The Red and the Blue

For the 11th consecutive year, I drove up to Cooperstown for the annual Hall of Fame induction ceremony. This year there were two inductees, from different eras, but both identified with one city,  and teams in the National League Central. One is young and vibrant, the other, unfortunately, deceased, long overlooked but finally getting his due.

My friend and I arrived on Saturday and got into town in time to see the Hall of Fame Awards ceremony. However, unlike last year, fans who did not have tickets had to sit down the sidelines of Doubleday Field, in the hot sun, even though there was a lot of room in the shade behind home plate. My friend, who is no fan of Frick Award winner Tim McCarver, begged off, and I agreed, thinking that once again someone has screwed up something good.

Instead we grabbed a bench on Main Street and waited for the Parade of Legends, which is something the Hall gets right. Attending Hall of Famers, plus the Award winners and new inductees, are perched in the back of pickup trucks that glide down the street. They wave and get their pictures taken, though the drivers could use reminding to slow down so pictures are easier to snap. This was my friend's first time in Cooperstown since the parade's inception, and she was eager to get some photos of her favorite player, Johnny Bench.

On induction Sunday the weather was just about perfect, with sunny skies and some high clouds, and not too hot. The audience was a combination of blue and red, the bold colors of the teams involved. Inducted first was Ron Santo, a third-baseman for the Cubs of the 1960s. I remember that team well--they had a great infield, with Don Kessinger, Glenn Beckert and Ernie Banks joining Santo. Santo was a great defensive player and also a great hitter, though not with the kind of numbers that earn automatic induction. He waited and waited for years, becoming something of a folk hero for his home-team rooting in the broadcast booth. His partner, Phil Hughes, recalled a game lost by a dropped fly ball. Santo made a noise that sounded as if he were gut-shot, and Hughes related that Santo had to be consoled by the manager, Jim Riggleman.

Santo's legacy, though, does not have to do with baseball. He played his entire career with diabetes, and hid it for much of that time. He would end up having numerous operations and both legs amputated, and would die at the age of 70 last year. Why the Veteran's Committee dithered over his election is a good question, but his widow, Vicki, had no acrimony in her speech. She said it was a great day, a happy day. And she didn't speak about Ron's baseball exploits. Instead she spoke of his work for diabetes research, and that he raised over 65 million dollars for the cause. How she didn't tear up while giving the speech, or slipping in a "What the fuck took so long?" I don't know.

Next up was Barry Larkin, a shortstop who played his entire career with his hometown Cincinnati Reds. Larkin was not a superduperstar--never a household name--but he nonetheless put up great numbers, won an MVP, and was the MVP of the 1990 World Series, in which the Reds swept the favored Oakland A's. Larkin is now an announcer, and very well spoken, so his speech was long and touched all the bases. He told many stories and anecdotes, one about Bo Schembechler that I found amusing (Larkin is University of Michigan alum) and spoke glowingly about Pete Rose, who was his first big league manager. For Larkin's first at bat, he used Rose's bat and shoes. Not a bad way to break in.

There was also a tribute to the recently deceased Gary Carter, and some comedy from Bench, who led the crowd in "Take Me Out to the Ball Game" as Harry Caray. My friend and I did some shopping, and marveled at all the different gear worn by fans. The best t-shirt was one that featured an anatomically-accurate rib cage, but with a cub where the heart should be.