Despite the ceremonies for the 2,000th game the year before, despite the steady buildup during the summer in 1995, breaking the Gehrig record remained somehow hypothetical in my mind until the huge banners with the number 2123 dropped onto the brick wall of the old warehouse just beyond the right field fence at Camden Yards on August 29. Only eight games to go? Breaking Lou Gehrig’s record was no longer hypothetical. This number on the wall made everything very real, and now I did feel real pressure to go ahead and finish this business off. What if something happened this last week? It would be ridiculous. John Maroon, the team’s PR guy who had been at my side for the whole summer, more or less, said he could tell that the dropping of the new number every night of the homestand “hit me hard,” and he was right. That was a powerful emotion.
The banner numbers were a great idea, a takeoff on what the Indians did in Cleveland as Eddie Murray approached his 3,000th hit, but I was skeptical about the idea at first. As with the press conference in every city around the league, it seemed a little presumptuous, but everyone assured me otherwise, and I guess they were right. These last games of the streak, concluding with 2,131, the record-breaking game, were a homestand for the Orioles against the West Coast teams, and this scheduling wasn’t completely an accident, as I understand it. The Orioles wanted the two big nights to be at home, and of course I wanted to break the record at home, if at all possible. This was a consideration, and I’m pretty sure the timing of 2,131 as the last game of a homestand was also intended. But the danger with this schedule was that any rainout earlier in the season would push the record-breaking game into our next road trip. There was a lot of concern about this a few times. We probably played a couple of games that would’ve been postponed by rain if it hadn’t been for this consideration.
For the first night or two of the homestand at Camden Yards, the fans didn’t know what to expect with the numbers, but after the pattern had been set—first the John Tesh music when the game became official, then the explanation on the scoreboard of what constitutes an official game (four and a half innings if the home team is winning, five if the visitors are ahead, and even I got confused once or twice when a particular game was official)—the fans were primed for the unfurling of the new number. I was usually in the field, embarrassed, of course, not really knowing what to do other than doff my cap. Different moments from my career flashed through my mind every night. I remembered stuff I hadn’t thought about for years, some of which I’ve now written about in this book. It became a time of reflection, mainly, but when the more emotional memories came up, I tried to fight those back. I was still on the field, active in a game, and I didn’t want to get emotional in the middle of some crucial play. In that sense, the countdown was usually counterproductive for me.
For weeks prior to the final nights, I’d been doing five or six interviews or something before each home game, starting in early to midafternoon, with almost everything done at the ballpark. Only a few interviews or photo shoots were at my house. At the ballpark, the locker used for most of these shoots was actually a prop installed in the auxiliary locker room down the hallway from the Orioles clubhouse. This locker looked perfectly authentic, complete with uniforms, gloves, shoes, boxes of supplies, a change of clothes, unidentifiable odds and ends. A couple of times in August there were two setups at the same time: one photographer or TV guy working at my “locker,” another one set up across the room with a different prop, waiting.
Just like with the press conferences, I put a new twist on every answer to the same question by thinking about it differently every time. Or at least I tried to, because it didn’t seem fair to shortchange the fourth or fifth interview of the day simply because it was the fourth or fifth interview. That summer happened to produce a bumper crop of fruits and vegetables in the Aberdeen area, so the lucky reporters left Camden Yards with a box of Senior’s delicious Better Boy tomatoes.
As you’d imagine, there was press everywhere as we approached the final games. John Maroon had anticipated issuing 350, maybe 400 media credentials for those games. He handed out 750. Right in the thick of the buildup, John surprised me by saying one afternoon as we trooped around, “Don’t take this the wrong way, Cal, but I’m not sure I’d want to be you.” I answered, “Well, it’s a trade-off. Some things I can’t do now, but people treat me very well.” I was treated wonderfully everywhere I went in 1995, and one way I thought I could reciprocate was to sign as many autographs as possible. Earlier in the summer I had started signing for an hour, occasionally as long as two hours, after the games. I decided to do this on my own; I didn’t consult anyone, but just started telling the security guards before the game that I’d be signing after the game. But in early August, the club asked me to stop doing it because the security people couldn’t control the crowd, which started lining up in the third inning above our dugout on the first base line. By the late innings the line went all the way up through the box seats and then out through the concession arcade. Nice and orderly, but when the game ended, fans who had been sitting in those first base box seats rushed forward for the best position at the rail, and the fans who’d been in line for five or six innings got angry. Two women duked it out, I was told, so I understood the decision to call off the post-game signing sessions, but the announcement over the PA system didn’t provide any explanation and left the impression, to my mind, that this had been an arbitrary decision on my part, an untrue impression that I regretted.
