Brooks

In pace requiescat

Today’s post was supposed to be the first in my series on the life-sciences in the twilight of the mechanistic paradigm; I expect that it will appear tomorrow instead. Just now I have to pause to acknowledge the passing of Brooks Robinson (1937-2023). I spent much of my boyhood watching him play third base for the Orioles, and of course he is generally reckoned the greatest defensive third baseman ever to take the field.

No player in the history of the franchise, moreover, was better loved by the city and region he represented. Mind you, this was in part because he shares with Carl Yastrzemski the almost unimaginable distinction of having played for a single team for twenty-three years. In part, too, it was because of the unparalleled excellence of his play. And in part it was because he was a man of almost legendary kindness and decency.

I was very much a spoiled follower of the game in my childhood. For the first twenty years of my life, Baltimore fans naturally expected that the Orioles would be in the pennant race every year, and were more than a little accustomed to seeing them finish the season with around a hundred wins, often on the way to the post-season. And one of the true joys of watching the Orioles in those days was the quality of the defense, which was—I am not sure how else to put this—routinely astonishing. During its greatest period, especially from 1969 to 1973, the team fielded what most cognoscenti of the sport regard as the finest defensive squad ever; everyone was splendid at his position, some were miraculous; and three in particular—Brooks Robinson, Paul Blair, and Mark Belanger—were without equal in their time. It was of course the 1970 World Series, fifteen years into his career, that made the country aware of just how extraordinary a player Brooks was; but, in my small corner of the country, we enjoyed the privilege of seeing him in the field day to day, week to week, one season after another for many years.

In any event, I am not at the moment emotionally competent to write about the man. He was one of the heroes of my childhood, someone I loved and admired, and someone who played the game I loved for the franchise I loved with a virtuosity and grace that no one could possibly have surpassed. I have already written at length about Frank Robinson here—the other of the two “Robinson Brothers,” as they were known during those glorious years of the late 1960s and early 1970s—and I will write about Brooks sooner or later. Right now, I am in mourning (in part, I have to admit, for my distant childhood, but mostly for a person who was in every true sense a great gentleman).