Cal Ripken, Sr. and Cal Ripken, Jr., 1985 Fleer #641

Happy Father's Day to all of the dads out there, especially my own. I have nothing but love and respect for the man who took me to my first Orioles game, passed along his goofy sense of humor, and freely gave his time, love, and support whenever it was needed. My father has been there for me for 32 years now, and I know that he'll be a fantastic grandfather when the time comes. Thanks, Dad.

Cal Ripken, Sr., 1982 Donruss #579

In his day, Cal Ripken, Sr. was known to be a pretty serious soccer player. There's a strong tradition of soccer in the Baltimore area, particularly the indoor flavor of the game. Over the past three decades, the Blast (and the Spirit, as the club was known from 1992-1998) has been one of the premier teams of their various leagues. They've won ten division titles and six league championships, including five league crowns in the past seven years. I've never had an overwhelming interest in soccer, but I can generally talk myself into watching any sport and I thought that it couldn't hurt to support the one consistent winner in Charm City. With that in mind, I took a trip to the 1st Mariner Arena (known in previous lives as both the Baltimore Arena and the Baltimore Civic Center) last night to watch the Blast take on their longtime rivals, the Philadelphia KiXX. That may be the worst team name in all of professional sports.

My cohorts for the night were my 18-year-old cousin Brittany, a diehard Blast fan, and her parents. It was remarkable that Brittany made it to the game, as she'd had a fairly major surgery on Wednesday to remove a shunt (essentially, a tube to funnel fluid away from her brain). She still wasn't feeling all that well, but her desire to cheer on the home team won out. That's dedication. We had great seats two rows from the field; my sister's company provides the special effects for the team's pregame ceremonies, so she gave us the hookup.

As for the game itself, it was fairly exciting. Indoor soccer is an undeniable Americanization of a sport that's more popular in almost every other part of the world. You take the original game and put it on a hard floor overlaid with carpet, cut the field size in half, encircle the field with hockey-style boards, increase the value of goals (2 or 3 points each, depending on your position on the field), and pump up the noise with rock and pop music and a PA announcer who bellows cheering instructions to the fans. God bless the U.S.A.

I was struck by the diminutive size of most of the players. Denison Cabral, Baltimore's leading offensive player, stands in at 5'4...at least four inches shorter than O's second baseman Brian Roberts, one of the smallest players in MLB. In all, eight of the 20 Blast players are 5'9" or less, including forward Giuliano Celenza, a former schoolmate of mine in high school. The tallest player on the field for most of the game was forward Machel Millwood, a lanky Jamaican who towered over the other players and seemed to the naked eye to be at least 6'5". In actually, he was only 6'2". When it comes to soccer, I guess size doesn't matter so much.

I've been to dozens of baseball games in my life and never caught a foul ball. Wouldn't you just know that at my first indoor soccer game, an errant kick would send a ball sailing over the boards, bouncing past the couple next to me, and straight into my hands? I'm proud to say that I fielded the ball cleanly (thereby likely saving my recuperating cousin from further injury), though I did have to toss it back onto the field to the waiting referee. The Major Indoor Soccer League is not made of money, you know.

After a slow start (2-2 at the end of the first quarter, which soon turned into a 6-4 Philly lead), the Blast turned on the jets and took an 11-6 lead into the half. The careful teamwork of the players on both sides was a sight to see, with eight to ten men maneuvering in very close quarters for much of the game. Many times, one player would seem to know what his teammate would do before it happened, and there's no question that there's a great amount of skill involved. There was even a Baltimore goal on a diving header, which was an amazing sight. It was still 11-6 when we left after the third quarter (trying to ensure that Brittany didn't overdo it), but the Blast put the game away for good in the endgame and emerged with a 19-8 laugher.

The season is only two games old, so there are still nine opportunities to catch a game at the arena. Tickets start at $16, and you can find more information at the team's website. After all, you've gotta find something to do with your time until pitchers and catchers report.

