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Opponents and teammates alike hold Ripken in the same awe in which he holds Gehrig. Says the Toronto Blue Jays' veteran designated hitter Paul Molitor: "As someone who has spent a few years of my life on the disabled list, I can tell you that what Cal has done and is still doing is beyond my comprehension. He plays the second toughest position on the field every day, often on artificial turf, sometimes in day games after night games, sometimes after flying all night. He's still a dangerous hitter, still the most reliable shortstop out there, and he is the essence of class on and off the field. He's enough to make you sick."
WITH ANY GREAT RIVER, THERE IS A LONGING to find the source. In Ripken's case, it is an immaculately groomed, ranch-style home in Aberdeen, where he and his siblings grew up and where his folks, Vi and Cal Sr., still spend their days in semi-retirement: golf, bumper pool, tomato plants. Senior's tomatoes are such things of beauty that he could probably make a fortune selling them at a road stand, maybe even under a sign that reads SON-TRIED TOMATOES.
Cal met Vi after watching her play softball in high school, and the game has gripped their family ever since. When Cal Jr. was born, Cal Sr. was catching for Class B Fox Cities (Wisconsin) under manager Earl Weaver. (Weaver once claimed he knew even when Junior was a fetus that he was going to be a major leaguer.) An injury ended Senior's playing career soon afterward, so he embarked on a minor league managerial odyssey that took him to Leesburg, Florida; Appleton, Wisconsin; Kennewick-Richland-Pasco, Washington; Aberdeen, South Dakota; Elmira, New York; and Dallas. While Dad was away, Mom was home in Maryland raising the four kids, who were born just six years apart.
By the time Cal Sr. was given the Orioles' Double-A team in Asheville, North Carolina, in 1972, the kids were old enough to help out--Ellie as the scoreboard keeper, Junior as the bat boy, Fred as a clubhouse attendant and Billy as the ball boy. "I think that's where I first picked up my work ethic," says Cal Jr. "My dad did everything. He was not only the manager but also the pitching coach, the batting coach, the batting-practice pitcher, the ground keeper. And when he wasn't on the field, he was talking baseball." Cal Sr., whose face might have entranced Grant Wood, cracks a rare smile when he thinks back to his days in Asheville. "At the start of batting practice, I would plant the boys at the base of the outfield fence to shag flies and tell them, 'Don't move.' But as practice went on, I would see them inch in toward the infield, until by the end Cal was taking ground balls hit by my third baseman, Doug DeCinces, while Billy was just a few paces behind him." One night, when DeCinces and the 12-year-old Cal were the last ones on the field, a gunshot rang out from behind the outfield fence, and a bullet hit the ground near Cal. DeCinces picked him up and carried him to the safety of the dugout.