This weekend, Cal Ripken officially becomes a Hall of Famer (you probably heard something about that), which sends Tim Marchman back to the 1980s, when Ripken "became a secular saint" ...
Here was a man who stood for old-fashioned American values. Born and raised in Maryland, the son of a humble baseball journeyman, he played for his hometown team and made his name not with the obscene physical talent of a [Rickey] Henderson, but because of his hard work and dedication, best symbolized, of course, by his signature trait -- his overwhelming need to just show up for work. No pampered, spoiled athlete he; this was someone with whom any factory worker or policeman or smalltown mortgage broker could identify, someone who just punched the clock every day and tried his hardest, quietly and with pride.
This was, of course, the most ridiculous nonsense it's possible to imagine. Cal Ripken was 6 feet 4 inches, 225 pounds., built like a god, and blessed with enough athleticism that he probably would have been a truly great basketball player. He wasn't the best possible version of David Eckstein or Joe McEwing, but the most physically gifted player in the sport. What made him unique was the overwhelming effect of his personal dedication and discipline on his unparalleled natural gifts; by all accounts, no one worked harder. But the myth of Ripken located his greatness in his will, as if will were sufficient to command the greatest heights of achievement. It isn't.
I can't agree more. It's certainly worth remembering that Ripken was a fantastic athlete, a brilliantly talented baseball player, and that he would have posted Hall of Fame-worthy numbers even if he'd taken a day off every couple of weeks. But you know, this is what we do: For each player, we look for a "hook" because without hooks, life is too complex.
Rickey Henderson is the guy who stole all the bases.
Tony Gwynn was the best "pure hitter" of his time.
Pete Rose somehow "willed himself" to greatness. Did Cal Ripken really "save" baseball? Of course he didn't. The notion that Major League Baseball wouldn't be healthy today if Cal Ripken hadn't played in more than 2,131 straight games is preposterous, if not downright insulting.
Insulting to our intelligence, I mean. Insulting to Ripken, too, I suppose. But it's hard to feel sorry for him, because he seems to have welcomed the perception that he simply outworked, out-
wanted his peers. I don't really blame him; from his perspective, it's better to be remembered primarily for something that's not true, than to be remembered not at all. Not to mention the fact that he's done quite well for himself, financially, by trading on his secular sainthood.
Marchman argues that the image, the
myth, is "grounded in resentment of supposedly lazy and greedy (and often black) modern players who didn't appreciate the gifts with which they were born and the rewards to which those gifts entitled them." I suppose there's some truth in that. Perhaps I'm naive, but I prefer to think that if Ripken's and Rickey Henderson's careers were switched, Henderson would be considered a saint, too.
There's not much we can do, at this point. Except we don't have to buy into the myth if we don't want to.
Rob Neyer