Cal Ripken, Sr., 1989 Bowman #260

To my knowledge, Cal Ripken, Sr. is the only coach to receive a card in the 1989 Bowman set. If you're wondering about the television motif, I'm pretty sure it's an homage to the 1955 Bowman design. I'm grateful for this oddity, as it makes for a great Father's Day card. Of course, "Senior" had made baseball history in 1987 as the first (and to date, the only) man to manage two of his sons on the same team. By the time the Aberdeen, MD native was tabbed to replace Earl Weaver as the Oriole manager, he had paid his dues as a player, coach, and manager in the Baltimore organization for three decades. As his reward, he was handed an aging team that had been in steady decline since winning the World Series in 1983. The club went 67-95 and finished ahead of only the Indians in the A.L. East. If you want to talk about a short leash, Cal was fired just six games into a winless start to the 1988 season. Frank Robinson took his place and proved that the manager wasn't the problem; the O's eventually lost a league-record 21 games before picking up their first win that year and dropped 107 in all.

Both of the Ripken boys were obviously hit hard by the hasty dismissal of their father. Cal Junior was deeply resentful and later admitted that he began having doubts about his own long-term future with the team. Billy switched from uniform number 3 to his dad's #7. Fortunately, the story had a somewhat happy ending. Robinson soon asked the elder Ripken to return as third-base coach, a position that he held until retiring in 1992. Cal Senior remained close to the Birds until his death in 1999. It's a classy and fitting testament to the literal and figurative father of the O's that no one has worn #7 since he hung up his spikes.

The Ripken Family, 1988 Donruss #625

We had a surprisingly lively Super Bowl party last night, with about a dozen friends and family congregating and sharing in the free-flowing beer, the stacks of pizza and chips and cookies, the silly and often disappointing commercials, and almost as an afterthought, the football. My roommate and I were the only two diehard football fans in the apartment, and he was an especially interested party: as a native of New Jersey, he's spent his entire life rooting for the Giants.

As the Giants regained possession of the ball with two and a half minutes left, down just four points to the heavily favored and undefeated Patriots, our guests were increasingly drawn to the drama being played out onscreen. There was a palpable buzz as Eli Manning started marching his team downfield. We positively came unglued as the young quarterback scrambled out of the grasp of several Patriots rushers, sprinted to an open area, and heaved a deep prayer to unheralded David Tyree. Tyree plucked the ball from between the outstretched hands of defender Rodney Harrison and kept it pinned between hands and helmet as the duo fell to the turf, never allowing the ball to squirt free. A few minutes later there was pure joy and satisfaction, first with the go-ahead touchdown pass to Plaxico Burress and then with the final second mercifully ticking off of the game clock. The underdogs had prevailed, denying the increasingly obnoxious Pats their presumed birthright of immortality.

As that late touchdown drive played out on TV, the frequent camera cuts to Peyton Manning were a compelling sight. Here was the anointed star of the family, the holder of passing records and MVP awards and countless commercial deals, sitting in his suite and rooting unabashedly for his little brother. His brother who had endured ridicule and scrutiny for most of his young career. It's always somewhat reassuring to see professional athletes, who usually guard themselves with a sort of bland and corporate veneer, letting their guard down and just being human.

To salute the Manning brothers, I've posted the only card I know of to feature all three Ripkens. Billy is shown as a rookie; he would hang around to form a solid double-play combo with brother Cal, Jr. for six years. Cal Senior had just gotten his shot at managing a major-league team after spending his entire adult life either playing and coaching in the minors or coaching in the majors. Though Junior never got a chance to sit on the sidelines and root for his younger brother, one of the enduring images of Cal's historic 2,131st consecutive game was Billy (on break from his AAA Buffalo team) cheering him on from behind home plate at Camden Yards.

Of course, the Ripken Boys are keeping it in the family to this day, working together as co-owners of the Aberdeen IronBirds minor league baseball team and preserving their father's memory through the Cal Ripken, Sr. Foundation.