The Making of a Fan

Brooks never asked anyone to name a candy bar after him. In Baltimore, people name their children after him.

Gordon Beard, “They Said It,” Sports Illustrated, October 3, 1977, 12.

When I was eight years old my grandfather somehow arranged for me to meet Brooks Robinson. To this day, I don’t know exactly how he did it. At the time, Robinson was the Orioles’ gold-gloved third baseman, the pride of Baltimore. I was a skinny kid with oversized ears and stylish hair, which I combed for nearly an hour before leaving for Memorial Stadium.

After the game—the outcome of which I don’t recall—my grandfather and I sat in the Orioles’ front office for what seemed like eternity, the anxiety welled inside my little body. I stared at the Orioles’ World Series championship trophy on display, fascinated by its sparkle and miniature pennants. I was meeting Brooks Robinson and was nervous.

“Somebody here named Danny to meet Brooks Robinson?” a southernaccented voice said from around the corner. I yelped, jumping out of my chair, ball in hand, ready to be signed.

Holding my unoccupied hand, my grandfather led me around the corner. Standing in front of us was a tall man in spikes. He was still in full uniform, sweaty, dusty, his cleats scratching the floor, glove comfortably in hand. I was speechless. He asked if I’d like him to sign my ball. I nodded, still mute.

My grandfather later told me that they spoke for a minute or two. He said he told Robinson how he had taken my father to meet him when he was a boy, and that now he was bringing his son’s son. My grandfather said that Robinson joked that he (my grandfather) must be getting old. He shook our hands goodbye and we went home. I don’t remember having said anything, not even thank you.

Many years later, after Robinson had retired and had been inducted into the Hall of Fame, and I had grown into early manhood, I met him again. It was before an Orioles’ game in Chicago. He was on his way to the broadcasting booth and had stopped to chat with some people. It was, he said, his first time in new Comiskey Park and he was trying to get a feel for the place. He signed autographs, posed for a few pictures, and talked about how impressed he was with the Orioles’ starting pitcher that day, a rookie named Mike Mussina, who was making his major-league debut. While we stood there talking, I tried to explain to him that I had met him years before when I was a boy and that I wanted to thank him for the kindness he had shown me. He seemed a little embarrassed, almost as if he should have remembered me.

People make their own choices, to paraphrase a famous expression, but they don’t do so under conditions of their own choosing. Obviously I was indoctrinated into the Orioles’ fold at an early age. And although I have no recollection of choosing Robinson as my first hero, I can’t help but be thankful that he was. If sports heroes are, as some people suggest, models for socialization, then I owe my family a tremendous debt for introducing me to Robinson—both figuratively and literally—at such an impressionable age. Cal Ripken Jr. aside, it’s rare to find such humility and generosity in the presence of greatness.