2632: After Sixteen Years, Cal Ripken, Jr. Decides To Put An End To The Streak

By David L. Hill

Much of baseball's charm lies in the sport's routine, the quirky day-to-day rituals of the game that occur both on and off the field. In Baltimore — at least 81 times a year — umpires rub down baseballs with the same Delaware River mud that's been used for generations. Like clockwork, fans insist on shouting “O's!” during “The Star-Spangled Banner” and can count on “Thank God I'm a Country Boy” being inexplicably played during the seventh-inning stretch. And for the last 16 years, Cal Ripken, Jr. has hopped out of the home dugout before games and tossed a baseball to a teammate, often employing the pitching motion from his days as the ace at Aberdeen High School (Class of '78). A few minutes prior to the Yankees' game on September 20, 1998, Ripken was nowhere in sight.

“It was time,” Ripken said after the game, to end the consecutive games streak he unknowingly began on May 30, 1982 as a bushy-haired 21-year-old. In a season marked by the unfathomable numbers of 70 home runs and 125 wins, Ripken hand-picked the one that may truly be a tally for the ages: 2,632.

By simply informing the eighth manager of The Streak, Ray Miller, about half- an-hour before game time that “today was the day,” the notoriously stubborn Ripken ended what twisted ankles, a sprained knee, slumps, relentless criticism and an excruciatingly painful back injury could not.

“Baseball has always been a team game,” he explained, “and I've always believed the focus should be on the team. There have been times during The Streak when the focus was on The Streak. I've never felt totally comfortable about that. So, I think it just reached a point where I firmly believed it was time to change the subject, restore the focus back to where it should be—on the team—and move on.”

Despite mounting conjecture that Ripken might take a seat with the Orioles out of playoff contention, there was still a sense of shock and disbelief around Camden Yards as the evening unfolded. Ripken had consulted only a small circle—including his wife, Kelly, representative Ira Rainess and Brady Anderson—as he pondered sitting down. Ripken called his parents, as well as team owner Peter G. Angelos, on the day of the game and informed them of his decision. Among the Orioles that took the field, only Anderson and Ripken's replacement at third base, rookie Ryan Minor, had advance notice of the gravity of this otherwise meaningless game. “A very surreptitious endeavor,” Anderson described it.

Pitcher Doug Drabek quickly noticed the No. 10 at third base, and, for an instant, merely assumed Ripken had changed uniforms. Alan Mills was incensed—“I thought I should have known.” So, he picked up the bullpen phone and placed a call to the Orioles' dugout. Mills: “What are you doing?” Ripken: “I'm going to sit here and watch a ballgame.” Mills: “How come you didn't tell me?” Ripken: “I wanted it to be a surprise. Do you want me to come out there and visit with you?” Mills: “I'd love it.”

The Yankees, a team that brawled with the O's earlier in the year, inspected the Ripken-less lineup manager Joe Torre had brought back from the meeting at home plate. Catcher Joe Girardi was determined not to let the moment pass, and with one out in the top of the first inning he lead his teammates to the top of the visitor's dugout and applauded the bench-warming Ripken.

“We thought we should do something,” said Girardi. “We kept waiting for something to happen, and nothing happened. We thought they were going to stop the game or something and when they didn't do it, we thought let's pay tribute to this man.”

“There's no greater feeling,” Ripken said, “than when you have the respect of your peers and the people you compete against. Looking over to the Yankee dugout, that was pretty emotional, I've got to tell you.”

“I think this is a streak that will never be approached,” said Torre, who presented his lineup card to Ripken. “It was special to be here.” The opposition's gesture alerted the mostly oblivious Camden Yards crowd to the situation, and Ripken emerged from the dugout and doffed his cap to a standing ovation.

“What I didn't want to do was disrupt the game,” Ripken recalled. “I wanted to keep it as low key as possible. I wanted to sit and enjoy the game. I appreciated the response of everyone that wanted me to come out, and I wanted to acknowledge it. I wanted to tell everyone it was okay. I wanted to scream and yell as loud as I could and just say thank you.”

Ironically, it was Ripken who found himself consoling others about the end of his long run.

“This shouldn't be a sad moment,” he said during a post-game press conference with his wife. “I look at it as a happy moment, a celebration. I think everybody was surprised and a little sad at the same time, but I was reassuring them it was going to be all right.

“I'm not going to sit up here and bawl my eyes out for you, that's for sure. I might hold it back until I get home.”

Most scenarios involving Ripken ending The Streak had it occurring on the road, away from the glare of the local media. But Ripken realized that the final home game of the season provided the perfect stage to call on an understudy.

In conversations with his wife, Ripken said the couple decided, “If this is going to happen, let's end it the same place it started. It started in Baltimore many, many years ago. Let's do it in my home state and my home city with my family and friends. And in front of the very best baseball fans anywhere.”

