Cesar Devarez, 1996 Score #264

Yep, nothing quite says "rookie" like a catcher with a uniform number in the high fifties schlepping equipment out to the bullpen. Cesar Devarez is just fortunate that the O's pitchers of the mid 1990s weren't juvenile enough to "punish" him by making him carry a pink Hello Kitty backpack or some other such nonsense.

Armando Benitez, 1996 Score #152

"THIS INVISIBLE TURKEY LEG IS TOO SPICY! ARRRRGGGGHHH!"

(Yes, I'm cross-posting to Bad Touch Baseball. Some cards are just too good not to share.)

Harold Baines, 1996 Score #408

Ouch. I'm feeling creakier than Harold Baines' knees today, and I only have myself to blame. After months of near-total inactivity, I recently realized that I should get in better shape. I've spent the last few weeks doing a half-hour of aerobic workouts in front of the TV, but I knew that wouldn't offer much of a payoff. So yesterday, I bit the bullet and went for a two-mile run on the track at the nearby high school. You'll notice that I said "run" as opposed to "jog". For whatever reason, I find it difficult to pace myself when running solo. Maybe it's the dormant competitive spirit from my cross country days. Maybe I just want to get it over with.

Either way, I'm paying for it today. Several muscles in my back and legs are reminding me that they exist, and that they haven't been taxed like this in quite some time. Every time I cause myself physical pain by engaging in a fairly simple activity, it gives me a renewed respect for athletes like Harold Baines, who fought through numerous injuries and surgical procedures to perform at a high level for many years. I'm not quite 30 yet, and I haven't suffered any significant breaks or sprains over the past 25 years. I can't imagine being on the verge of 50 like Jamie Moyer (who I suspect to be featuring often on this blog in the coming months) and fully rehabbing a surgically-repaired elbow in order to compete for a 28th season of pro baseball. I think we take the physical abilities of even the least successful major league players for granted much of the time. I know I do, anyway. So it's just something to keep in mind the next time you or I shout at the TV or click away on the keyboard during a blown save or a costly error.

Chris Hoiles, 1996 Score #136

It turns out that today is a pretty special day in Orioles history:

-Earl Weaver blew out 81 candles on his birthday cake today, or maybe he didn't. It seems cruel to expect an 81-year-old man with a history of smoking to put all of that stress on his lungs. Maybe they just gave him one big candle.

-On August 14, 1998, Chris Hoiles hit two grand slams in a 15-3 win over the Indians. It was the tenth and final two-homer game of the powerful catcher's career, and also the last pair of grand slams he ever hit. Hoiles retired at season's end with 151 home runs (including 8 grand slams), a total that is still good for tenth in O's history.

-Two years ago, Felix Pie became the fourth player in Birds history to hit for the cycle, driving in four runs in a blowout win over Jered Weaver and the Angels. I had the privilege of being at Camden Yards to witness a team-record 12 extra-base hits in the 16-6 rout, and of course I wrote a little something about it.

Sadly, a card featuring all three of Weaver, Hoiles, and Pie exists only in fevered dreams, so we'll have to settle for Chris Hoiles by his lonesome.

Jamie Moyer, 1996 Score #210

Congratulations to Jamie Moyer, Jayson Werth, and the rest of the 2008 World Series Champion Philadelphia Phillies. I'm glad that someone as classy as Jamie got a chance to win his first championship after a twenty-two year career that had been completely devoid of trips to the Fall Classic. After hearing how violently ill he was in the days and hours leading up to his rain-delayed starting assignment on Saturday night, it's all the more remarkable that he pitched as well as he did (6.1 IP, 5 H, 3 ER, 1 BB, 5 K). If it weren't for a blown call at first base, his numbers would look even better, and he might have gotten the win that he truly deserved. Fox's Chris Myers spoke with Moyer amid the onfield postgame melee, and the 45-year-old lefty was as cool and collected as ever, showing off little more than a wry grin. He spoke of being on hand for the victory parade the last time the team won it all, in 1980 - he was 17 then.

Because I never tire of "How-old-is-he?" stats (though I think poor Jamie is growing weary of them), here's one I compiled myself. Eyeballing his pitcher-batter matchups, it appears that Moyer has pitched to four father-son combos: Buddy and David Bell, Bob and Bret (and Aaron) Boone, Jose Cruz Sr. and Jr., and Cecil and Prince Fielder. His career has also run parallel to eleven other father-son pairings, though he didn't actually face one or the other of each duo: Alan and Andy Ashby, Jesse and Josh Barfield, the Ken Griffeys, the Jerry Hairstons, the Gary Mathewses, Hal and Brian McRae, the Tony Penas, Tony (!) and Eduardo Perez, the Tim Raineses, Gary and Daryle Ward, and Mookie and Preston Wilson (Mookie is actually Preston's uncle and stepfather, believe it or not!). That's quite a legacy. Oh, he also pitched against Chris Speier; I didn't include the Speiers because son Justin is a reliever with just 17 career at-bats.

I wonder if Jamie can hang on until Trey Griffey is ready for the big leagues.

