGwire. Had a nice ring to it. It sounded “right.” As the 2001 season ended, and Ripken and Gwynn did what they had said they would do, it seemed like an extra bonus when McGwire announced his retirement, as well. He really did leave that $30 million on the table. His body was failing him. And even the prospect of 600 home runs (he finished with 583) wasn’t enough to bring him back for another year. Seemed too good to be true. For one-third of this group, it was. We’ll try our best to leave him out of this story.

I’ve had the chance to speak to both Ripken and Gwynn many times over the years. Spoke to both of them right after that 2001 season. Different, yet the same. When I informed both that they were “on the clock” for 2007’s induction speech, not surprisingly, both gave me the “we’ll see, you never know” line. All of the conversations leading up to that one had prepared me. Neither was going to even nibble at that one. Wasn’t their “style.” Actually, the problem/blessing was that neither had a “style.”

Life really is funny. I had taken the 3-hour drive at least 20 times, from New Jersey to Memorial Stadium, over the years. A park right in the middle of a neighborhood. Very “old school.” A lot I would find out over time--like about Ripken himself. Terrible sight lines that got worse as the team did. Fifty-four wins in 1988, the year the Orioles lost 21, straight, to open the season, and fired Cal Sr. as the Baltimore manager, six games in. And admittedly, according to Cal, caused him for the first time to doubt whether he would play the rest of his career in the park where his dad and he were brought up. Watching your dad (who had spent 36 years in the organization) become the fall guy will piss off even the most pleasant of guys. As a fan buying upper-deck seats, and making my way down closer to the field (the good news of a lousy team is plenty of good seats down low), who would have thought that just a few years after being there, as they opened the most significant ballpark since Yankee Stadium (Camden Yards, 1992), I would be afforded the opportunity to get to know the best ambassador the game has, perhaps, ever seen.

Ripken and Gwynn coming to town always meant getting to the ballpark early. You never miss a chance to go to school with guys like this.

Tony Gwynn has an easy laugh. Truth be told, it sounds more like a kid’s than a man’s. Infectious. I remember, vividly, the first time I was able to elicit it. Quick background: Tony Gwynn was way ahead of his time. He used videotape to study the game before it became the norm. Pre-game in every clubhouse across the majors today, you will see both pitchers and hitters going over (on laptops) any at-bat they choose. Players can go into the clubhouse during the game to see whatever they want--from their last at-bat to an at-bat from years ago--with the touch of a few buttons. Not so easy in the old days. (Early, Tony Gwynn-days.) Back in ‘96, I sat with Gwynn in the dugout in Atlanta and asked him about his collection. Doing some quick math, I asked if his first tapes were Beta. Big laugh from the best “pure hitter” I have ever seen. My definition of pure hitter, by the way, is as simple as this: only 434 strikeouts in 9,920 at-bats. Filthy numbers...but, I digress. He actually playfully punched me and told me I was “cold” for bringing up Beta tapes and top-loading machines. Sort of the how old do you think I am? thing. (For those of you who don’t know what Beta is: it was the DVD of its time, the Pong to today’s video games. And if you don’t know what Pong is, go ask your parents.) After he got done laughing, he looked around to see if we were alone. “Hell, yes. I got Beta.” Then he laughed some more.

This is the place where I am supposed to list all of the ridiculous numbers and accomplishments of these two men. The raw data that makes you go wow. It would be simple to do. I have it all in front of me. A good amount of it I actually have committed to memory. These guys are in my wheelhouse. All three of us are the right age to know what it is they did. As a 44-year-old, they certainly don’t play a part in my first baseball memories. The 1969 Mets, led to the impossible-dream championship by Brooklyn-son Gil Hodges--the guy my father said was (and still is) robbed of his rightful place in Cooperstown--fill that space in my mind. I remember well the mustached Oakland As’ run to three World Series titles before giving way to the “Big Red Machine” of Cinncinati. Carlton Fisk, in game six of the 1975 Series, was the most memorable moment for my generation (as baseball became a TV game) and the beginning of “free agency” that brought the Yankees back to prominence. But these guys, along with a good handful of their peers, started their careers when I understood it was a business. (A strike or two will do that to you.) They put together those numbers in the brand-new world of ESPN and extended baseball packages. Instead of being cynical about it (12+ years in sportstalk radio will do that to you), I choose to look at them as an example of what was right in a time of a whole lot of wrong.

