When friends of Michael Karnish were visiting Camden Yards from the West Coast, he texted his cousin, Robert “Woody” Popik, with a favor: Could he play “California Gurls”?

“Sure,” replied Popik, his cousin recalled. “The fans always love that one.”

Soon the voices of Katy Perry and Snoop Dogg blasted over the ballpark to the delight of Karnish’s friends — and everyone else in the stands.

If you attended a Ravens, Orioles or Navy football game over the past two decades, odds are you heard music carefully picked by Popik, who died of pancreatic cancer on Dec. 10 at age 59.

“I’ve run into a lot of DJs, but I’ve never known anybody who had their finger on the pulse of the crowd as good as Woody did,” said Pete Kerzel, a retired sports journalist and MASN employee. “He had a heart as big as Baltimore.”

Popik prided himself on choosing unexpected musical selections and introducing audiences to new songs.

“He thought of songs that no one else would think of,” said Pete Holden, a fellow Ravens and Orioles DJ who worked hundreds of games with Popik. “I learned an awful lot from him. He knew how to pick the right song for a certain situation.”

Popik was also open to suggestions from fans, including those who bribed him with cookies at the DJ booth, said Bruce Cunningham, a 105.7 radio host, former Fox45 sports director and former Ravens announcer.

“He lived every guy’s fantasy life,” said Cunningham. “All he did was play and smile and eat and have fun.”

Popik was a man of many nicknames. Neighbors in Canton knew him as “Bobby.” Those he met through his wedding and party DJ business called him “Wheels.” And in the sports control room, Popik was “Woody.”

“It was short for ‘Hollywood,’” said Holden. “He had such a grand personality that filled up a room.”

Ravens coach John Harbaugh opened a press conference this week with a tribute to Popik.

“Our stadium is alive and full of energy thanks to Woody and people like Woody,” he said.

Popik delighted in the perks of the job, said Cunningham, who worked in an adjoining glass booth at Ravens games. Popik would often stand by the glass to show off the plates he had piled high in the employee cafeteria.

A jokester, Popik had a reputation for planning elaborate pranks.

About 15 years ago, Popik was shocked to discover that the Bayside Skillet in Ocean City did not serve toast or muffins, only crepes, Kerzel recalled.

Popik returned the next day and asked to be seated near an electrical outlet. He then produced a toaster and a loaf of bread and proceeded to make toast for the people at his table and everyone around them, Kerzel said.

“He was so fun to be around, like a kid in a man’s body,” said Karnish. “He had the biggest, most contagious laugh.”

Popik grew up in Overlea, graduated from Archbishop Curley High School and briefly attended what is now Towson University before dropping out to discover his own career path, Karnish said.

After stints at the old Bohager’s nightclub in Southeast Baltimore and the Mount Washington Tavern, Popik launched his DJ business and built a reputation for keeping guests on the dance floor late into the night.

The Orioles appointed Popik music director in the late 1990s; he remained in the job until this spring.

“It’s not an easy job,” said Kerzel. “It’s kind of like being an umpire: If you don’t talk about the guy, don’t think about the guy, he’s probably doing a good job. Woody was just part of the landscape of the ballpark.”

The Ravens hired Popik in 2010, and he continued to DJ for games until he was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer in October. The cancer had already spread to his spine, lungs and liver.

A steady stream of friends filled Popik’s hospital room at Johns Hopkins Bayview Medical Center and then the Gilchrist Hospice in Towson. “There was a lot of Popik traffic,” said Cunningham. “All the nurses loved him.”

Several friends brought guitars to serenade Popik with tunes from The Smiths and the Beatles, his favorite bands.

While at Bayview, Popik, who never married or had children, had a brief existential crisis in which he wondered if his life had meaning, Karnish, his cousin said.

A lifelong Catholic, Popik told a hospital chaplain that he wondered if he should have become a priest. He wanted to uplift people and bring them together, Karnish recalled.

The chaplain’s reply brought Popik great comfort, Karnish said: “Bobby, all these things you want to do — bringing people together, making them feel good — you’ve done that your whole life.”