Mike Bordick, 2001 Topps Chrome Retrofractor #T36

It's hard to believe, but it was just a shade over two and a half months ago that the Orioles held their first-ever Birdland Caravan, a successful series of public events featuring players, coaches, team executives, and former players. It was a sendoff of sorts as the team prepared to head down to Spring Training, and was intended to fill some of the void caused by the discontinuation of the traditional FanFest event. I'd been attending FanFest each year since 2010, but I can't say I was too sorry to see it go. There's only so much time you can spend weaving around masses of people in the Convention Center, especially when you've got a toddler to wrangle. So the Caravan seemed like a good way to scratch my offseason baseball itch when it was announced. O's personnel and craft beer? You don't have to ask me twice. I took a look at the itinerary, and decided to drive an hour south to check out Calvert Brewing on Saturday, February 8. We'd originally intended to make it a family outing, but Finn ended up catching strep throat, and Janet graciously offered to stay home with him so that I could go solo and not miss out.

Now, I'm not telling secrets when I say that the Birds haven't played the best brand of baseball in the past few years, and are not expected to be competitive in the near future. Camden Yards has been sparsely populated by fans, and nobody would blame we Baltimore rooters for a lack of enthusiasm. But when I pulled into the building complex that hosts Calvert Brewing on that Saturday afternoon, I had to go to the far end of the lot to find a parking space. I walked into the taproom and there was a crush of people from one end of the room to the other, a throng of orange and black. I told my wife later that it was just as well that she'd stayed home; she's an introvert through and through.

I wriggled my way through to the bar, where I could see team VP and GM Mike Elias (center in above photo), slugger Trey Mancini (right, wearing the hell out of a denim jacket), and former shortstop and current broadcaster Mike Bordick (left above) pouring drinks for the customers. I was looking forward to possibly meeting Brian Roberts again, and thanking him for the bat that he autographed for Janet back when she was battling cancer, but he wasn't able to make it for whatever reason. I did manage to get Bordick's attention, and ordered a Shake Your Tree (the most important thing about craft beer is thinking up ridiculous names that are as embarrassing as possible to say out loud). Now I can't say that I've never been served a pint by the top defensive shortstop of 1999.

I stepped out to get some fresh air and a chicken gyro from the food truck, then made my way back to the brewing tanks, where there were a few tables and games set up. It was less crowded there, which gave me a close-up view of infielder (and surprise owner of a .305 batting average in 2019) Hanser Alberto, who was playing cornhole with some small children. A little later, he took his own turn at tending bar, and paused to take a few selfies with fans as things were winding down. I got my own photo with Hanser, and told him that I was sure he would win the batting crown in 2020. He responded with a thumbs-up, so I think that confirms it. Now we just need to actually have a season of some sort.

Mike Bordick, 2003 Topps Heritage #276

Instead of having an angel or a devil on his shoulder, Mike Bordick had a defensively competent - if offensively limited - shortstop whispering in his ear.

Mike Bordick, 2002 Topps #153

The magic number for the Orioles is 14, thanks to the Yankees' 1-0 loss to Big Game James Shields and the Royals. Of course, the O's were also shut out last night, with Alex Cobb, Brad Boxberger, and Jake McGee flummoxing them in Tampa. They're still having a devil of a time scoring runs against the notoriously stingy Rays; it's 2-1 Tampa Bay in the top of the sixth as I type these words. Come on, guys...I want to see a clincher during the next homestand.

It would be fitting if Mike Bordick were in the broadcast booth for MASN whenever the Orioles do clinch. In 1997, he joined the team as the starting shortstop, moving Cal Ripken back to third base full-time. That year, Baltimore spent every day of the regular season atop the American League East, topping the Yankees with a 98-64 record.

Mike Bordick, 1999 Upper Deck #45

It's a bird! It's a plane! It's...incredibly conspicuous product placement for Bud Light!

