What Is in a Name? Just Ask Billy Ripken

Billy Ripken is introduced, and mixed among the cheers are a smattering of boos, the only boos any Baltimore Oriole will hear that night.

And yet, in a recent magazine poll asking readers to name their favorite Oriole, Ripken finished second to big brother Cal.

“People seem to either love me or hate me,” Billy Ripken says. “There’s no middle ground with me.”

Not unlike many of his teammates, the younger Ripken is a struggling player with some potential who’s trying to shape a major-league career that may or may not be there.

In two years in the big leagues, he has had some good moments and bad, but none, except a certain episode with an obscene word on a baseball card, to engender either particular hostility or affection. Still, both are evident.

Why? Because of a few famous relatives. Because he’s a Ripken in an organization where the name has magic.

“I’ve always figured that was the reason,” Ripken says. “The thing I hear a lot is, ‘You’ll never be as good as your brother.’ No joke. That’s not debatable. That’s like the worst line ever. It just makes me laugh. I know I’m not as good as my brother. Everyone on this planet knows it. But they still say it.”

Billy is not exercised over the question. He got past that long ago, which is a good thing, because the problem is not going away. You have only to listen to sports radio call-in shows -- bad advice, by the way, for any ballplayer who values his sanity -- to understand there is in Baltimore a Billy Ripken factor.

“Even before he got here, everyone was asking, ‘Is he going to be as good as Cal?’ ” says his manager, Frank Robinson. “Cal sent a standard here, and people were excited about having another Ripken on the club. When Billy came up, he did nothing to change that. In fact, he enhanced it.

“But when he went into a slump last year, a lot of people said he was playing because of favoritism. Well, his father only managed six games, and I know that wasn’t true on my part. The half-year he had in ’87 earned him a chance to be out there in ’88.”

Actually, the concept of Billy getting a break because he’s a Ripken began in 1987, when he was hitting over .300, playing for his father. It continued last year, even though his father was fired, and it hasn’t stopped.

“It won’t stop,” Robinson says, “as long as he’s in Baltimore. He better get used to it.”

Brother Cal understands the problem, having lived through something like it himself.

“When I signed, it was normal to hear, ‘You’re only here because of your name,’ ” Cal Ripken says. “I even heard it from other players’ wives. I’d be leading the team in hits, runs, everything else and still hear the same thing.

“Billy’s had a tougher road than I did. He had my dad and he had me in front of him. That put a little extra pressure on him. But you don’t get to the big leagues unless you have ability. You can’t get there on your name. It hasn’t ever happened. It won’t happen.”

Having considered this phenomenon before, Cal has developed a theory to explain it.

“Some people parallel a Little League scenario to a big league scenario,” he says. “Everyone played on a little league team where the dad is the coach, and he bats his kid fourth even though he can’t hit. And maybe his kid plays the most. I guess you can get by in the Little League like that, but it just can’t happen in the big leagues.”

Billy’s status in the big leagues is problematic. As a second baseman, he has few peers defensively. He plays the game with what you might call enthusiasm, if running through walls is enthusiastic.

And maybe he struts a bit, but he plays hard, too. But after hitting .308 in 1987, he slipped to .207 last year, the lowest average for anyone having played 150 or more games since 1975.

Answer this: If Ripken doesn’t play second, who does? When Billy broke his finger in spring training, the job went to Rene Gonzales, another good-field, not-much-hit player, who’s hitting .194.

Pete Stanicek was expected to get a shot at second, but he has spent his entire spring in the whirlpool nursing one in a series of injuries.

“Billy doesn’t have a stranglehold on the job,” Robinson says. “Everyone is going to play this year. Gonzo has done a good job, but he isn’t exactly ripping it up. What do I say to Billy, ‘You have to sit when the other guy is doing the things you can do’?

“Billy has the potential to have a good career. If he hits behind the runner, bunts a runner over, gets a few hits, he can be an effective player. You know how well he plays second. When Billy is in the field, you don’t have to hold your breath and wonder if he’s going to make the play. You know he’ll make it. He’s going to play. Gonzo is going to play second and some third. It will all work out in the end.”

Billy says he’s trying to do what the manager wants him to do and hopes that last season is just a bad memory.

“Last year, in ‘88, all the fans forgot about 1987,” Billy says. “Well, I can forget about ’88 as fast as they forgot about ’87.”

But whatever happens this season, the one thing nobody will forget is his last name.