On a tour of Japan by major-league players several years ago, Cal Ripken and his best friend, Orioles teammate Brady Anderson, were introduced by the Japanese to a local game, a strange combination of several sports, including basketball, played in a giant cage. Within a couple of hours, Ripken had figured out how to play this bizarre game, he had carefully assembled a team, which included Anderson and Mike Piazza, and had devised a strategy on how to win. And they did. They beat the Japanese at their own game, with Ripken at the controls.

To those who know him, this came as no surprise. Ripken is among the smartest, most competitive, most analytical, most prepared and most athletic players in the history of baseball. Just give him a little time and he'll figure it out, whether it's how to hit a certain pitcher, how to play a certain hitter or how to get himself ready to play 2,632 consecutive games.

"I'd tape his ankles and he'd say, 'Why are you doing it that way? Why don't you do it this way?"' Orioles trainer Richie Bancells once said. "Finally, I said, 'Look I don't know why, this is how I was taught in school, OK?' Now he can tape his own ankles better than I can."

Such curiosity, as well as having remarkable talent, skill and toughness, is why Ripken is widely considered the second-greatest shortstop of all time. It is why he will breeze into Cooperstown five years from now: the power numbers, the fielding excellence at a premium defensive position, the 3,000 hits, the two MVP awards, a Rookie of the Year trophy and a World Series championship make him a first-ballot Hall of Famer even without The Streak. Ripken will be defined by The Streak, as was Lou Gehrig, which, in both cases, is unfair.

The Streak nearly ended long before it was The Streak. On April 10, 1985, Ripken badly rolled his ankle in the third inning of Game 444. He didn't leave the game, of course, but went to the hospital for X-rays that night. As he left, doctors pleaded with him to use the crutches. "I will," he promised. Then, as he got near his car, and out of view from the nurses, he threw the crutches to the ground. "I'm not using those things," he said. His ankle was ringed with bruises, an injury that would keep most players out for at least two weeks. Ripken didn't play the next day in an exhibition game, and nearly missed the next real game on April 12, but after continuous treatment and a very long talk with his father, he played.

How?

"I just taped it up real tight," he said. "It was fine."

It wasn't done for the sake of The Streak, it was done because he loves to play. Any sport, any game, any time. The night before Opening Day 1995, the year in which he would break Gehrig's record, Ripken and some teammates met at former teammate Rick Sutcliffe's house in Kansas City. There was a basketball hoop there so, naturally, Ripken had to shoot around. Well, a fun little shootaround developed into a two-on-two game -- in street clothes. What if he got hurt? No matter. He played, he dunked a few times, his team won.

He does these things because he's a 10-year-old in a 40-year-old body, a kid who always has to have a ball in his hand. He is also the proudest, most stubborn person on the face of the earth. Several years ago, the Ripkens bought a trampoline for the gym at their house. "Go ahead, try it," Ripken's wife, Kelly, told him. Ripken said, "No, but show me how to do a few moves." She did. A couple weeks later, Kelly walked into the gym and there was her husband, less than a year away from breaking Gehrig's record, doing knee flips, front flips and back flips. "What's this?" she said. Ripken smiled. "First time I ever tried this," he said. She smiled. "I know you," she said. "You've been practicing in the middle of the night."

He had been. He has to be the best at everything. He will not be unprepared, he will not be embarrassed. Years ago, Kelly took the family dog, who was wild and untrained, to obedience class. During the class, she got sick and couldn't continue, so Cal had to handle the dog. "I'm not doing that," he said, then did after realizing he had no choice. Naturally, the dog was completely uncivilized, and made a fool out of Cal. Two weeks later, Kelly was leaving the house for another obedience class. "I'll take the dog," Cal said. "What?" asked Kelly. He had trained the dog with a series of clandestine lessons in the middle of the night.

Perhaps the only spontaneous thing Ripken has done in his life came on the night that he broke Gehrig's record -- one of the most emotional, remarkable nights in baseball history. He was pushed out of the dugout by teammates to circle Camden Yards, a jog that will never be forgotten by anyone who was there, or who saw it one TV.

As he ran, he pointed at, or touched the hands of, people in the stands as if he knew them. He did know them, maybe not all their names, but certainly their faces. Ripken never forgets anything, from a pitch count from 15 years ago, to the exact type and feel of a friend's basketball that he hadn't played with in five years. At the end of the 22-minute ceremony, Ripken looked at the people, most of whom were in tears, patted his heart and said "thank you."

No Cal, thank you.

Tim Kurkjian is a senior writer for ESPN The Magazine and a regular contributor to Baseball Tonight. E-mail tim.kurkjian@espnmag.com.