Chapter 1

I play third base for the Baltimore Orioles.

If you're not a fan, you probably don't know what a burden it is, playing third base.

For the Orioles.

You see, God used to play third for Baltimore, and He's a hard act to follow.

Well. Not really God -- but way too close to tell the difference, even from the expensive boxes behind the dugout.

His name was Brooks Robinson, and he played third base like God would have played it, if He'd only had the experience and the training.

So now, even decades after Brooksie played, it's tough being the third sacker for the Orioles, because people unconsciously compare you to him. And there's no comparison. You look up "incomparable" in the dictionary, and there it is -- a picture of Brooks Robinson.

But, hey, somebody's got to be the third-baseman, right? So I'm him. And I can handle the position, day in and day out, even better than Brooks Robinson.

After all, he's 68 years old, now.

So it's a bit of a burden, playing third here in Baltimore, but I bear up. I am probably a little rare for a ballplayer, because I grew up as a fan, too.

I'm still a fan. I mean, I'm too young to have seen Brooksie play, but I was raised an Orioles' fan, and I've seen all those film clips. I saw the way he single-handedly dismantled Cincinnati's Big Red Machine in the 1970 World Series.

I mean, the way he played, it was like a ballplayer's wet dream.

So maybe I'll never be as good as Brooks Robinson, but, hey, I am happy as a clam, playing for my own favorite club, and playing -- or trying to play -- Brooksie's old position on the field. I doubt I'll ever let my agent push too hard for more dough, because I don't want to be traded off to some richer club. I'm too damned happy -- right where I am.

When I was a kid, I always swore that if, somehow, I could make it as a ballplayer, I wouldn't forget what it was like, being a kid, and looking up to the players. I'd be patient with the fans, and I'd sign autographs -- if anybody ever wanted my autograph -- until I got hand-cramps. I'd be friendly, and accessible. Like my other hero -- Cal Ripken.

Cal Ripken autographs ought to be worth about as much on the collectors' market as anyone's, because he was such a star -- such a name ballplayer. But items autographed by Cal aren't all that expensive to purchase, because they're a glut on the market. Ripken was so willing to relate to his fans that he would spend hours signing anything they asked him to sign. He's stay around, long after the game was over, patiently signing everyone's scorecards and talking to the fans.

It really isn't difficult, being like that. It just takes a little character -- a little appreciation for all that's been given to us, as pro ballplayers.

You gotta wonder, sometimes, why more players don't understand that.

But not too many of them do. They get complacent. They get self-satisfied and start feeling entitled. Entitled to the big bucks, and the adulation of the fans -- all of it. Appreciation is the last thing they're feeling. They get to believing that they deserve this. It's just their natural entitlement.

Bullshit.

It's kinda like the business of running out ground ball outs. Here's a guy, drawing down $3 million per, and when he hits a ground ball to short, does he tear down the line, trying to make the shortstop hurry his throw? Does he leg it out with all his might, hoping to beat the throw to first? No. He assumes he's going to be out, and he trots along, waiting patiently for the ball to beat him to the first baseman. And, of course, it does beat him -- 95% of the time. Even if something goes a little wrong with the catch or the throw, it still beats him, because he's not straining himself to get there quickly.