By Thomas Boswell
Washington Post Columnist
Tuesday, September 22, 1998; Page C1

Cal Ripken came right out and said it, not once, but three different times on Sunday night. One major reason he broke his consecutive games streak at 2,632 was so he could prove – reprove all over again – that he deserves to be in the Orioles lineup. His streak, and his reputation within the game, mean so much to him that he wants to make sure nobody thinks he's milking his fame for playing time.

"This is uncharted territory," Ripken said of his post-streak career. "Maybe I'll be motivated more over the offseason. When I come to spring training next year, I'm going to be ready to compete. You want to be judged as a baseball player. You want to be deserving. ...

"Contrary to some reports, I'm not on my last breath. I think I have a lot of baseball left in me. And I plan to prove that on a daily basis," he said at another juncture. "I still consider myself an everyday player. I'm not going anywhere."

For the sake of doing what he saw as the "right thing" at "the right time," Ripken has put the remainder of his career in jeopardy. Just think of how rare that kind of unselfishness is in any walk of life. Who resigns voluntarily? Ripken had the leverage to defend his position within his professional world and he simply gave it away.

What could it cost him? Only everything.

Look at the careers of the two dozen players in history with the most base hits. (Ripken needs 127 for 3,000). Ask yourself what happened to them at the end when they started missing games for rest, platooning against tough pitchers or making room for youngsters.

Almost without exception, they faded fast. Some stuck around for several years, either as drawing cards for poor teams – like Stan Musial – or unwanted dead weight on contenders – like Carl Yastrzemski. But the pattern isn't pretty. I can only unearth one great player who, as he approached 40, had anything good happen to his career as his playing time began shrinking.

That player was Hank Aaron. Three times – at age 35, 37 and 39 – he cut his number of games played. His slugging average jumped about 120 points each time he cut back. In fact, at 39, he slugged 40 homers in only 392 at bats after having just 29 in 606 at bats when he was 34. That's radical.

But it's also unique.

Just so we can feel better, let's note that several Hall of Famers have pulled themselves together for one last solid season after critics had written them off as pathetic old coots: Pete Rose hit .325 at 40, Stan Musial .330 at 41, Ted Williams .316 at 42 after each had posted embarrassing averages well under .300.

Ripken, however, doesn't just want a one-year restoration of pride followed by retirement. "A lot of baseball left in me," he says.

Nothing frightens athletes like the thought of The End in whatever form it arrives. Losing at bats or a starting position, being platooned or phased out, watching rookies emerge as you fade, is far too much like a mini-death for players to cope with it at the rational level. They rebel, lash out, deny that they've lost anything. Almost always, they are the absolute last people to see themselves clearly.

Earl Weaver once ran down on his fingers the name of every great Oriole he'd ever had to bench, release or take out of the rotation as they aged. "Every one of them blamed me, not themselves," said Weaver. "Every one – except Brooks Robinson."

Against that backdrop, perhaps Ripken's voluntary "bench me" decision is akin to heroism. In time, it may end up impressing us more than anything he has ever done. Many, including me, who had high opinions of Ripken still doubted that he could break his own Streak.

For his fans, Ripken said his message was, "Don't be sad. Be happy." To the media, he was, perhaps, a bit more candid. "I'm not going to bawl my eyeballs out for you," he said. Then after a look at his wife, Kelly, beside him, he added, "I might after I get home."

Because he had the strength of character to "be a realist," Ripken is free now. The last chapter on 2,632 has been written. And nobody, now or ever, can say a word against it. With hindsight, we can see Game No. 2,131 was fabulously restorative for baseball at a time when the game desperately needed it. No one was ever hurt by The Streak – certainly not the Orioles.

Now, in the first season when his stats have seriously called his future into question, Ripken has stepped aside on his own.

What lies ahead for Ripken? Some assume 6-foot-7 rookie Ryan Minor will challenge Ripken for a job next season. Dream on. Those are the people who didn't take the trouble to watch him at AA Bowie. Ripken gets nagged for hitting .273 in the majors. Minor hit .250 in the minors with 152 strikeouts and only 17 homers. His strike zone is bigger than New England and he'll swing at anything with seams.

When Minor was told by Manager Ray Miller that he, not Ripken, was in the starting lineup, the kid had the right response: "Does he know?"

Ripken will be in the Opening Day lineup next season at third base. With 3,000 hits so close, retirement is just talk. The real issue is simpler: Can Ripken, who's in fabulous shape, play several more years?

He could if he'd learn how to hit.

Gene Mauch once said that Ripken had the worst hitting mechanics of any player who would end up in the Hall of Fame. For a 6-4, 220-pound world-class athlete with fabulous hand-eye coordination, Ripken is a kind of walking clinic on everything not to do at home plate. Nobody says it for the record, but everybody whispers the same thing: Cal needs a hitting guru desperately. Everything he knows about batting he learned from his father. That's the problem. Which theory should Cal adopt? Any of 'em. They'd all be an improvement.

Looking further into the future, perhaps we saw a hint on Sunday night of what Ripken might be someday. Normally, when in uniform, he's utterly sober. But, on his off day, he seemed determined to set the American League record for fun in one day. He was grinning, joking, his eyes snapping, the entire game. When he's in that mode, his teammates adore him as much as they respect him the rest of the time.

As a player, Ripken's never been a leader. But if he didn't have to play, if the rest of his personality got more freedom, might he become one? Most great players make lousy managers or general managers. But Ripken is atypical of the breed. He's a born analyst and a student. Of his off day, he said, "I tried to enjoy it, but also understand it."

Someday – not any time soon, hopefully – Cal Ripken might be the Orioles manager or general manager. He'd be dedicated and competent at either. He might even be brilliant. Think of Larry Bird in basketball.

Besides, that way, who knows how many more years we could keep him around. As one night without the Iron Man in the lineup reminded us, we only get one Cal Ripken. And, even after all these years, we can never get quite enough of him.