More than a year ago, my roommate Christopher suggested that we
go to the Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown, New York, on my
40th birthday. Well, this plan was put into action over the weekend
when we drove west from Boston. Before embarking on our journey I
went to Leavitt & Peirce in Harvard Square to stock up on
mustache wax. I wanted to be prepared in the event I crossed paths
with Rollie Fingers just as my Dad did when he went to Cooperstown
more than two decades ago. Alas, this did not come to pass, but I
did have occasion to wax philosophical.
Although the Hall primarily celebrates the athletic achievements
of men in the prime of their youth, it is the words of its
inductees that I have long kept in mind and I suspect I will make
reference many more times before my epitaph is written. I am, of
course, referring to the sage wisdom of Negro Leagues pitching
legend Leroy “Satchel” Paige who would make his big league debut
with the Cleveland Indians at the age of 42. Paige said, “Age is a
question of mind over matter. If you don’t mind, it doesn’t
matter.”
Truth be told, I spent little time thinking about the fact I’ve
entered my fifth decade. There was so much to see. We were in the
confines of the Hall of Fame for seven hours and we still
didn’t see everything. During those seven hours I sustained
myself with statistics and sticks of red licorice. I could have
stayed there for a week. But as the old song goes, “We’re here
for a good time, not a long time.”
As knowledgeable as I am about baseball there were things I did
not know. For instance, I did not know that Phil Rizzuto, Tommy
Henrich, Ralph Branca and Roy Campanella recorded a version
of “Take Me Out to The Ballgame” in 1950. Nor was I aware that
Boston Red Sox legend Rico Petrocelli played the drums.
While I knew that the lights went on in Wrigley Field in the
summer of 1988, I was not aware that there was no night baseball at
Tiger Stadium (then known as Briggs Stadium) until 1948. Nor was I
aware that the first attempt to play baseball under the lights took
place at Nantasket Beach in Hull, Massachusetts, in September 1880.
I must remember to bring a ball and glove the next time I head to
the South Shore.
Did you know that Gene Autry (The Singing Cowboy and owner of
the California Angels) helped Carl Yastrzemski ride off into the
sunset by giving the Red Sox left fielder a Colt .45?
I also didn’t realize that Pete Rose is in the Hall of Fame. Oh,
you won’t find him in the Hall of Fame Plaque Gallery on the main
floor. But you will find Charlie Hustle on the 3rd Floor where he
is acknowledged as Major League Baseball’s all-time hit leader.
Rose has also played more big league games than any other player
who stepped onto the field. This fact is acknowledged with a cap he
wore during his half-season with the Montreal Expos in 1984. Yet I
am under no illusions that Rose will ever have a plaque on the main
floor.
If you should see The Phillie Phanatic at Citizens Bank Park
chances are its an impostor. Or should I say a phraud? The real
Phillie Phanatic is being held in captivity in
Cooperstown.
Then there was the Hank Aaron Gallery of Records. It included a
scouting report by Billy Southworth (himself a Hall of Famer for
managing the St. Louis Cardinals and the Boston Braves to four NL
pennants and two World Series titles during the 1940s) that
read:
He is a line drive hitter although he has hit a couple of
balls out of the park for homeruns.
Needless to say, Billy Southworth was a master of
understatement.
The exhibit included Aaron’s locker during his days with the
Atlanta Braves. The only picture I had taken of me during my time
there was when I stood under the entrance that read AARON. I wish I
could have taken the sign home and refurbished the nook in our
apartment with it. No matter. I do not require memorabilia to take
the Hall of Fame home with me.
Although forty got off to an auspicious beginning, I fully
realize that all good things must come to an end. Life can’t always
be about walking around the Hall of Fame and scrumptious dinners
with a view of Lake Otsego. As my roomie puts it, we must
eventually “return to our regularly scheduled programming.” Some of
that programming is mundane. Some of this programming creates
anger, anxiety, and uncertainty. Even in the tranquility of Upstate
New York, the flags at half-mast were a reminder that life isn’t
precious to everyone and there are those who would like to once
again disrupt that tranquility on our shores. Some of this
programming is viewed only by me and rarely shown to others.
Yet I will always have room for baseball regardless of the
season. Many of you might believe this passion doesn’t matter, but
I don’t mind.
