But apart from consecutive games, no other single stat will put Cal in the game's top 10 -- nor even the top 20. Not with his more than 3,000 hits. And as for runs, home runs, runs batted in, extra base hits, total bases or even fielding average ... well, forget it. (Even Eppa Rixey made one top 10 list -- of course, that was for losing 251 games as a pitcher.)

Nor could Cal's plaque call him a winner: In the Ripken era, the Orioles were world champs once -- in '83, when young Cal's .318 average was bolstered (some would say overshadowed) by Eddie Murray's .538 slugging average and pitcher Scott McGregor's .720 winning percentage. Though Cal would play on for 18 more years, his O's would never win another pennant. (Zack Wheat played in more World Series -- for God's sake, with the Brooklyn Robins.)

It's possible that future father and son may look up Cal's record and share the same reaction Joe DiMaggio evinced in 1995. The Yankee Clipper came to Baltimore to help celebrate the big night when Ripken passed Lou Gehrig's record for consecutive games. Cal was trotting a victory lap around the field, and the Oriole fans wept and screamed in adoration ... while the big centerfield scoreboard displayed in lights Ripken's career stats. From a skybox, DiMaggio glanced toward the scoreboard, raised his eyebrows slightly and said: "That's all?"

But Ripken's standing in the game could never be measured in numbers -- not even that venerable 2,632. No line of digits could tell the tale of an era when baseball, itself, knocked out most of the pillars that held the love of the game aloft.

To a Pastime revered for its performance and ancient rivalries, the lords of the game brought expansion, teams switching cities, and free agency (not to mention Astroturf and the designated hitter). By the time Cal was ready for the bigs, in 1981, the game was shut down in a fight over money -- a 50-day strike at the height of the season -- that left fans heartsick. Cal debuted in the first game after that strike: came in as a pinch-runner and promptly rumbled home with the Orioles' winning run.

OK, baseball had problems, but here was a blue-eyed boy who seemed to know the old verities. He played hard: got in front of his grounders, caught the ball with two hands and ran out everything. Better still, he was a local boy -- went to high school just up the road in Aberdeen, Md. And more than local -- he embodied the game's root tradition of fathers and sons. (Wasn't that Cal Sr. who waved him home from the third base coach's box with the run that sank Kansas City?)

Alas, that strike had solved nothing. More multimillion-dollar contracts ensued, more stars abandoned hometown fans. Small-market teams had to haul up stakes or hold an annual fire sale. By the time Ripken had played through a dozen years, it was hard for any fan in any town to know if his team was still there -- or who was on it. But Ripken never talked about leaving -- not even when the O's cut his brother Billy (who played second base) and sacked the old man, Cal Sr., as the manager. Fans in Baltimore knew: When the Orioles took the field, Cal would always be there -- April to September, 162 games a year, in sweaty sun glare or chilling rain, and most games, from the first pitch to the last.

Even then, there were grumbles, and some from fans who knew the team best. Cal was impeccable, the way he took care of himself, prepared himself, conducted himself. But that was also the problem. That's why the Orioles didn't have a team leader -- Cal's business was himself ... and the streak of consecutive games. Even some veteran baseball men said the Orioles might be a better team if the shortstop rested every once in a while. Ripken's response was well rehearsed, canny (in the infield or at a microphone, positioning was at the heart of his game): "Any day the manager thinks the team would be better with someone else at shortstop, he can make the move." Of course, by that time, any manager who sat Cal down would be fired -- if he wasn't lynched first. By that time, Cal was an icon: He was the old verities.

Small wonder the nadir for baseball coincided with the high point for Cal. Another strike, and this time no mere 50 days. In 1994, there was no season, no pennant, no playoffs, no World Series -- baseball disappeared, in an ugly money fight. And then, fans disappeared, absent from the stands and even their TVs. "Spoiled," "overpaid," "bratty louts" were some of the kinder comments in print about modern ballplayers. And the owners came off worse: They were not only plutocratic greedheads, but stupid. Couldn't they see they were wrecking the game?

And then, like the cavalry over the hill, here came Cal and The Streak, both by that time bearing down on Lou Gehrig's record of 2,130 straight games. Here, at last, was a story that wasn't about the game's woe, but its glory. Baseball was back, and its name was Ripken. For months, in 1995, the game, its promoters, heralds and scribes, owners, flaks and fans, hitched a ride on Cal's back. And he never wavered.

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He serviced an army of press in every town -- patiently, shyly smiling toward the lenses. He posed for magazine covers and cereal boxes. He taped commercials for Chevrolet, and milk. He thought hard about questions he had heard 500 times, and always spoke well:

Yes, he prepared every season, every game ... "It's a matter of respect for the game." Yes, he'd sign anything they wanted, for free ... "It's a matter of respect for the game."