Maybe a week before the end, I stopped doing the pre-game interviews, substituting one big post-game interview. And one camera followed me everywhere. Otherwise, I held to a pretty routine schedule, trying to focus on baseball but also flashing back every night when the number dropped.
However, I did have to write the thank-you speech I would give after I broke Gehrig’s record. I try to be disciplined about my obligations, but for some reason I had put this off until almost the last minute. After our game with Seattle on Sunday, three days before 2,131, Ira Rainess sat on the stool by my locker and took notes as I outlined what I wanted to say. The following afternoon—Labor Day—I met with Ira, Ron Shapiro, and the folks who work in my office to hammer out a real draft. It was a miserably hot day, and, because of the long holiday weekend, the air-conditioning in the building had been shut off since Friday. It may even have been hotter inside the building than outside, and don’t ask me why we didn’t do the smart thing and adjourn to a cool restaurant or somebody’s house, because I don’t know.
The group wrote three or four drafts altogether, with me practicing my delivery aloud, tailoring the words as we went. I’d given a lot of speeches over the years, but never before an audience this size—a full house at Camden Yards and a national television audience. Even without the sweltering conditions in the unair-conditioned office, I was already sweating bullets, worrying about whether I’d be thrown off by the public address system, which causes a brief delay between spoken word and broadcast, worrying whether I’d be able to talk about my parents and my family without my emotions getting the better of me. I did not want to break down on the big night.
So whom to thank? I thought about this question two ways, in terms of who I am as a person and as a player. The answers were pretty clear to me. As a person, I’m totally indebted to my parents, my wife, and my children. Obviously, I would try to convey my debt and appreciation and love to them. As a player, well, from Senior I’d learned how to play the game, and from Eddie Murray I learned how to be a major leaguer. Eddie was the man. Eddie was the reason I played all these games, because he played all the games when he wasn’t hurt! Here was a guy who epitomized playing and winning at the major league level. As the great clutch hitter, he was expected to be on the field on a daily basis, and he impressed on me the same responsibility as a shortstop hitting in the middle of the lineup. If the manager wants you to play, you have to play if at all possible. As I’ve said many times, the streak was an approach to the game, which was much more important than the fact that I was lucky enough to play all these games in a row. Eddie taught me this approach. Thanking Eddie Murray was a privilege.
Acknowledging the great fans of the Orioles was another easy call. And finally, of course, Lou Gehrig, who was called on to be courageous in a way that most of us can only hope we’d measure up to.
I had wanted the Orioles to be in the pennant race on the nights of September 5 and 6. For one thing, it would have been the best possible way to keep the focus where it belonged, on the ball games. Unfortunately, we were more or less out of the race by mid-August, if not mathematically eliminated, although in late July we’d been in the hunt, four or five games behind Boston, playing .500 ball. Then there was a steady slippage. By the time of the record-breaking homestand the first week in September, we were sixteen games behind the Red Sox. Honestly, I would have traded all the hoopla for an exciting pennant drive, but that wasn’t to be. That’s the reason the streak week games had an atmosphere something like Opening Day and the All-Star game—celebrations of baseball—as opposed to the atmosphere at the playoffs and the World Series, where there’s also a real seriousness and something truly at stake. I’ll always wonder how that week in September would have played out if the Orioles had been playing for the pennant.
If we couldn’t be in contention, second best would be for the Orioles to play well those two nights, at least, and for me to play well, too, and this scenario played out perfectly. It couldn’t have played out any better, in fact, beginning in the second inning on September 5 against California, when Chris Hoiles, Jeff Manto, Mark Smith, and Brady Anderson hit solo shots, and the crowd went wild. The streak celebration would have been fun regardless, but I think it helped that the fans had some good baseball on the field to celebrate as well. The players were pumped up, too, by now, and they wanted to perform well before the full houses. And they did. Those four homers set the tone. Then Brady Anderson caught the fly ball that ended the top of the fifth inning—Brady still has that ball—making the game official since we were ahead. I had tied the record. I was back in the dugout for our half of the inning when they cued the John Tesh music and the number 2,130 dropped into place and Camden Yards just exploded. Exploded! In the dugout, there were handshakes and hugs all around and I came out for the first of I don’t know how many waves to the crowd. I waved to my parents and Elly and Fred and Billy, and I caught Kelly’s eyes, sitting in the box to the left of the dugout.
