Batting practice at the old Memorial Stadium in Baltimore, April 27, 1990. Jose Canseco, then one of the game’s most feared sluggers and biggest stars, hit a ball over the left-field bleachers and completely out of the park.

Only one man had ever hit a ball out of Memorial in a game – the Orioles’ manager at the time, Hall of Famer Frank Robinson. When I informed Canseco of this, he said, smirking, “Are you serious? Really? It’s far. But it’s not as far as it looks. It’s an all-right shot.”

As the Orioles’ beat writer for the late Baltimore (Evening) Sun, I raced back to the home clubhouse in search of Robinson, knowing Canseco’s remark would be certain to get a pointed response.

I had first met Robinson after moving to Baltimore in 1987. He was 51 at the time, a member of the team’s front office, 11 years removed from his playing days. But one thing I knew and will always remember, something that will stay with me long after his passing on Thursday at age 83:

This was the proudest man I ever met.

Oh, he could be prickly: with fans, with reporters, with players he managed, front-office superiors, major-league officials – heck, with everyone. But dammit, he was Frank Robinson. The hitter who would dare pitchers to knock him down. The game’s first black manager. And as a player, one of the all-time greats.

ESPN’s Tim Kurkjian, back when he was with the Baltimore (Morning) Sun, used to love to tease Robinson, “So, Frank, you hit, what, 563 home runs?” Robinson would bark in response, “586!” And those of us on the beat would all laugh, because Tim would fire him up every time.

The day Canseco hit the ball out of Memorial Stadium, I was practically breathless by the time I got to Robinson’s office, eager to ask him about what Canseco had said. Robinson laughed when I told him. But then he gave a classic Frank response.

“It’s not official. It’s not game official,” Robinson said. “Tell him to do it then, then have him tell me it’s an OK shot.”

Robinson had become the Orioles’ manager six games into the 1988 season, replacing Cal Ripken Sr. when the team was 0-6. The manager wasn’t the problem – the Orioles proceeded to lose their next 15 games under Robinson, falling to 0-21, the longest losing streak in major league history. Robinson remained in mostly good spirits during that awful run, surprisingly good spirits, actually. Then again, it wasn’t his team.

This was the side of Robinson I enjoyed most – humorous, and sharp-witted, but forever edgy. He was constantly teasing me, calling me a little expletive (I would say, “Little, Frank? Why do you say little?) But whether he was joking or not – and often he was not – you knew where he stood.

Each day during the streak, the beat reporters – myself, Kurkjian, Richard Justice of the Washington Post – would ask Robinson if he had heard from any celebrities. Robinson, after all, was a celebrity himself, living in Beverly Hills during the offseason, sitting courtside at Lakers home games.

On a day off after the Orioles hit 0-18, Robinson took the beat writers to dinner in Minneapolis (times were simpler then!). We asked him if he had heard from any celebrities, joking, “Frank, your team stinks. And you haven’t given us anything to write about lately.”

“The president,” Robinson said, referring to Ronald Reagan.

None of us believed him.

Kurkjian kept asking, and Robinson finally replied, exasperated, “I told you, the president called!”

Moments later, Kurkjian and Justice raced to pay phones – yes, pay phones – to call their offices and dictate stories about Robinson’s call from the president (working for an evening paper, I had more time). We spent the rest of the night asking Robinson which players on the team he liked. He named only a couple, contorting his face and waving his hands in disgust when talking about the others.

One last story, from the visiting manager’s office at the old Municipal Stadium in Cleveland, Aug. 30, 1989. Robinson previously had managed the Indians and Giants, and would go on to manage the Expos/Nationals. But the ‘89 Orioles – who rebounded from a 107-loss season to contend until the final week of the season – were perhaps his finest managing effort.

The Aug. 29 game, though, was an unfortunate blip. Robinson allowed his starting pitcher, Pete Harnisch, to work into the ninth inning of a 1-1 game, and the decision backfired when the Indians’ Brad Komminsk hit a two-run walk-off homer. That night, I wrote a story detailing – and somewhat questioning – Robinson’s decision-making.

The next day, as we walked into the manager’s office, Richard Justice said to Robinson, “I didn’t rip you, Frank. Tim didn’t rip you. But I don’t know about Junior over here,” smiling and pointing to me (that was my nickname then, Junior). These were the days before the Internet. A team’s PR staff would forward press clips from the previous day’s newspaper, but Robinson evidently hadn’t seen anyone’s stories.

“You little… !” Robinson began, demanding to know what I wrote. I started stammering and trying to explain, and he naturally was having none of it. “You ripped my ass!” he yelled. This went on for about two minutes that seemed like 200. And there was nothing I could do but take it.

About two weeks ago, after reports surfaced that Robinson was not well, I texted his daughter, Nichelle, wishing the family my best. Nichelle called back immediately and put Frank on the phone. He was suffering from bone cancer. His voice was not strong. We talked a little baseball. I tried to banter with him the way we always had. I told him, “You are too tough to let cancer beat you.”

I believed it. How could you not? There was no challenge Frank Robinson couldn’t overcome, no opponent he couldn’t conquer.

(Photo: Bettmann/Contributor)