Baseball Heaven
This weekend I made my annual pilgrimage to Cooperstown, New York for the induction ceremony for the Baseball Hall of Fame. Aside from a few sprinkles and the usual traffic on the New York State Thruway, I had a grand time.
Cooperstown ended up being the site of the Hall of Fame based on completely faulty history--Abner Doubleday no more invented baseball than Christopher Columbus discovered America. But the little hamlet of Cooperstown, nestled in the gentle slopes of central New York, is a perfect place to celebrate the game.
This year three former players were inducted, as well as a broadcaster and writer. The players were Joe Gordon, now deceased, a second-baseman for the Yankees and Indians during the World War II era; Rickey Henderson, the greatest lead-off hitter of all time and holder of the records for stolen bases and runs scored; and Jim Rice, the fearsome slugger for the Red Sox during the 1970s and '80s. Each came to the Hall in a different route. Henderson was selected in his first year of eligibility by the Baseball Writers of American, the primary conduit of selection. He was a no-brainer of a choice. Rice was also tapped by the writers, but in his fifteenth and last year of eligibility (he retired after the 1989 season). Gordon was selected by the veterans' committee, who pore over the stats to right the wrongs of the writers.
The ceremony is full of nostalgia and pageantry, and exists in a kind of bubble. The word "steroids" or "arbitration" were not heard, it's all about the purity of the game. The returning members of the Hall of Fame are introduced one by one. This year there were 50 of the 65 living on hand. Carl Yastrzemski, who usually doesn't show, was there to honor Rice. Then each of the inductees makes a brief speech. Speaking for Gordon was his daughter, who was emotional and informative about her father. It was easy to feel how proud and excited she was to be going through this over thirty years after her father's death.
Rice spoke very briefly and if he was bitter about having to wait so long for induction it didn't show. Power hitters from that era, before the home run numbers ballooned (because of performance-enhancing drugs, no doubt) will have to be reassessed, and maybe players like Andre Dawson, Dave Parker and Dale Murphy will get more consideration.
Henderson then spoke, and he was the big hit of the day. He has a distinctive way of speaking (he doesn't add an "s" to the plural of words, for instance) but had the crowd laughing often, especially when he told about growing up in Oakland and trying to get Reggie Jackson's autograph. Reggie, it seems, would hand out pens with his name on them. "I never got his autograph," Rickey said, to the delight of the Hall-of-Famers, no more than Jackson himself, who was doubling over with laughter.
In an odd bit of scheduling, the broadcaster and writer awards were given last, which meant the crowd (featuring a huge amount of Red Sox fans and a vocal contingent of Rickey fans, mostly from his Oakland days) packed up and left. I stuck it out, though, to hear Tony Kubek, who was the analyst of NBC's Game of the Week when I was a kid. Tony was always known as a blunt straight shooter, and he was no different in his speech, which was extemporaneous and managed to include both Rosa Parks and President Obama. The day ended with San Francisco beat writer Nick Peters, with his proud grandchildren present, accept his award.
The experience is a great way to bathe in baseball. The fans who gather are serious fans, such as the fellow who toted around a banjo, wearing a cape and a pinwheel hat. He was there for Rickey, singing his praises to the tune of Oh Mickey: "Oh Rickey, you're so fine you blow my mind, hey Rickey!" To acknowledge the surrounding throng of Red Sox fans, he serenaded them with the Fenway staple "Sweet Caroline," but then risked perdition by adding, "Beat the Red Sox!"
Cooperstown ended up being the site of the Hall of Fame based on completely faulty history--Abner Doubleday no more invented baseball than Christopher Columbus discovered America. But the little hamlet of Cooperstown, nestled in the gentle slopes of central New York, is a perfect place to celebrate the game.
This year three former players were inducted, as well as a broadcaster and writer. The players were Joe Gordon, now deceased, a second-baseman for the Yankees and Indians during the World War II era; Rickey Henderson, the greatest lead-off hitter of all time and holder of the records for stolen bases and runs scored; and Jim Rice, the fearsome slugger for the Red Sox during the 1970s and '80s. Each came to the Hall in a different route. Henderson was selected in his first year of eligibility by the Baseball Writers of American, the primary conduit of selection. He was a no-brainer of a choice. Rice was also tapped by the writers, but in his fifteenth and last year of eligibility (he retired after the 1989 season). Gordon was selected by the veterans' committee, who pore over the stats to right the wrongs of the writers.
The ceremony is full of nostalgia and pageantry, and exists in a kind of bubble. The word "steroids" or "arbitration" were not heard, it's all about the purity of the game. The returning members of the Hall of Fame are introduced one by one. This year there were 50 of the 65 living on hand. Carl Yastrzemski, who usually doesn't show, was there to honor Rice. Then each of the inductees makes a brief speech. Speaking for Gordon was his daughter, who was emotional and informative about her father. It was easy to feel how proud and excited she was to be going through this over thirty years after her father's death.
Rice spoke very briefly and if he was bitter about having to wait so long for induction it didn't show. Power hitters from that era, before the home run numbers ballooned (because of performance-enhancing drugs, no doubt) will have to be reassessed, and maybe players like Andre Dawson, Dave Parker and Dale Murphy will get more consideration.
Henderson then spoke, and he was the big hit of the day. He has a distinctive way of speaking (he doesn't add an "s" to the plural of words, for instance) but had the crowd laughing often, especially when he told about growing up in Oakland and trying to get Reggie Jackson's autograph. Reggie, it seems, would hand out pens with his name on them. "I never got his autograph," Rickey said, to the delight of the Hall-of-Famers, no more than Jackson himself, who was doubling over with laughter.
In an odd bit of scheduling, the broadcaster and writer awards were given last, which meant the crowd (featuring a huge amount of Red Sox fans and a vocal contingent of Rickey fans, mostly from his Oakland days) packed up and left. I stuck it out, though, to hear Tony Kubek, who was the analyst of NBC's Game of the Week when I was a kid. Tony was always known as a blunt straight shooter, and he was no different in his speech, which was extemporaneous and managed to include both Rosa Parks and President Obama. The day ended with San Francisco beat writer Nick Peters, with his proud grandchildren present, accept his award.
The experience is a great way to bathe in baseball. The fans who gather are serious fans, such as the fellow who toted around a banjo, wearing a cape and a pinwheel hat. He was there for Rickey, singing his praises to the tune of Oh Mickey: "Oh Rickey, you're so fine you blow my mind, hey Rickey!" To acknowledge the surrounding throng of Red Sox fans, he serenaded them with the Fenway staple "Sweet Caroline," but then risked perdition by adding, "Beat the Red Sox!"
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