Mike Bordick, 2001 Upper Deck MVP #73

In 2001, Mike Bordick kicked off his second stint with the Orioles by batting .249 with 7 home runs, 30 RBI, and a .314 on-base percentage in 58 games. That may not seem very impressive, but it's downright inspiring when you consider that he lost his right arm in a logging accident during the previous offseason.

Mike Bordick, 2002 Upper Deck Victory Gold #108

Orioles fans will be seeing and hearing a lot more of Mike Bordick in 2012. The former shortstop, who returned to the Baltimore organization as a minor league instructor last year, has replaced the late Mike Flanagan as a TV analyst for roughly 80 games on MASN. He still hopes to do some coaching for the O's on his down time. Meanwhile, I will continue using my downtime to watch Netflix and play video games.

Mike Bordick, 2001 Fleer Showcase #51

The heartiest of congratulations and felicitations to Mike Bordick, who was voted into the Orioles Hall of Fame in results that were announced today. In August, he and team trainer Richie Bancells will be inducted in a ceremony at Oriole Park at Camden Yards. Bordick played six seasons with the O's from 1997-2002, except for a couple months late in 2000 after he was traded to the Mets. That deal brought Melvin Mora to Baltimore, making it the only productive move of that year's summer fire sale. But the shortstop's value to the Birds went farther than that.

In 1996, Cal Ripken, Jr. had balked when Davey Johnson flirted with moving him from short to third base. As much as anything, his recalcitrance had a lot to do with the player who would be replacing him. That year, the only other shortstops on the roster were utility player Jeff Huson and failed prospect Manny Alexander. But when the Orioles signed Mike Bordick away from Oakland as a free agent, Cal recognized his new teammate's talents as a shortstop and finally moved off of the position that he had manned for 15 memorable seasons.

Bordick was known as a defensive-first shortstop, and he certainly lived up to his billing. He led the American League in total zone runs in 1997 and 2002, and ranked in the top three in 1998 and 1999. He led in assists in 1998 and 1999, led in range factor in 2002, and led in fielding percentage in 1999 and 2002. In 2002, the 36-year-old committed a single error in 570 chances for a sterling .998 fielding percentage. He set single-season fielding records at his position for fewest errors, highest fielding percentage, consecutive errorless games (110) and consecutive errorless chances (543). Of course, he was at least competent with the bat. He slugged over .400 three times with the O's, and had a career year in 2000: .297/.350/.481 in 100 games before the Mets trade, with 22 doubles, 16 home runs, and 59 RBI. That summer he made his only All-Star team.

As mentioned previously, Bordy is back in the Baltimore organization as a minor league instructor, and is one of several ex-players in camp at the Sarasota facility. So everything is comin' up Bordick.

Mike Bordick, 1997 Collector's Choice #274

Here's autograph number two from yesterday. My sister procured Mike Bordick's signature as well as Jason Berken's. I've already posted the only Berken card that I own, so I'll post the autographed scan below.

As you can see, Mike Bordick's John Hancock isn't quite as legible as Craig Tatum's, but it is leaps and bounds better than Berken. It's worth noting that Berken looked much thinner than I had remembered, and it so happens that he adopted a more healthy diet and lost thirty pounds this offseason. Hopefully that helps him to stay on the field in 2011.

I mentioned on Friday that the main attraction for my sister was pitcher Brian Matusz, and he was caught off guard when she handed him a replica of his own #17 jersey to sign. "Is it alright if I sign on the number?" He asked. "I don't think I've ever done a jersey." He placed his autograph on the top of the "7", and it looks pretty sharp if I say so myself. Matusz apparently has a lot to learn about this sort of thing. While my sister was waiting in line, she overheard Berken telling the lefthander that he was actually signing the back of his photo postcards instead of the front. Brian flipped one of the cards over and realized his mistake, and also remarked upon how good the photo looked. I guess players do pay attention to those kinds of things. Take note, card manufacturers.

Mike Bordick, 1999 Upper Deck #45

You can't keep a good Bird away from the nest for long.