Cal Ripken, Jr., 1996 Score #60

Today is a milestone day for this blog - my 100th entry - and it gets a milestone card. As you might have surmised, the above card shows Cal Junior acknowledging the fans on September 6, 1995, the night that he broke Lou Gehrig's 56-year-old record by playing in his 2,131st consecutive game. I have to sheepishly admit that I don't recognize all of the players behind him, but I can tab a few of them. Third from the left is Arthur Rhodes. Next to him, Doug Jones is holding the camcorder. Standing in the back, over Cal's left shoulder, is Jeffrey Hammonds. Next to him is Jesse Orosco, and on the end is...a batboy. I hope that kid was thrilled to make it onto a baseball card, the lucky stiff.

I remember a lot about that night. I remember my near-miss with history; two days earlier I had been at Oriole Park with my father, my Uncle Ken, and Bill, a middle school acquaintance of mine and a fellow sports nut. My Dad had gotten free tickets on a beautiful Labor Day afternoon, tickets that put us right next to the O's bullpen. So I was there for game 2,129. So close, and yet so far. To rub a little salt in the wound, the Birds lost 5-3, being undone by the Angels' four-run fifth inning against starter Jamie Moyer. I have two distinct memories from that game. One involves Doug Jones warming up in the bullpen and losing control of a pitch that sailed over the catcher's head and clattered off of the protective screen to our left. For all that I know, he was probably trying to silence a heckler. It's not often that a pitcher lets loose with a purpose pitch before he even gets into the game. The other thing I remember about that game is me asking Bill if he was having a good time. He replied in the affirmative, "except for this woman that keeps dropping peanut shells on my head!". Indeed, there was a heavyset man sitting a row up from us, and he was a bit careless with his leavings. If the slovenly guy heard Bill's complaint/insult, he didn't acknowledge it.

On the night of the actual record-breaker, my dad and I watched the game on television with my Uncle Jerry. He was my mom's oldest brother, a short-tempered and impish cab driver. I still remember laughing with disbelief when I learned that he had set my mother's hair on fire as a child and then had tried somewhat ineffectually to blow it out. He was the only one of my uncles that ever really intimidated me; on the rare occasions when he rebuked me for acting out there was something about his stern face and tone of voice that just cut through me. When my little sister and I were fighting about something, she'd pull out her trump card: "I'll tell Uncle Jerry!" It was an empty threat - he usually wasn't visiting with us when she said it, but the very idea of him just freaked me out. What can I say; I was a nervous kid.

Anyway, as I got a bit older, I stopped thinking of him as a boogeyman. We even started bonding a bit over the Orioles, in the way that all awkward young men bond with older male figures, relieved to find some sort of common ground. Back then, most O's games were on Home Team Sports, which was a premium cable channel at the time. My family had only basic cable, so Uncle Jerry had generously invited my dad and myself over to his apartment to watch the 2,131 festivities. By the time the big day rolled around, we learned that WJZ-13, a local channel, would be sharing the broadcast, as would ESPN. But we didn't want to offend my uncle, and we probably didn't want him to watch it alone in his modest bachelor pad, so we kept our word and joined him.

That game was straight out of Hollywood, and yet so much about it seemed genuine. The stadium - and the room - came unglued as Bobby Bonilla led off the fourth inning with a home run to put the O's ahead 2-1. It was pure bedlam as Cal stepped to the plate next and hit his own home run - the third straight game he'd gone deep! A half-inning later Damion Easley hit a lazy pop-up to second baseman Manny Alexander, making the game official. 46,272 spectators rose to their feet as one, cheering wildly. The number banners that had been hanging from the warehouse for the previous few months were changed one more time, 2,130 flipping over to 2,131.

The man of the hour sheepishly stepped out of the home dugout, acknowledging the fans with a few cursory waves and some mouthed "thank you"s. He tried to retreat to the dugout, intent on not bringing the game to a grinding halt. But the Camden Yards faithful wouldn't let up, coaxing the new Iron Man out of the dugout a few more times. Cal's teammates sensed that it would take a grand gesture to satisfy the throng, and finally Rafael Palmeiro and Bonilla physically pushed the shortstop out onto the field once more and urged him to take a stroll. Displaying a flair for the dramatic, #8 began jogging slowly down the right field line, taking the time to reach out and slap the hands of as many people as he could. He continued across the warning track, jumping up here and there to reach up the outfield fence and meet the fans who were hanging out of their seats to try to get to him. He eventually concluded his victory lap and the game resumed some 22 minutes after it had been stopped. Looking back on the emotionally overpowering scene, I think the most remarkable aspect may have been ESPN's coverage. Not only did they let it all unfold without a commercial break, but loudmouth broadcaster Chris Berman kept his trap shut the whole time. It would have been so easy for him to ruin the moment by spouting hackneyed catchphrases and waxing faux-poetic, but for possibly the only time in his career, he let the pictures do the talking.

So we know what the future held for Cal Ripken, Jr. after the defining moment of his playing career, but what does the future hold for this blog? Let's just say that I've got plenty of stories to tell, and I've barely skimmed the surface of my Orioles card collection. Unbelievably, I have yet to post a single Eddie Murray card. I also haven't gotten around to luminaries like Paul Richards, Hoyt Wilhelm, Gus Triandos, Mike Cuellar, John Lowenstein, Tippy Martinez, Ken Singleton...the list goes on and on. Then there are the oddballs, the Floyd Rayfords and Todd Frohwirths of the world. If you keep reading, I'll keep writing.