As news of Ripken's decision spread, a sparsely filled press box soon buzzed. Orioles' public relations director John Maroon issued nearly 100 press credentials after the game began. Maroon was summoned to the clubhouse by a pre-game emergency phone call from Miller, and then deadpanned the lineup change over the press box PA, never once mentioning Ripken's name.

“So many things he's done on the field [and] now by not playing he created more of a frenzy than he ever did as a player,” mused Mike Mussina, who admitted to a perverse pleasure in watching a scrambling PR department.

Indeed, only Ripken could inspire a David Letterman “Top 10 List” by not going to work one day. Number 10 on the list of “Favorite Games of Cal Ripken, Junior's Career” perhaps unintentionally captured the essence of his dedication and work ethic: “Game 87.” Ripken's feat was never about presidential visits and victory laps and numbers unfurling on the Warehouse, things that always seemed to make him a bit uneasy. It was Game 87 or 228 or 1,013 that defined Ripken's effort, not those “nice round numbers” as he invariably described each passing milestone.

“It was a different feeling than 2,131,” Mussina said. “I wasn't real emotional about it, but I probably enjoyed it just as much.”

As comfortable and resolute as Ripken appeared about his decision, he had debated the merits of sitting out as late as the previous day.

Ripken asked Anderson, “Ideally, how would you like it to end?” Anderson said, “If I could have it any way I wanted? You would play every single day until you retired. Play your last game, retire, then end it.”

Ripken responded, “I don't think I can do it,” and Anderson told him, “Well, tomorrow is probably as good as any.”

Kelly Ripken phoned Anderson the night before the game because she thought he would be able to understand her husband's mixed emotions.

“You know how he feels,” Kelly told Anderson. “I really don't,” Anderson replied. “I get my days off every now and then.” Anderson believes that reaching the decision was more agonizing for Ripken than the actual event.

“I think the hard times for him had already taken place,” said Anderson, who had trouble concentrating in the first inning of the game.

“The thoughts that go through your mind when you're by yourself, those are definitely the hardest times that he went through. It was probably a torturous route for him to come to this conclusion.”

When asked about ending The Streak over the years, Ripken spoke of the uncertainty of sitting down, a fear of the unknown. On the night he finally laid it to rest, it was clear that he had come to terms with any lingering doubts about the impact that taking a rest would have on his approach to the game.

“Contrary to some reports that I'm on my last breath,” he said, “I feel that I'm an everyday player. I still feel that I've got a lot of baseball left in me. I'm going to prove that on a daily basis and be a baseball player.”

Ripken made the most of being at the ballpark with time to kill. Admittedly antsy, he bounced from bench to clubhouse to bullpen, where he chatted with fans, Mills and reliever Jesse Orosco.

Said Orosco: “He said he felt very relieved, it was the right time, the right situation to do it in front of his home fans. You've got to get some cotton [for your ears]. The guy doesn't stop talking.”

“It was strange,” Ripken said of being a spectator. “I can't describe it any other way. I'm used to being out there in the field looking from inside the game out. Today I was looking from the outside of the game in.”

With plenty of time to mull over his legacy, Ripken felt no sense of nostalgia. As The Streak grew over time, he would often claim ignorance of its exact number—“2,000-whatever,” he would say—preferring to comment on the larger meaning of his accomplishment. Nothing changed because he sat out a game.

“The Streak was born out of a desire to play and a lot of managers wanting to put me in the lineup,” he said. “The significance of The Streak is not so much in my mind an actual number, but it's a sense of pride of knowing that this is my job, that this is how I approach my job. This is what I believe to be right.”

Late on September 20, Ripken's teammates lingered in the clubhouse, waiting on their third baseman so they could catch a charter for the season's last roadtrip. Anderson was asked if anyone would ever approach 2,632.

“Absolutely not. I don't see who would want to,” he grinned. “Nobody said it was the smartest streak.”

“It's not going to change who I am,” said Ripken of missing a game. “It's not going to change the way I approach the game of baseball.”

During the hastily assembled post-game press conference, Ripken attempted to put his career into some sort of perspective: “When I look back on my life, I've always wanted to be a baseball player, and I've spent every bit of my energy trying to be a baseball player.”

Following the media gathering, Ripken retreated to the clubhouse to pack for the trip. Unlike September 6, 1995, there was no representative from the Baseball Hall of Fame meticulously documenting his game-used spikes, jerseys and hats as he undressed. As he stuffed items into his bag, it seemed peculiar that Cal Ripken was left alone at his corner locker. By choosing the number that will one day appear on his Hall of Fame plaque, Ripken went a long way toward once again being just a baseball player. He left the clubhouse with his suitcase, but a lot of baggage remained behind.