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Just one more game. Therein lies the true beauty of the Streak. Ripken never set out to eclipse the "Iron Horse," who he modestly and somewhat mistakenly believes was a much better ballplayer than himself. "I'm not even in Gehrig's league," says Ripken. Offensively speaking, Ripken may be right, although he has had two mvp, Gehrigian seasons (1983 and 1991). But defensively Ripken plays a much tougher position than Gehrig did, and he does a much better job of it at that. As durable as Lou was, he played every inning of every game for only one season; Ripken played every inning of 904 straight games from 1982 to '87-only his father, then the manager of the Orioles, could sit him down. While Gehrig occasionally resorted to artifice to extend his streak, Ripken has never done anything untoward to keep his alive, or played anything less than hard. Gehrig was literally afraid of leaving the lineup; Ripken is in it for the fun. "There's a joy to Cal's game that never ceases to amaze me," says Mike Flanagan, the Orioles' pitching coach who has played for Cal Sr. and played with Cal Jr. "People who think he's out for glory just don't get it." Indeed, fans who think that Ripken will sit down shortly after No. 2,131 are mistaken. Barring injury or sudden ineptitude, Ripken will play in Nos. 2,132, 2,133, 2,134...The Iron Bird.
Occasionally given to slumps, Ripken is approaching the Streak in something of a hitting malaise that has dropped his average into the .260s. But he still plays his position with amazing grace; at 6 ft. 4 in. he is not only the tallest shortstop in history but also one of the smoothest. And rather than go into a shell to protect his privacy this season, he has been making a concerted effort to meet the needs of the media and the wants of the fans. At the All-Star Game in Arlington, Texas, he worked his way from dugout to dugout in 100 [degree] F heat, signing every thing put in his way. In Baltimore this summer, he has been conducting after-the-game autograph sessions to make up for lost time and repair the wounds of the baseball strike.
There are times in which Ripken seems not just a throwback but the last true sports hero. He carries the requisite super star salary--$6 million annually for two more years--but almost none of the other baggage that has come to be associated with the modern-day professional athlete. He has never sulked, malingered, strutted, whined, wheedled or referred to himself in the third person. He has turned down several opportunities to become a free agent, preferring to remain an Oriole and a Baltimorean. He has endorsements, to be sure, but his most famous one is for milk.
America never stops moaning about the absence of heroes--"Where have you gone, Joe DiMaggio?"--yet when it has someone who daily displays grit, generosity, spirit and skill, not to mention incredibly blue eyes, what does it do? It looks this generation's gift horse in the mouth. Robert Lipsyte, the respected New York Times columnist, recently suggested that Ripken take a seat rather than sully Gehrig's memory. And the hate mail that Ripken has received this summer has been of such volume and venom that Major League Baseball has had to beef up the security around him.