He May Be Playing in <i> Year </i> 2131

Sept. 30, 2000

Dear Diary:

Please, help me. I am so tired, I can hardly write. Today I played my 2,963rd baseball game in a row. I am 40 years old and my feet are killing me. My corns hurt, my calves hurt, my shins are sore and my thighs are as hard as an umpire’s heart. I need rest. I need a day off. I need Ben-Gay.

Today was the last day of the 2000 season. The Orioles stink. We are in last place, behind Boston, New York, Detroit, Toronto, Tokyo and Mexico City. I went two for four, but I could hardly run the bases. No way I can keep this up. Diary, tell me what to do. This must end.

Cal

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April 27, 2001

Dear Diary:

Game No. 3,000 is tonight. President Powell will be there. So will Vice President Rodham Clinton. I hear a lot of the old-timers will show up: DiMaggio, Mays, Aaron, Offerman. Here we go, another ceremony.

Too bad they’re tearing down Camden Yards next year to build a new park. Sure, it’s falling apart. But I love the old parks best, don’t you? I can’t believe those graffiti punks spray-painted above the “Hit It Here” sign with the word Don’t. Very funny. Anyway, I hope I can still hit the ball.

Cal

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Oct. 1, 2002

Dear Diary:

Haven’t written you in a while. Sorry. I can barely lift my arm. Hideo Nomo Jr. hit me with a pitch. These kids today; no respect.

Well, Diary, I have played 162 games per season, every season since way back in 1995. Yesterday was my 3,287th consecutive game. OK, so all I did was pinch-run for Anderson in the 16th inning when we ran out of players. So what? I’m in the box score. Man, I could use, like, 48 hours in a whirlpool.

Cal

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March 21, 2004

Dear Diary:

Whoa, 3,500 games in a row. Doesn’t seem possible. I’m hitting .333 and doctors want to study me, to see if I’m human or robot.

The Angels started Ken Griffey III last night. Told the kid, “I played with your grandfather.” He laughed. He said, “If I slide into second base, better jump your old self over me, Gramps.” Then he asked me about the olden days, back when we used wood bats. Fresh kid.

Cal

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April 1, 2006

Dear Diary:

Spring training was a bear. My arteries are so hard, you could use them as cues to shoot pool. The artificial hip seems to be helping, but my plastic rotator cuff feels funny and these orthopedic cleats are really uncomfortable.

Skip suggested I try a 29-ounce bat. I’m not getting around on fastballs. Maybe I should go back to that priest in Tibet for more of those secret roots and herbs that keep me young. Today’s my 3,774th consecutive game. I was up late last night. Leno did some funny jokes about the O.J. trial.

Cal

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June 18, 2010

Dear Diary:

Mercy. Somebody. Anybody. Help. Can’t move. Can’t run. Can’t catch. Can’t throw. Can’t take any more. Isn’t 4,500 games in a row plenty? Can’t I go home now? They shoot shortstops, don’t they? Read my lips: I . . . need . . . rest.

Remember my kid, starting kindergarten the day I broke Lou Gehrig’s record? Well, my kid’s teaching at that school next term. Where did the time go? Me and the wife, the team gave us round-trip tickets on the shuttle to Neptune. I’m retiring this winter. Honest.

Cal

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Nov. 1, 2020

Dear Diary:

World Series ended today. Havana kicked Baltimore’s butt, same as last year. But I did OK. Couple of homers, no errors. Feel fine. Could do this forever.

The Smithsonian called. Wanted to know if I still had my glove from 1995. Wanted to know if I would donate it to the museum. Said I’d love to, but I can’t. Still using it.

Cal