My husband learned that there was to be a charity auction and dinner in Charlotte two days before Valentine’s Day. (As my stalking skills have lapsed in recent years, I was unaware of Cal’s impending visit.) Being the wonderful and intelligent husband that he is, he promptly purchased two tickets for us, but withheld this information from me until about a week before the event when he cornered me in the kitchen and said, “I have a surprise…” The week of anticipation was about right, it interfered somewhat with my concentration, but was an excellent motivator to keep me on schedule at the gym.

Before the dinner there was a silent auction. I have never been to one and wasn’t sure what to expect. I realize that this event was in Charlotte, but somehow I convinced myself there would be more Orioles items available. There were only a few Cal items and two signed Orioles baseballs, one by Earl and one by Frank. I bid on both, but the rest of the items were too crazy out of my price range. Happily, I won the Earl baseball and, considering how difficult it is to get Earl to sign anything, consider myself very lucky to have that!

So then there was the dinner, the best part of which was the chocolate mousse cake (which I still think about a month later). We were assigned tables according to our ticket price. Ours was in the back of the room, but directly in the center of the podium upon which Cal and other people no one cares about sat to eat their dinner. I was not more than 30 feet from Cal Ripken. 30. Let me say it again. 30 feet away from Cal Ripken. With a direct view.

I often find that my expectations are unrealistic or faulty. I still don’t know what is quite wrong with my line of thinking, but here is how I operate. Maybe you can help me figure out where I go wrong, because clearly, I’m missing some critical piece of logic. After all, how often do I hear, “Why are you an Orioles fan? They haven’t won, like, since the atom was discovered.” I always wonder, “What does that have to do with anything.”

So here it is. We paid a lot of money to be at an event with Cal Ripken, Jr. Who are the sort of people who would do that? Orioles fans, Cal fans, and general baseball fans, right? If you’re a Cal fan, maybe you realize what a privilege it is to be in the same room with him with only 300 other people. Maybe this puts you in a pretty gregarious and cheerful mood and maybe being in Charlotte, where it is exceedingly difficult to find other Orioles fans, you’re happy to meet any other baseball/Orioles fans? That’s how I think.

Yet, there we were seated with four other people at our table (two seats were empty, though their pieces of cake found their way to our plates) and they were about as reticent and difficult to talk to as if I were wearing a Boston cap in Yankee stadium. I realize that in certain events like meeting Cal Ripken, I tend to exude happiness, and maybe everyone doesn’t feel an obligation to build a home shrine to him, but still. Maybe I have a body odor problem. Something is wrong, I just don’t know what it is.

Anyway, after dinner, there was a very casual chat session whereby Cal gave a humorous speech and then answered questions from the audience. I thought that if I was ever going to talk to Cal, this was my one chance. After twenty five years, I thought I had better or I would kick myself for the rest of my life, and believe me, I already kick myself enough about a lot of other decisions. I had to muster every ounce of my courage and by the time I stood up, after twenty minutes of talking myself into it, my legs were shaking and my voice trembled, but there, I did it! Don’t worry about what I said to him. All that matters is I had the courage to speak and didn’t pass out. It was a little touch and go, but I managed to stay standing.

The best part was after the event, the crowd convened around the stage where Cal was, as expected, begging for autographs. All I wanted was a picture and had almost given up hope when Cal was wrapping it up. However, by luck (okay and a few sharp elbow jabs–just kidding) I managed to be close enough to make one pleading request for a photograph.

He said, “Yes.” (Just want that sentence to stand out. He said, “Yes.”)

I thought I really was going to be “The Fainter.” There I was with security all around, and I was allowed to stand right beside Cal. I expected to just stand stiffly beside him, afraid to touch him, but then…this is big…he put his arm around me! I thought, “Oh my God! I can touch him, it’s okay to touch him!”

Then I passed out.

Just kidding. I put my arm around him, being very careful to resist the urge to give that tuckus a nice big squeeze as we smiled into the camera while my dear, wonderful husband snapped the photograph.

At that moment, 2009 was renamed, “The Year I Touched Cal Ripken, Jr.” (TYITCRJR for short). What a moment!!!

My husband earned enough credits to last him through the end of the year and a pass on Cooperstown.

And that, my friends, is how you make your wife happy. Unless she hates baseball and doesn’t care about Cal. Then you’re on your own — and I have to be honest, I question your judgment.

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