By Keegan Hamilton
By Albert Samaha
By Village Voice staff
By Tessa Stuart
By Albert Samaha
By Steve Weinstein
By Devon Maloney
By Tessa Stuart
I'm .333 career vs. Cal Ripken Jr.
It was 1978, a semifinal game of the Maryland State High School playoffs. There were some grizzled guys in the bleachers, and rumor had it they were scouts, all there to see this kid from Aberdeen whose old man was a coach for the Orioles. Warming up to pitch, he looked a good bit taller than the rest of us. That we could handlewe managed three runs off him, my single contributing to one of them. Ripken's hitting, though, was another story. We had the best pitcher in Baltimore County, a righthander with a tailing fastball, curve, screwball, and knuckler to go with his 9-0 record. For Ripken it was more like the batting cages in Ocean City: line drives that landed near no one. His third at bat I called time out, took off my catcher's mask, and headed for the mound. "Jeff, man," I told our pitcher, "you'll never get it past him. Put it in his fuckin' ear." I trudged back, squatted, and held my glove up behind Ripken's right hip. The pitch was well inside, maybe chest-high, and landed somewhere between the center and right fielders. Years later, when my brother was married at Baltimore's old Memorial Stadium, I stood at home plate, looked out to the 410 sign above the asphalt warning track, and realized it was a gulf I'd never traverse, leastways not with a home run. But back in high school, I hadn't yet gained such wisdom. I'd been accepted to art school, but I also loved baseball, and I was not in awe of Ripken's skills. I just wanted to beat his team. They scored four, though, and as I went behind the screen to wash the grime of the game from my face, one of the scouts called out, "Hey, kid, over here." All right! Fuck art school! I'm goin' to the minors! "Yes sir!" "How old's your pitcher?" "Jeff? I dunno. He's a senior."
So my pro career lasted about seven seconds. Ripken's, though, has gone on some two decades nowall for the Orioles, a local boy done good, in a town whose lunch bucket brigades take special pride in someone whose work ethic mirrors their own.
I wasn't a local. A defense-contractor brat, I had lived all over the country, only moving to "Bawlmor" at the age of 12. I soon discovered I'd moved into one mean town: I'd heard nigger before, but only spat out with venom, aimed to provoke. In Charm City it was used casually among whites, not a fighting word but as denuded of passion as dog or cat. (Not for nothing had Baltimore been under federal lockdown during the Civil War. Maryland was a key border state, but its heart lay with the slave South.) Next my new classmates were informing me (here, where the first archdiocese in America was founded) that the Holocaust was God's revenge on Jews for killing Christ. Whoa! Christ killing was some heavy stuff. I was beginning to perceive, if not fully understand, that prejudice was simply the brutal denial of someone else's humanity. In retrospect, other towns in our fair land might have struck me this way too, because innocence ends around 12, when kids begin taking up the hatreds of their elders and choosing sides. Still, when I thought about it for more than a minute, it didn't jibe with the friends and families I'd known in places like the Bay Area or New Mexico. For added cognitive dissonance, even the most racist folk I knew in Baltimore were Edddd-deee! Edddd-deee! Murray fans, as was Ripken, who found in the great power-hitting first baseman a mentor, close friend, and example of hard, steady work. Murray could easily have been on Pino's list in Do the Right Thing, when John Turturro's character talks himself into a hopeless tangle trying to explain why Magic Johnson and Prince, stars he loves and admires, can't be niggers 'cause "they're not black."
So what's a kid stuck in a provincial city to do? I looked around this hardworking, blue-collar town and saw that everyone loved the Orioles. Therefore I became a Yankee fan. First, only to myself, but as I got older I came out, finally going nuts for those brawling, swaggering, charged teams of '77 and '78, teams flipping the bird to anything provincial and dim, teams that made Gothamcrazed, intense, in thrall to the Yanks and to Son of Sam's madnessenormously appealing.
Eventually, of course, I met other people in Baltimore, the kind who are not afraid of the "other," who laugh at the bogeymen of tabloids and pulpits, who just live life and make it worth living, and they were big Oriole fans, all of them abuzz about Ripken's Rookie of the Year season. Then came his '83 MVP year, coinciding with the Birds' world championship. And soon, the first inklings of the Streak. At some point during the Streak, I moved to New York, watched people come into this world and go out of it, saw marriages begin, frazzle, and end, and went 2 for 4 in presidential elections, all the while catching Ripken from the corner of my eye, remembering the last baseball game I ever played. My Yanks were in a long dry spell and Ripken was playing for some dog Oriole teams, but like many of his hardcore fans, he kept showing up for work every day, no matter what, methodically piling up hits and homers and defining the future of his position. Classic no-hit/all-field shortstops like his predecessor, Mark Belanger, no longer cut it.