COLUMN: A Hero's Moment

From Jason Brenner's "My 20 Inches", Fall '95 From Jason Brenner's "My 20 Inches", Fall '95A hero is much more than a person you admire from afar. Everyone has some kind of role model, someone who helped solidify their values simply by going through his or her daily routine. A hero can actually shape your life without even coming in personal contact with you. But when you meet your hero, well, that's a whole different story? He's not very glamorous -- his graying hair has all but disappeared at the ripe, old age of 35. He doesn't abound with self-confidence or cockiness. He's not extremely witty in the public eye, although he has been known to quip a sarcastic remark every now and then. Perhaps it's the fact that he's often seen with two women by his side?his wife Kelly and five year-old daughter Rachel. A more likely explanation can be expressed by four numbers: 2131. Shortly after 9:00 p.m. on September 6, 1995, Cal Ripken Jr. broke Lou Gehrig's consecutive game record of 2130 that stood for over a half-century. Anyone who hasn't been in exile for the past six months knows this. I could devote the next 1000 words towards discussing all the boring statistics of Cal's 13-plus year consecutive game streak: The other 27 major league teams have used more than 520 shortstops and over 3,700 major leaguers have spent time on the disabled list while Cal has dominated the left side of Baltimore's infield day-in and day-out. I could tell you that 3 U.S. presidents have held office since his streak began, that E.T. dominated the box office during the first year of "The Streak." I could tell you all this, but I won't. This isn't about consecutive games or even baseball, it's about heroes, about role models. Since I was old enough to hold a baseball in my hand, Cal Ripken has been my hero. I always wanted to play shortstop in Little League; I yearned to wear the number 8 on my back. Unfortunately, so did every other kid in Baltimore and since they were all bigger than me, I usually played right-field and donned the number 72. To me, Cal was -- and still is -- more than a baseball player, he's a hero for the generations. My father and I go to ballgames together and he tells me how Cal brings back memories of the heroes of his childhood: Mickey Mantle, Ted Williams, Joe DiMaggio. Despite his consistency on the field, Cal is even more of an Iron Man when he steps off the diamond. Just as you know you'll see the name Ripken in the line-up everyday, you can also bet that you'll never catch him in a bar-room brawl, you'll never hear him criticizing a player, you'll never hear of an ugly paternity suit. He places the best interest of the team ahead of himself; he doesn't whine; he doesn't complain. He's been the leader of the fight against illiteracy in Baltimore for years now. The list goes on and on. Since I was a kid, I always tried to mimic these qualities, in hopes of being a better person myself. The only thing I could never imitate from my hero was his avid consumption of milk -- I'm lactose-intolerant. Oh well. During this summer, I felt closer to my hero than I ever have. As a public relations intern for the Orioles, I spent a lot of time in the clubhouse delivering messages to the players and occasionally conducting interviews. Boy did I feel like a kid in a candy shop. The temptation was always there to snag a Rafael Palmeiro jersey or a Mike Mussina jock-strap and add them to my memorabilia collection. But I digress? Finally, we happened to cross paths. Cal, standing by his locker while preparing for a game, chatted with one of the local reporters. He was larger than life. (Then again, I'm 5'9"; just about anyone is larger than life to me.) My jaw hit the floor and I just stared at him for several minutes before realizing what a spectacle I was making of myself. It was hard to believe that I was looking right in the eyes of my childhood hero. A thousand thoughts flew through my brain. What should I do? Should I introduce myself? Casually bump into him? Pretend we were old high-school buddies? Instead I did what any loyal fan would have done in that situation?I turned around and ran. A blown opportunity. I guess we all can't have nerves of steel. I saw him in person several more times during the summer and, in each instance, I proved myself to be the Iron Man of wimps. The end of summer swiftly passed by me as did any chance of meeting Cal?or so I thought. Needless to say, I planned to attend the game on Sept. 6 in which Cal Ripken made the transition from all-star to legend by breaking Gehrig's record. Finally, at a quarter to seven l made it to the stadium, parked in Siberia, and ran inside the ballpark. I took the press entrance (membership has its privileges) and prepared for an easy walk to the pressbox where I would see Cal bask in his most glorious moment. DENIED! ! ! The corridor to the pressbox was closed because the President of the United States thought he'd join the bandwagon too. Even the most vicious of terrorists would have rather seen Cal take his place as baseball's all-time Iron Man than assassinate Clinton. I ran out the press entrance and into the main corridor. I was moving like Carl Lewis streaking to the finish line?that is, until I slammed into some woman and spilled her beer all over the place. However, her boyfriend's attempt to remove my internal organs inspired me to move that much faster. I finally arrived at my destination only to be frisked by some huge Stallone-esque Secret Service agent. Don't believe the rumors floating around?I didn't enjoy it. Despite the less-than-perfect beginning, September 6th soon became one of the most memorable moments of my life. Cal's home run on his record-breaking day was just like the prince finding Cinderella's glass slipper. When the game became official after four and a half innings, Cal received a 22 minute standing ovation. He took a victory lap around the field. Watching 46,000 people (as well as the millions of people who viewed the game on TV) bow in homage to the man who played such a great influence on my life brought tears to my eyes. I was standing in the pressbox applauding and crying, thus breaking pressbox etiquette against showing any emotion or enjoying any aspect of the game. The ultimate goal of every wide-eyed fan is seeing his childhood hero enjoy his most shining moment and on Sept. 6, 1995, I saw exactly that. A perfect place to end the column, isn't it? The perfect conclusion to a touching story. But it gets better -- hard to believe, isn't it? After the game, I went to the basement of the stadium where Cal held his post-game press conference. l left the press conference to type up some notes for my boss and, when I returned, I saw Cal. He was walking right towards me?alone. Not letting another opportunity to meet the Iron Man slip by me, I nervously approached him and -- voice cracking, palms sweating-- said, "Congratulations." Boy do I have a way with words. He shook my hand and politely said, "Thanks." But he looked me right in the eyes. I wonder if he could see the absolute awe and sheer excitement emanating from my starry gaze. Nah. Just as soon as I shook his hand, it was over. The whole thing took about 20 seconds. No autograph. No picture. Just a handshake -- and a memory that will last a lifetime.