Eight years after he played his last game in an Orioles uniform, erstwhile shortstop Mike Bordick has returned to the organization. The 44-year-old was recently hired as minor league offensive coordinator, which may sound bizarre considering his .685 career OPS. However, his chief duty is being described as instructing on fundamentals - "small ball", as Bordick himself says. If you're a progressive-minded baseball fan like me, you may roll your eyes at the mention of that cliche phrase. However, if you watched even a handful of O's games last year, you know that Mike's expertise is sorely needed. If you're going to bunt and hit and run, you may as well ensure that your players have even the slightest bit of aptitude in those areas. He'll also be coaching 'em up on baserunning, which...I can't even talk about the way the Birds ran the bases (often directly into outs) in 2009, or I'll start getting the shakes. In short, I think that Mike Bordick is the right man for the right job, and I always liked him during his playing days. It'll be good to see him in orange and black again.

Mike Bordick, 1997 Upper Deck #308

To continue my train of thought from last night, Mike Bordick was another sure-handed player, and had much more staying power than Craig Worthington. He parlayed a dependable, if unspectacular, glove and a mediocre bat into a fourteen-year, 1720-game career. He made it to the major leagues for good in the summer of 1991, the same period of time that Pearl Jam's wildly successful debut album Ten was released.

I've been a fan of Pearl Jam almost as long as I've been rooting for the Orioles - about fifteen years. In my childhood and early adolescence, my musical appreciation and knowledge was limited to The Beatles. The grunge-rock quintet from Seattle was the first band to puncture my cocoon, and I stuck with them long after most others abandoned the group. As their commercial success dwindled in the late '90s, I found myself still identifying with their music. During my senior year of high school, I even got one of their emblems tattooed on my back. I eventually tuned out to their increasingly sporadic new work (2000's Binaural was so discouraging to me that I didn't even bother with 2002's Riot Act), but I continued to give the rest of their library a regular listen and gave their last album (a self-titled effort in 2006) a chance; I was not disappointed.

Through all of my years of Pearl Jam fandom, I have never seen them in concert. I've heard several of their performances, and they struck me as an especially adept live band; they don't get cute and play around with the tempos and lyrics of their songs so as to render them indistinguishable, and their sound translates seamlessly from the studio to the stage. There are a few reasons I can think of for missing out on their act every time they've been in the Mid-Atlantic: poor timing, old-fashioned lack of initiative, and an inability to identify any friends who would be sufficiently interested in accompanying me. As I mentioned earlier, avid Pearl Jam fans aren't exactly legion, and the few that I've personally known were more acquaintances than friends. But when I actually bothered to open a mass mailing from Ticketmaster back in April and found out that tickets for Pearl Jam's June 22 concert at the Verizon Center were going on sale that very morning, I finally seized my opportunity. I wanted to get a decent seat, and the tickets were priced a little steep, so I pushed ahead without bothering to find a companion for the show.

This past Sunday I made my way into the concert venue and took my seat in the middle tier of the arena, situated near the back of the stage but with a decent side view of the band. As the opening act (Ted Leo and the Pharmacists) warmed up a half-full and more or less indifferent crowd, I sat somewhat awkwardly at my perch. I'm not much of a concert-goer, and I was unfamiliar with the artists on stage and acutely aware of my lone-wolf status. At 8:45, the palpable buzz in the arena built to a roar as the featured attraction took the stage. I rose to my feet with the rest of the masses as Eddie Vedder stepped to the microphone and the band kicked things off with "Hard to Imagine". For the first few songs, I was restrained by my own self-consciousness. Should I sing along? Move around in time with the music, if I were so inclined? And the age-old dilemma: what the hell do I do with my hands? I tried just standing upright with my hands hanging to my sides; it still wasn't working for me. I clapped at the beginning and end of each song, and (somewhat) in time with the rhythm of the music in between. I even buried them in my pockets now and then, convincing myself that no one would pay me enough mind to judge.

