The signing Streak It may have just begun, but already Cal is proving as durable with the pen as he is with the glove.

He let one get through.

But give him time. It was, after all, his first day in his new position. Even newer than third base and even more disorienting: the author on a nationwide book-signing tour.

Cal Ripken Jr. began, true to form, smoothly enough. One assistant opened the book to the right page. Another slid the book over, as subtly as a feed that starts a double-play. Cal's right hand, lightly holding a Sharpie marker, was poised, hovering inches above the desk, and ready to complete the play. Sign, look up, smile, slide the book over and sign the next one.

But then, the cogs slipped. A man rushed up to the desk: My wife and I both had books, but on the way out, we noticed only one was signed!

The officials looked askance. Were the couple really part of the 1,700-person line that began forming more than 12 hours earlier outside the bookstore in Bel Air? Or was this guy trying to pull a fast one past the intricate rules of this particular game: Only one book per autograph seeker. Only those with said book can approach the desk. No personalized messages, just a signature. No signature on anything but the book. And, most important, keep the line moving.

Everyone looked slightly panicked. Everyone, that is, except Cal, who barely broke the ranks of oncoming books to sign this stray one.

"I thought this would be easy," Ripken said, after signing continually for 2 1/2 hours to satisfy everyone who lined up through, literally, rain and shine at Bibelot on Saturday, where he commenced a 10-city book tour to promote his autobiography "The Only Way I Know" (Viking, $22.95). "That was the first hour."

But Ironman showed himself as durable with the pen as he is with the glove. At 9: 10 p.m., he leaned back, made like a clawed beast with his faux-cramped hand and tried to beg off any more. A moment of stunned silence from the remaining crowd -- dare they tug on Superman's cape? -- some piteous whining and, he reconsidered.

"How many people in line?" Ripken said, getting up to scan the crowd. "I may have 50 signatures left."

As it turned out, he didn't need all of them. Many of the people still in the store had already gotten his autograph; they were just taking more pictures, chattering breathlessly with the other fans they had met during their wait and simply basking, slightly awed, slightly giddy, at the nearness of Cal.

A new side of Cal

It was a glimpse at yet another Ripken. We know the steady, stellar Ripken, certain to be on the field whenever someone yells, Play ball! We know the hometown hero Ripken, a throwback to the days when players stayed with one team their entire career. But there is something about seeing a baseball player, especially this one in this town, out of uniform, de-hatted, sans game face.

"Is that Cal Ripken?" one boy asked his mother loudly when they got in front of him. Yes, big pimple over his left eyebrow and all. He's tall, of course, silver-haired and slate-eyed with a sardonic smile and an easy manner. And he's also really nice to children, asking about their Esmeralda T-shirts and telling them to read the part about math class in his book.

Meanwhile, his handlers were stuck having to play bad cop to his good one -- demanding to know if every kid filing in front of Cal actually was accompanied by a book.

"Go home now, sleepyhead," he gently teased a totally befuddled boy who rubbed his eyes with his little fists, oblivious to his parents' demands that he take the book Ripken had signed and smile at the camera.

He wasn't even the kid who got there at 6:30 in the morning for a signing scheduled to start at 7 p.m. That would be Robert Heimbach Jr., almost 12. His parents dropped him off, visited him periodically during the day, and brought him lunch as he guarded position No. 1 in a line that kept growing.

The lineup

Actually, Beverly Williams was already in the parking lot when Robert arrived, thinking she'd stay in her van until the rain stopped. But she got out to keep Robert company and secure her own place in line. As the day progressed, she and her husband Dave learned that Robert, although a huge Cal Ripken fan, had never been to a game. They gave him their tickets, for his birthday this week.

A little before 7 p.m., Ripken showed up.

"Well, in case you were expecting fancy clothes like Dennis Rodman," the earth tone-attired Ripken said of the more flamboyant athlete-author, "this is as wild as I get."

On this particular night, he was charming and guarded, friendly within the time constraints and, surprisingly, watched over by an unobtrusive security guard. Fans brought him presents, photographs, letters ("I'm taking the MSPAP next week and I'm going to use your signature for good luck," one girl informs him). A wrapped package that looked like a bundt cake turned up, and it, too, went into the box for the things Ripken promised he was "saving for later." But then the security guy had it moved elsewhere -- just in case.