All of the emotion of the year was wrapped up in these two or three seconds between my wife and me. As I’ve said, during the baseball season it can be hard for a player’s family to get in sync, especially with kids. The guy’s playing all over the country and they’re at home doing their own thing. But, ironically, maybe, all the streak business and preparations and interviews that summer made that part of my job a lot easier. In 1995, baseball brought Kelly and me together, and somehow those few seconds of eye contact summed up a season for us. It was a surprisingly private moment in a very public place. For Kelly, that night was bigger than the next one when I broke the record, which she described as getting married for a second day in a row. I noticed her tears.
The next inning I was fortunate to put the icing on the 2,130 cake. Mark Holzemer hung a slider to me and I got just enough of the pitch to lift it over the left field wall. When I hit the ball, I didn’t think it was going out. When it did drop two rows beyond the 364 sign, that was gratifying, because I did want to play well in these games. In the first place, I’ve never been a great spotlight performer. I’ve talked about how I generally struggle when I’m really trying to do well, especially in All-Star games, and this was probably a bigger spotlight than I’d ever had. And I was thinking about the remark I’ve mentioned to the effect that the streak was a matter of will, not talent. The streak had become who I was as a baseball player. Performing well in these games wasn’t a necessity—I thought my overall record as a shortstop and a hitter should speak for itself—but my performance had been overshadowed in recent years. To be able to hit a homer on September 5, after hitting one the night before as well, and for us to win this game 8–0 behind Scott Erickson—great, really great. I probably can’t over-emphasize how important that was to me going into this series with the Angels. It would have been a lot different—for me, definitely, and I think for the fans as well—if I couldn’t get the ball out of the infield and the games were miserable for the Orioles.
I knew that an assortment of gifts were going to be presented after the record-tying game, but I didn’t know what. Usually, I would have insisted on knowing, but as with everything else that year, I decided to set aside my penchant for analysis and control. Kelly had been involved in this part of the week’s activities, and everyone promised I wouldn’t be embarrassed, so I was ready for anything, even the PG-13 spoof by two of the actors on The Young and the Restless, one of Mom’s favorite soaps—and mine, too, in the minors—in which Melody Scott Thomas is impressed by Brad Carlton’s description of my Iron Man’s endurance and stamina. Don Diamont, the actor who plays the hunk role of Brad Carlton, is a good friend who’s played some basketball with us at the gym. When he showed up one year at brother Billy’s Super Bowl party, Mom whispered to me, “Is that who I think it is?” I said, “I think it is.”
I got a lot of cool gifts that night, including, compliments of Dave Letterman, direct from the home office in Grand Rapids, Michigan, my very own Top Ten list of reasons I needed a day off (number one: my jock was full of stadium mustard); one of Joan Jett’s gold records; jerseys from Hammerin’ Hank Aaron, Ernie Banks, Baltimore Colts’ immortal quarterback Johnny U. (Unitas, of course), University of Maryland coach Gary Williams, and number one NBA draft choice Joe Smith; a speedskating uniform from Bonnie Blair and a jacket from Grease, one of my favorite Broadway shows; a bat from Tom Selleck; a bag of team balls from every NBA squad, delivered by the Admiral himself, David Robinson; a HERE flag from Frank Robinson (a replica of the original banner that marked where Frank’s drive cleared not just the fence but everything at Memorial Stadium); a Brooklyn Dodgers cap from Rex “THANK Yoooooou” Barney at the microphone in the press box; from Pam Shriver, a part-owner of the Orioles, a signed poster from all the tennis players competing at the U.S. Open that week in New York; and from the visiting Angels, delivered by former teammate Rene “Gonzo” Gonzales (the guy who tied my unofficial record for leaping the steps at the Metrodome in the fewest strides), a Walt Disney animation cell of Pluto standing on top of a pile of trophies.
And one more gift, which really touched me. Jim Gott’s first victory in the major leagues with the Toronto Blue Jays was also the first game of my streak, on May 30, 1982, and Jim walked onto the field at Camden Yards to present me with that game ball. I couldn’t believe this, because I know what these “firsts” mean to a baseball player. I whispered to Jim that he shouldn’t do this, but he told the crowd that it was an honor to be part of what I’d accomplished. It was pretty incredible to me that he wanted to do this.
