Mr. Oriole was One of a Kind

When I was a kid, the Orioles were always in the thick of a pennant race. You could set your watch to it. That’s just who they were from the mid 60’s through no less than 1983, the year they last won a World Series Title. Today, the team’s accomplishments during a span of 17 seasons would be considered a modern dynasty.

Maybe dynasties were a bit easier to secure in those days before the dawning of free agency. Year in and year out, the Orioles lineup was nearly the same with a roster modification here and there – hopeful improvements. We knew all of the players. We could tell you what the next night’s lineup would be. Maybe there was a slight change in the order depending upon whether the opposing pitcher was right-handed or a southpaw.

As impressionable youngsters we imitated our sports heroes. The wind-up and leg kick of Jim Palmer; the shallow positioning of Paul Blair in centerfield; the swagger of Frank Robinson; choking up on the bat like Mark Belanger; the pristine delivery of Dave McNally; the extended leg of Elrod Hendricks while crouched down waiting to receive the next pitch.

We imitated the batting stances of our players – their little idiosyncrasies that added to their character and shaped their respective identities. And perhaps none was imitated more than Brooks Robinson, every child’s favorite.

There was so much to admire about Brooks. At third base he was the vacuum cleaner. He made all the routine plays and the spectacular ones that his peers couldn’t consider. A diving stop in the hole to prevent a sure-fire seed from skipping through to left; a back-handed stab to rob the batter of a double down the line; a hard-charging bare-handed pickup to throw a speedy opponent out at first. These were the things Brooks did on a regular basis – things that we came to expect, perhaps even take for granted.

[The History of RSR]

At the plate, Brooks wasn’t spectacular, but he was steady, and he was Mr. Clutch. If I close my eyes, I can still see him walking to home plate from his one-knee position in the on-deck circle. With hand on his helmet that sported the league’s shortest bill, Brooks swept the batter’s box with his feet and then dug in. A couple pumps of the bat to steady himself and Brooks was set.

He didn’t appear to be athletically gifted. He wasn’t all that strong; ran as if he was carrying a piano on his back; and he didn’t really have a bazooka for an arm. But what he did have was tremendous hands and cat-like reflexes, both of which paved the way to 16 Gold Gloves and 268 career homeruns. His long flies came during the days when ballparks were bigger as were the strike zones. Foul territories sported far more acreage than today’s stadiums. Pitchers were given an advantage over batters with elevated mounds. Add it all up and 268 in those days, was a borderline power hitter.

Brooks was an 18-time All-Star; an American League MVP; two-time World Series Champ and a Series MVP. From 1955 to 1977 Brooks Robinson wore No. 5 for the Baltimore Orioles, the only uniform he ever wore.

But Brooks was more than just a ball player. He had this boyish charm and an effervescence about him that drew you in. Even as a kid, you recognized the difference. His joy for the game of baseball was obvious. He was a natural role model although he was too humble to accept such a moniker and seemingly uncomfortable even by the suggestion. He just went about his business with a smile.

I remember my Dad taking me to Orioles games when I was a little leaguer. Along with my Grandfather and Uncle Joe, they’d point out little nuances of the game to watch and observe. Many of them belonged to Brooks.

I watched the way he warmed up; the way his throws to Boog Powell at first had this natural tail to it, almost like the controlled fade of a professional golfer. I observed the way he prepared himself in between pitches; the way he swept the dirt in front of him with his feet around the hot corner; how he allowed the girl from the grounds crew to use her broom to sweep off his spikes during the top of the fifth. We all wanted to be Brooks.

And that appeal was more than just about his accomplishments as an athlete. He was approachable; he took the time to say hello and made it seem like the casual, short-lived meeting was completely his pleasure. I even admired how he wrote with his left hand while doing everything else right-handed. It only added to the uniqueness of this wonderful athlete and an even more special human being.

Brooks lived an amazing life that lasted 86 years. Throughout his time with us, he was gracious, self-deprecating, and sincere. Despite his tremendous accomplishments Brooks always remained grounded. He is woven into the fabric of our community and atop the Mount Rushmore of Baltimore’s sports legends. It could be argued that he’s the greatest of sports legends here in The Land of Pleasant Living.

When word of his passing spread, it was a shot to the heart. My childhood sports hero, and probably yours too, was gone. But his memory remains; the glory of his athletic feats and his compassion for mankind, live. He passes on with the same grace, style and dignity that was seemingly the code he lived by and played with. He was an example for us all, a quintessential role model.

Brooks once said, “Fifty years from now I’ll be just three inches of type in a record book.”

That quote may be the only error I can remember Brooks committing.

It’s been said that sports heroes in bigger towns than Baltimore have candy bars named after them. Brooks had children named after him. That alone should tell you all you need to know about Brooks Calbert Robinson Jr., the Mr. Oriole.

You will be missed Brooksie.

And remembered for far more than a record book.

Jim Palmer reflects on the legacy of Brooks Robinson. pic.twitter.com/2UlvMt5gBd

— Orioles on MASN (@masnOrioles) September 26, 2023