At a dinner party honoring Corridor of Repute 3rd baseman Brooks Robinson nearest his leaving in 1977, sportswriter Gordon Beard was once amongst many to talk that evening. Beard mentioned, “In New York, they named a candy bar (The Reggie Bar) after Reggie Jackson. Here in Baltimore, we name our children after Brooks Robinson.”

Indeed. Brooks Robinson is the most beloved sports figure in the history of Baltimore, quite a legacy given that the city also has given us Johnny Unitas, Cal Ripken and Jim Palmer, among many other icons. That legacy persists because Robinson isn’t just the greatest defensive third baseman in baseball history — he is also the single kindest person I’ve ever met in 45 years of covering baseball.

“I’ve by no means recognized somebody in any career extra adored than Brooks,” mentioned Frank Robinson, a former teammate. “We’d go on roadtrips and he’d stop on the street to talk to total strangers. It’s amazing that he was that good a player, and that nice to everyone he met.”

On the field, he was tremendous during his 23-year career. He won 16 Gold Gloves, most ever among position players. He won the American League Most Valuable Player Award in 1964 after hitting .317 with a league-leading 118 RBIs and finished in the top four in the MVP voting in four other seasons. He made 18 All-Star teams. He collected 2,848 hits. He is one of the best clutch hitters of all time: He holds the major league record for the most games — 10 — driving in the only run in a 1-0 victory. He was also so durable: He led the AL in games played four years in a row, playing at least 161 games in each.

His defense was beyond magnificent. Before games, he used to take ground balls on his knees and practiced taking balls off his chest. His body was never in a hurry; he was always calm, a trait critical for a third baseman. He had great feet in part because he started his professional career as a second baseman, only moving to third base once he got to the major leagues in 1955. And then he played 2,870 games there, the most games in baseball history at third. Robinson had great, soft hands. He was ambidextrous. He ate and wrote with his left hand.

“The primary moment I ever met Brooks was once in my first spring coaching (1965),” mentioned former Orioles 2d baseman Davey Johnson. “I noticed that he wrote and ate with his left hand. I thought, ‘My god, the greatest defensive third baseman does that.’ So, I ate and wrote with my left hand for a year. I didn’t do me any good. But I had to try.”

No one ever made the bunt play better than Brooks; his bare-handed catch and throw across his body was textbook. In 1962 pitcher Robin Roberts, who would be a Hall of Famer, joined the Orioles. In one of Roberts’ first starts, on a bunt down the third base line, he cut in front of Robinson but didn’t make the play. The runner was safe at first base.

“I patted him at the butt,” Robinson mentioned a few years after with fun. “I told him, ‘Next time, let me have that ball. I’m good on that play.”’

Robinson’s defensive greatness was never more evident than in the 1970 World Series against the Reds. He made at least a half dozen spectacular plays. The Orioles won in five games.

It earned him the nickname The Human Vacuum Cleaner.

“I’ve by no means clear the rest like what he did to us in that Layout,” Reds supervisor Sparky Anderson mentioned. “He killed us.”

The Reds’ Pete Rose said, “God despatched Brooks Robinson to play games 3rd bottom within the ’70 Layout. He stuck the whole lot however a chilly.”

“I made Brooks the MVP of that World Series,” mentioned Johnny Bench, who received the Nationwide League MVP award that generation. “I hit 14 rockets at him, and he caught every one of them. The next time I saw him was in the 1971 All-Star Game in Detroit. My second at-bat, I hit a beebee at him, and he just scooped it up like it was nothing. I threw my hands up in the air as I ran to first base. I looked at him. He just laughed.”

The first time I met Brooks Robinson was 1979. I was 22, writing a couple of stories on the Orioles for The Washington Star. He was a broadcaster with the team. He told me, with that disarming Arkansas twang, just an aw-shucks kid from Little Rock, “In case you ever want the rest, please let me know.” I helped barricade the staff for the upcoming two seasons, upcoming was once the beat editor for the Orioles for The Baltimore Solar from 1986-89. I spent a quantity of moment with Brooks Robinson. As writers, we don’t seem to be meant to get too related to the avid gamers, flow or former. With Brooks, that was once unattainable.

He was once that admirable, that sort, that tender, that beneficiant. For many years, Robinson attended the Orioles’ Fiction Camp, taking part in into his overdue 60’s. It was once a thrill of an entire life for the campers to play games with Brooks Robinson.

“How did you do at fantasy camp?” I once asked him.

“I used to be admirable,” he mentioned, joking and giggling. “You should have seen me.”

When he fell into financial hardship when a couple of business ventures failed, the fans of Baltimore helped bail him out. They knew that’s what he’d have done, what he did best: help other people. He was instrumental for most of his career with BAT, the Baseball Assistance Team, which helped former players that needed help of any kind. A year and two days ago, the Orioles honored the 45th anniversary of Robinson’s retirement with a “Thank you, Brooks” era at Camden Yards, that includes an look through Robinson sooner than the sport. Additionally they donated dozens of tickets to the Baltimore Boys & Women Membership.

Utmost January, our crowd took a commute to Florida. One era we was at an aquarium. We spent many of the era there, I met baseball enthusiasts from all around the nation, I said to dozens of population. 3 of them instructed me that they named a son nearest Brooks Robinson.

Right here in Baltimore … we identify our kids nearest Brooks Robinson.