When did I finally get home that night? Late, and I collapsed, and somehow the alarm clock either didn’t get set or malfunctioned, and it was a scramble to get Rachel ready for her first day of school. All of us were excited about that, and as I told one of the press conferences, Kelly had made the connection for Rachel that she and I were each having a special day on September 6. Driving her to school, we chatted about how much fun this was going to be for her. We’d already talked about some of the concerns I’d had at school, although I did withhold the information that I’d tried to run away from first grade several times. I didn’t want to plant that idea in her mind.
With the rarest of exceptions when I’m in town during the season, I wake up to take Rachel to school, because this is really the only chance I get to be with her during the week. Then I go back to sleep—or try to, which was the case on September 6. On the other hand, after I gave up trying to sleep, I was pretty relaxed around the house that day. Only twelve hours and one speech to go. It was almost over.
At the park—well, I don’t remember much at the park before the game. I guess I was relaxed but keyed up at the same time. Or maybe I was relaxed before I arrived, then got keyed up wondering what this night was going to be like. And I wasn’t feeling great. I was hot and sweating, and our trainer Richie Bancells gave me an aspirin for the fever and a gallon of Power Ade. When President Clinton and Vice President Gore came through the clubhouse to greet everyone and congratulate me, I was embarrassed to be sweating so much. I recalled the scene from Broadcast News in which the character who has worked his whole life to get in front of the camera as a newscaster finally achieves this goal, but then he’s sweating so much the debut performance is a humiliating disaster. Strange thought. My mind can come up with a ton of them at the oddest times.
For this night, Rachel and Ryan were down by the field with Kelly, and they threw out the first balls. Nice pitches, too, especially considering that the southpaw, Ryan, was just two years old. I was still sweating; after I kissed Rachel, she wiped off her mouth. And I was still sweating in the bottom of the fourth, with a 3–0 count against Shawn Boskie. Rafael Palmeiro had homered in the first inning to tie the game 1–1, then Bobby Bonilla in front of me in the fourth to put us ahead. I’ve never been much of a 3-0 hitter, and normally I would have taken that pitch, but this time I stepped out and said to myself, Keep your concentration, act like it’s 2-0 if you have to, calm down, see the ball, put a good swing on it. I thought I might even be able to pull this off, because it was weird how well I was hitting the ball, starting two days before, with good focus and concentration, a state of relaxation at the plate. I’d been seeing the ball great the whole series, and I saw this one great as well, a fastball right down the middle.
On September 5, I hadn’t been sure the ball was going to leave the playing field. On September 6, I was sure, because I nailed that pitch, and what a thrill that was. Going out in style, so to speak. This was extra sweet, no doubt about it. Fred told me later that he’d called both that homer and the one the previous night. Had that feeling, he said, calling each of the homers on the pitch. My brother the psychic.
Then Manny Alexander, playing second base, caught the third out in the top of the fifth inning, and it was official: I was the new Iron Man of baseball—or the Iron Bird, as at least one sign said. What was I expecting next? I didn’t know, of course, but something like the previous night, I guess, a lot of cheering and curtain calls and an all-around great time. Our starting pitcher, Mike Mussina (Moose had calculated in July that he should have this start), had joked earlier that there’d be an hour delay. That possibility shocked me. I had tried to end the previous night’s fanfare quickly, because these games were huge for the Angels. They were leading their division by five and a half games, down from eleven a month earlier. We couldn’t ask Shawn Boskie to wait around for an hour for this Ripken business to conclude before pitching the bottom half of the inning.
I waved to my parents. I caught their eyes. I walked over to the box and took off my jersey to reveal the special T-shirt I’d been wearing, made by Kelly—“21301 Hugs and Kisses for Dad.” I hadn’t planned this, but it seemed like a good idea at the time. I gave the jersey to my daughter, the first-grader. In the dugout, Butch Burnett, one of our clubhouse guys, was just bawling. We hugged, and now I was trying to hang on myself. I emerged from the dugout and tapped my heart with my right hand. What more could I say than that? What more could I do?
Rafael Palmeiro knew the answer. “You’re going to have to take a lap,” he said. “That’s the only way they’ll quit.” This was one streak-related suggestion I did resist. Like extended antics after a home run, a “victory lap” is not exactly old-school. It was something I would never be comfortable with. And yet, maybe Rafy was right. Ten minutes after the number dropped, the fans were still going crazy. Finally, he and Bobby Bo pushed me to the top of the dugout steps and sent me on my way around the park.
