The challenge for Ripken was simply to do what he had been doing since 1982: play. The Orioles management had a far greater challenge: coming up with a way to commemorate The Streak that was equal to the accomplishment.

"We figured we had to do something leading up to it, so we had some brainstorming sessions," said Maroon. "It was an unusual event. Even Cal said, 'How do you celebrate this? I go out and play a game. I don't have to hit a home run. I don't have to get a hit. I don't have to do anything. How do you celebrate it?'"

What the Orioles came up with out of those sessions was this: the rule declaring an official game would be put up on the JumboTron after the top of the fifth inning. John Tesh music would be cued up, and on the B&O Warehouse past the right-field scoreboard, beyond Eutaw Street, the numbers commemorating the countdown to 2,131 -- the new record -- would be displayed in four unfurled banners, one for each number.

The first night the Orioles performed the ceremony was August 29, during the first game of the home stand, against the Oakland Athletics, a game the Orioles lost 3-1. As Ripken took the field in the bottom of the fifth inning, the ceremony began. The official game rule was posted on the JumboTron in center field. The music came up, and the 10-foot orange and black banners unfurled from the warehouse: 2,123.

Nothing. A few cheers, mild applause, but it barely caused a ripple among the 41,512 people that night at Camden Yards. "No one really got it," Maroon said. "We knew that might be the case at first, but it still made us nervous. We played the music, put the rule up there and dropped the numbers, and there was a smattering of applause. We got a little nervous, and we talked about it, and said, 'Oh my God, what if people hate it?' We gave it a couple of days. We figured maybe people didn't understand what was going on because we didn't publicize it. We just did it." Ripken wasn't comfortable with anything that would call attention to himself, particularly during an inning that might interfere with the flow of the game. So it was awkward for him on the field when this ceremony took place the first couple of games.

But something special was evolving at Camden Yards. Fans were embracing the whole thing, and by game 2,126, the fifth-inning commemoration had become a remarkably emotional event that caught everyone by surprise, particularly Ripken. He found himself having to keep his emotions in check as fans stood and cheered longer with each game as the numbers dropped and the inspirational music filled the ballpark. The ceremony affected everyone in the ballpark, opposing players included. "I get goose bumps during that ceremony," said Seattle's Rich Amaral, when the Mariners came to Camden Yards for games 2,126 through 2,128. "It's amazing what he has done. We all have so much respect for him and what he is doing. I feel lucky to have been here these past few days to see this."

The entire Seattle team showed its respect for Ripken by standing on the steps of the dugout and applauding along with the 46,269 fans at Camden Yards that Sunday afternoon. Ripken was deeply touched by the display. "It's a tremendous honor, especially when it comes from your peers, the people you play against," Ripken said after the game. "I've been lost out there when that happens. The ovations get louder and louder, and longer and longer. You start to think back on your career and how you've been received by fans, and you get a little teary eyed. There's a lot of power in that moment."

The power was enough to ignore the play of the Orioles, who lost the game 9-6 for their eighth loss in their past ten games. Baltimore won just one of seven games on this home stand, while all this hoopla was going on. There were some frayed nerves and, as the day got closer, more concern than ever that something might happen to Ripken -- illness or a baseball injury -- to stop him from breaking the record.

In game 2,129 against the California Angels, one moment caused general manager Roland Hemond some anxiety. He was sitting next to Frank Robinson in the private box when Troy Percival came in to pitch for the Angels against Ripken. "I'm not a pessimist, but I was concerned," Hemond recalled. "He can throw 100 miles an hour. I said to Frank, 'Wouldn't it be awful if he hit him with a pitch.' Then I said, 'Hey, Frank, forget I told you that.'

"Well, lo and behold, the next pitch Cal went down like a sack of potatoes," Hemond continued. "He avoided getting hit, but it was real close. It would have been catastrophic. Each of the next two days I was checking the clubhouses early in the afternoon, checking to see if Cal arrived yet to make sure he got there safely. Maybe we should have sent for a chauffeur. I was nervous."

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