Every once and a while an athlete comes into our midst and does their job so well he goes unnoticed.

He or she doesn't inspire us to do great things because of an immense amount of talent or awe-inspiring skill; they just do the everyday things. It's not their charisma or marketability that grabs our attention. They rarely even enter our consciousness when they're on the playing field.

For every Joe Willie Namath, Penny Hardaway and David Wells there lay ten guys such as Jeff Hartings, Danny Ainge and Garrett Anderson.

These guys don't get the attention they should. They don't do anything flashy; just produce.

Maybe they're bland. But usually they win, play hard and are really respected by their teammates.

The thing is, we really miss them when they're gone.

We just never noticed them when they were here.

Sure, we miss the Elway's, Jordan's and Ozzie Smith's when they retire, but we give them their farewell tours.

Elway got his trophy and recognition.

Jordan got his last press conference and left on top. Then did it again. And, finally, left one last time, just not on top.

Smith got to tip his hat in the All-Star game and be applauded for all those plays that made us realize how important defense is. And how beautiful it can be.

These athletes capture our imagination teaching us wonder and awe.

The athletes we're talking about here don't get to say goodbye in the grand way like Elway and the rest. There's no media extravaganza before they ride off into the sunset.

The tips of their shadows against the bright, setting sun is all we get to see.

Their silhouette says farewell for them, while we never get to show our appreciation.

Ironically, in most cases we never said hello.

We never showed our appreciation when they were around.

These players leave their mark on their games quietly and subtly.

They bat behind Sammy Sosa. In his shadow they produce more than anyone realizes.

I wrote this article to talk about the quiet career of a good man who left the sports world without most knowing he was still around.

Some fans didn't know he was ever around.

No player had more hits in the nineties. Not even Tony Gwynn. But most wouldn't guess this athlete's name until they had their fifth try at least.

He left his sport the way he played it -- smiling quietly.

I wanted to talk about him and here I am at the end without even mentioning his name.

But that's the way he played.

Every soft line drive though the middle that kept a rally going didn't stand out in one game.

Every scoop of an errant throw saved a run, but rarely made a highlight reel.

While Andre Dawson, Ryne Sandburg and Sammy Sosa grabbed the headlines, the Cubs' smooth fielding, line-drive-smacking first baseman was a major reason for their success.

He had a key base hit in the rally that knocked the Yankees off their high throne in game seven of the 2001 World Series.

Luis Gonzalez and Tony Womack got the glory for that rally.

But without Mark Grace it never would have happened.

But that's how his whole career
was.

A soft, quiet line drive.

Effective, but no pizzazz.

And, Sunday he rode off into the sunset as the sun beat down on the dry Arizona desert.

Now that he is gone, when spring training comes around next spring and baseball is reborn, Grace won't show up in the box scores.

And we won't even notice.