On the videotape, my body language is pretty obvious. I didn’t know about this at all, and at first I just wanted to get it over with. The game was waiting. But then something remarkable happened, at least it seemed that way to me. As I got close to the fans and recognized some of them and looked in their eyes and saw how happy they were and how much this moment seemed to mean to them, I was overwhelmed. By the time I had looped around the outfield and started coming back down the third base line, I slowed down. Another point of surrender to the celebration. I forgot we had four more innings to play. Let this go on forever. And right about then, the “backstage” crew played the Whitney Houston ballad, “One Moment in Time,” over the PA system. I wasn’t even aware of this at the time—I wasn’t hearing anything—but did the music and the lyrics soak into my subconscious somehow? Were they one reason I settled down and slowed down?
Then again, I was also tired, running on empty. As I came along the third base line, I shook hands with Ron Shapiro and his associate Michael Maas and with my brother Billy and with the umpires. By that time I wanted to shake hands with each one of the forty-six thousand people in the stands, but I couldn’t reach that far. I didn’t have time. The Angels lined up in front of their dugout and congratulated me. This was really special, because these were my peers in the game; these were the guys who were in a pennant race and trying to beat the Orioles that night.
I had been in something of a dreamlike state when I got married, when Rachel was born, and then again when Ryan was born. This night at Camden Yards made the fourth time in my life for that strange sensation. I was there, and I knew it, but I was also somewhere off in the distance, surveying the scene. Not an out-of-body experience, exactly, as I understand that phenomenon, but maybe something close.
The Orioles went on to win the game, 4–2, with Mike Mussina getting the victory. Afterward, waiting for the on-field ceremony to begin, my parents and I visited in the tunnel behind the dugout, just the three of us. Sharing the moment, pure and simple. We didn’t get into the big questions, like “What did you feel out there?” Small talk about the hot weather is more the Ripken style. To me, actions and presence speak louder than words. However, I also knew it was almost time for words from me. Mom and Dad assured me I’d be fine.
I appreciated the remarks of Mike Mussina and Brady Anderson on behalf of the Orioles—most of the other great gifts I got are in the trophy case on one wall of the dressing room in the gym, but the big rock with the number 2131 chiseled on it, a gift from my teammates, is going by the pond in our front yard—and the congratulations of all the other speakers as well. Then it was my turn, hoping I could keep my emotions under control. I had a lot of surprises that week, and one of the most pleasant was how relaxed I felt as I began by saying that the fans in Baltimore are the greatest, and this is the greatest place to play. For me, that’s totally true. I was able to thank Mom and Dad, and Kelly, Rachel, and Ryan without choking up. I was home free! After that, thanking Eddie Murray was easy. And after acknowledging my debt to the great Lou Gehrig, I concluded, “Some may think our greatest connection is that we both played many consecutive games. Yet I believe in my heart that the true link is the common motivation of a love of the game of baseball, a passion for your team, and a desire to compete at the very highest level. I know that if Lou Gehrig is looking down on tonight’s activities, he isn’t concerned with someone’s playing more games than he did. Instead, he’s viewing tonight as just another example of what’s good and right about the great American game. Whether you’re name is Gehrig or Ripken, DiMaggio or Robinson, or that of some youngster who picks up his bat or puts on his glove, you are challenged by the game of baseball to do your very best, day in and day out, and that’s all I’ve ever tried to do.”
Then I felt mostly relief. Pure, blissful relief. A really sweet feeling.
Then I screwed up, unknowingly. We’d already decided that I wouldn’t do any of the morning talk shows the next day—I was really, truly exhausted, and thought, Why not let the celebration and the event stand alone, on their own? Plus, it wouldn’t have been fair to pick one over the other and I couldn’t do them all, so we decided to do none. But at 2 a.m., who shows up outside the clubhouse door but Bob Costas, one of the best broadcasters in the business, along with a camera crew. Bob asked John Maroon if he could have an interview, and John asked me, and I said, sure, why not, one last time. The hoopla had died down by then, and I was feeling fine. I just thought of Bob as representing sports and baseball in general. Maybe he wasn’t even there for the Today show, I don’t know, but the interview ended up on that program, touted as an exclusive interview with the new Iron Man. I guess the other networks felt they got the shaft from me. It never ends.
After this game, Kelly did wait around for me. Not much said on the drive home. Both of us too tired, trying to put everything in perspective. In fact, we’re still trying to do that, and, for my part, at least, I haven’t gotten much beyond the few words Kelly and I did exchange in the car.
“Big night at the ballpark, huh?”
“Sure was.”