An amazing string of some of my favorite songs early in the set helped to loosen me up and pull me into the moment. The hard rocker "Hail Hail" got me moving (and even singing) with less regard for how goony I might look. I'd waited over half my life to be in that place at that time, and I wasn't going to let the imagined opinions of complete strangers - who were half in the dark anyway - hold me back. Several times I became cognizant of the fact that a giddy sort of grin was plastered on my face, and why not? I made sure to soak up as many little details of the tableau as I could. I noticed the knowing grins that Eddie Vedder and guitarist Stone Gossard shot at each other. Bassist Jeff Ament seemed to be in his own world half of the time, but Stone would cross the stage to draw him out and they would play one-on-one. Matt Cameron didn't even seem to break a sweat behind the drum kit. But lead guitarist Mike McCready seemed to be the most in his element. He has a reputation as one of the greatest technicians of his generation, and he has the showmanship to complement it. He paced the stage ferociously, jumping up and down while his fingers flew across the strings and his feet manipulated the distortion pedals. He played to the entire crowd, pointing to specific sections of the crowd at various times to engage those not directly seated in the front. And of course, he showed off by lifting his guitar behind his head and playing blind on one occasion.

One of the most amusing idiosyncrasies of the show occurred as Pearl Jam played one of their biggest and oldest hits, Even Flow. During McCready's lengthy solo, Eddie Vedder wandered away to give the guitarist the spotlight. I watched as the lead singer stood near the keyboards and lit up a cigarette. He would repeat this act in the middle of a few other instrumental-heavy tunes, effectively saying, 'hey, you've got this covered. I need to take a load off for a bit.' In one instance he wandered around the back of the stage, dancing lazily, as if he were sharing a private laugh with a portion of the crowd.

I'd been pretty pleased with the song selection during the first set, as they touched on a good variety of old and new, the hits and the less-heralded. There were a few songs that I still wanted to hear, including my two favorites ("Black" and "Rearviewmirror"). But I had heard that Pearl Jam played lengthy shows, often doing multiple encores. When the band came back out just a few minutes after making an exit, I was cautiously optimistic. My hopes faded as they played an ecclectic mix of mostly newer and lower-key numbers. If I was relieved when the second-to-last selection of the encore was "Black", then I was downright euphoric moments later when I heard the opening bars of "Rearviewmirror". I actually screamed out like I was celebrating a strikeout by George Sherrill. They were going out on a high note, drawing out the bridge of the song before bringing it to an up-tempo, crashing conclusion. The Verizon Center, packed to the rafters, throbbed with cheers, screams, and applause for several more minutes.

To the delight of the throng, Eddie Vedder returned alone. He seemed overwhelmed by the size and enthusiasm of the crowd and suggested that Michael Jordan never got that kind of reaction when he made his comeback in that very building. (He might have had a point.) He played "No More", an anti-war song that he'd written last year, giving the rest of the guys a few minutes more to rest. When Stone, Jeff, Mike, and Matt joined him once more, Eddie informed the crowd in front that they should sit tight, as the band was going to play a song for the folks in the back. They then came around to the back of the stage and played "Last Kiss" for us. As their extended set approached a total running time of two and a half hours, I watched with bated breath as each song ended. The band would put down their instruments and take a few steps toward the stairs, only to hand off their equipment and pick up different instruments for the next song. It was like an extensive dream that might not ever end.

"Alive" brought down the house, and I was sure that would be the swan song. But they broke into a cover of "All Along the Watchtower", and even brought a young boy named Jake (who I assume they'd met earlier in the day) onstage to play guitar for the song. After the song was over, Eddie did a roll call of the band, thanked everyone, and...insisted that before they called it a night, he had to turn things over to Mike. So the show closed with "Yellow Ledbetter", a song I surely would have sung along with if I had ever figured out exactly what in the Sam Hill the lyrics were. As the rest of Pearl Jam took their leave, Mike stood alone once more and blared out the Star Spangled Banner on his axe in an homage to fellow Seattlite Jimi Hendrix. All told, the show clocked in at two hours and forty-five minutes, and it would have been worth twice the price of the ticket. If you have any interest in Pearl Jam, I can't recommend them enough as a concert experience. For a couple hours, I didn't even worry too much about my hands.