So the editor of this magazine doesn’t think I didn’t do my homework, let me give you at least this: Tony Gwynn had 56 stolen bases. IN ONE YEAR! Nobody knows that. He had 319 for his career. Not kidding. Gwynn agrees with me. When I brought it up to him once, he profusely thanked me over the air. Said he would kiss me the next time he saw me for putting it out there. Five-time Gold Glove winner, as well. Point is, the guy he became (physically) had to do, in part, with a couple of leg issues over the years. But he insists that he never lost anything at the plate. What kind of guy was he? The kind of guy who, after having his vision go from 20/10 to 20/15 one season, went into the doctor’s room before his physical exam (the next year) to memorize the last line on the chart to bring his (reported) vision back to 20/10.

You want a little Ripken? 2,632. Consecutive games played. Better than that? 8,243. Consecutive innings played. Five-plus years. Having just typed those things, I quite honestly feel a little dirty, and here’s why. I don’t want to be one of the way-too-many who just talk/write/speak of “The Streak.” To make Cal Ripken’s career just that is selling him way short. He changed the game. He was 6’4’’ (plus) and played shortstop. You know--shortstop. Where they used to put the second-smallest guy on the field. The place where they would take .225, a handful of doubles, and a bunch of sacrifice bunts. The guy who allowed Alex Rodriquez the ability to play the position (so says Rodriquez himself, a bona fide Ripken zealot growing up, by the way). Flash forward to 2001. Ripken, who openly talked to me about the evolution of his 19 All Star game appearances--"young and big-eyed” to the “old man of the locker room"--had long made his move to third base by now. Elected to start as the AL third baseman, it was Rodriquez who perhaps paid the greatest honor to the testament of Ripken the player but, more importantly, the man. As the AL team took the field in the first, Rodriquez motioned, then (almost physically) had to move Ripken to his “rightful place” at short. The ovation was crazy. And it didn’t smell phony or staged. And I’m a bona fide cynic. Oh yeah. Of course, Ripken hit a home run on the first pitch he saw that night--on his way to becoming the Most Valuable Player.

Ripken and Gwynn coming to town always meant getting to the ballpark early. You never miss a chance to go to school with guys like this. Where else would you get a chance to have Ripken show you all of the batting stances he had used over the years? Or at least the ones we both could remember. Never (and I mean never) has a player of this caliber used so many to light up a pitcher: “all about how the bat and I felt on a given night.” Watching Tony Gwynn take batting practice should be required for any guy who actually thinks he works at whatever he does. Baseballs make a sound coming off a bat. Go to enough games or, more importantly, stand around enough batting cages before games and you can actually hear who the better hitters are. Home run guys have their own sound. Everyone can hit home runs in batting practice. And damn near every guy does just that. Souvenirs for everyone. Not Gwynn. He had a plan. And rarely did you see anything other than a screaming line drive. I asked to see his batting practice bats one time. He said he respected that. He knew what I was looking for. How far up or down the barrel were the impact marks? Let’s just say that Mr. Gwynn had a very small patch of used wood.

Everyone can hit home runs in Batting practice.  And damn near every guy does just that. Souveniers for everyone.  Not Gwynn.  He had a plan.

I (like you) saw Cal Ripken celebrate his passing of Lou Gehrig’s 2,130 consecutive-games-played streak with the most famous lap in baseball history around the aforementioned Camden Yards. It was a night that truly helped take the venom out of the bite that both players and owners had put into its ticket-buying (but more importantly) hero-worshipping constituency. Only a little over a year had passed since baseball stopped being. DURING A SEASON. No World Series and a late start to the 1995 campaign. The “screw them” mentality was pervasive, it seems. Until that September night when the right guy, at the right time, had his moment. Perfect. (Did I mention I really am a cynic?) Point to all of this? Beyond the obvious? The next March, in Florida, spring-training-game rain-delay (they hate having to refund any ticket dollars in spring, so they wait it out) there is Cal Ripken. No TV cameras in sight, signing autographs for two hours, making another lap around the park. This one more slowly and, to the people (kids first, was the rule of the day) much more personal than the one a few months earlier. I was close enough to him (because I was either smart enough or dumb enough) to ask if I could talk to him as he went about his business of being a hero (my word, certainly not his). I heard two distinct thank-yous that day: one from the kids who were thrilled to get a signed ball or program, the other from a bunch of guys my age (or older) whose thank-you was that of the much bigger picture. His subtle nod to those guys told me he knew what they meant. 

Subscribe to SE7EN Terms & Conditions Privacy Search Contact SE7EN About SE7EN

© SE7EN MEDIA LLC, 2007. All material is strictly copyrighted, and all rights are reserved. Reproduction without permission is forbidden.