When Adrian Beltre signed with the Rangers in the winter of 2011, he came in second, at best, on the club's wish list. The locals would have preferred Cliff Lee, who'd led them out of the wilderness into their first World Series. What the Rangers needed most then, and forevermore, was an ace, not necessarily a 32-year-old third baseman who'd made exactly one All-Star team and forged a reputation, fair or not, as a guy who went big only in contract years.
Boston certainly hadn't been sold, spending its discretionary funds on Adrian Gonzalez instead. The Angels? Arte Moreno _ who'd lavished $50 million on Gary Matthews Jr., for crying out loud _ folded when bidding hit five years, $70 million.
So Jon Daniels executed Plan B, never dreaming how much better it would grade out a half-dozen years later.
Straight up: Did you see Adrian Beltre coming?
Projecting the balance of his career at 32, when he dropped anchor as a Ranger, who envisioned 3,000 hits? Three more Gold Gloves? At least another three All-Star games? A man on the brink of 500 home runs?
The Hall of Fame, a mere formality?
Beltre's story is unlike any Ranger ever, and not just because he actually got tossed for shoplifting the on-deck circle. Of the half-dozen immortals who have graced Arlington, all but Ivan Rodriguez either had already made their bones upon arrival or were just passing through. Beltre, on the other hand, has basically built his candidacy since hitting town.
In terms of national spectacle on a local scale, only Nolan Ryan's rebirth in Arlington compares. It was as a Ranger that Nolan's odometer rolled over 5,000 strikeouts and 300 wins, and he recorded his sixth and seventh no-hitters. That he still threw gas well into middle age put more than a little shine on the legend.
Tom Grieve, who signed Ryan, likes to say that Nolan gave the organization "credibility." If you couldn't say the same of Beltre, it's only because Texas was coming off its first World Series appearance when he got here. Still, at least one similarity stands out between the two Ranger legends.
Like Ryan, who pitched until he was 46, Beltre never seems to get old. That is, unless you see him run. Then he looks barefoot on hot concrete.
Otherwise, watching Beltre sidearm a throw on the run or hit a ball 400 feet on one knee, you'd never guess his age. Which was pretty much what the Dodgers had in mind when they signed him at 15, a year sooner than technically legal. The Dodgers worked around it, if only temporarily, by whiting out the last digit in his birth year of 1979, then typing an "8" over the former "9."
Except for a couple of really loud seasons _ one with the Dodgers, the other in Boston, both on his way out the door _ Beltre's career before Texas was doggedly, quietly, consistent. Playing in pitchers' parks his first dozen years, he gained a reputation as a premier defender with some pop and an edge.
Or as the man who became his manager, Jeff Banister, described his assessment from afar: "Solid player ... good player. Hard-nosed. Tough."
Good qualities, no question. But enough to imagine he'd end up with 3,000 hits and a ticket to the Hall of Fame? Not so much.
"The one thing you don't get to understand and see until you spend time with him," Banister said, "there is a real grace about him. This tough guy who plays with such joy and passion and toughness, there is still a real grace."
Asked how many players he's seen in three decades of professional baseball that have sustained excellence through advancing age and pain that would have benched lesser men, Banister formed a circle with his thumb and index finger.
Not one.
"Sometimes," Banister said, smiling, "I don't think he can hit unless he's hurt."
No joke: The past two seasons, despite a rash of problems, Beltre has rarely been better. Last year, at 37, his Ultimate Zone Rating, an advanced fielding metric, ranked best in baseball among third basemen. After hitting .300, with 31 home runs and 104 RBIs, it seemed reasonable to consider his outsized performance the dying flare of a brilliant career. Like Derek Jeter hitting .316 at 38 before cashing out at 40. Or Hank Aaron with 40 home runs at 39 before he was done at 42. Or Willie Mays hitting .291 at 39, only to go out three years later flat on his face in the outfield grass of a World Series.
The thing of it is, after a late start this season because of injury, Beltre's slash line of .307/.387/.545 far exceeds his career average of .286/.339/.481.
And, as Banister suggested, it's not just the numbers that make him special. His iridescent personality emerged as a Ranger. Holding it in all those years had to hurt, which probably explains why you pat his head at your peril. Whether he's dancing at home plate, jawing with Felix Hernandez, playing big brother to Elvis Andrus or court jester to irritable umpires, few have had as much fun doing something so hard.
On and on he goes, laughing, leading, leaving legends in his wake, rising in the ranks of Rangers until he'd make the organization's Mount Rushmore if they could work one into the new digs. If he didn't start out as a Ranger, it was in a Texas uniform that the world finally saw the great Adrian Beltre come out to play. Hard to say who's had more fun, him or us.
