A lifelong quest to visit Hall proves worth the wait

An estimated 75,000 fans showed up for this year's Hall of Fame induction ceremony in Cooperstown, N.Y. AP

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Early in the evening, just about suppertime on the first leg of a lifelong-overdue Cooperstown pilgrimage, the voice is pure country. It's the voice of baseball in America. No, not Vin Scully, silly. It's the small-town Virginia radio voice of Cliff Dunn.

"The legendary, award-winning Cliff Dunn," he says, poking fun at himself. "You're listening to Virginia Dixie Youth Baseball on 93.5 FM, The Bobcat.

"Brandon Stout digs in again and fouls off another one," he says. "Staying alive." And Dunn breaks into song: "Ah, ah, ah, ah, stayin' alive, stayin' alive." Pause. "The Bee Gees, from Saturday Night Fever." Pause. "Always wanted to be John Travolta, but I'm just Cliff Dunn." Pause. "I guess that's all right."

You're 57 and bound at blessed last for the Baseball Hall of Fame. An Atlantan since '83, born in New York City and raised on Long Island, having lived more than three decades in New York, you've never visited nirvana. It's time. Way past time to drive over 1,000 miles to Cooperstown, where 75,000 will convene to celebrate Cal and Tony.

Indeed, the largest crowd to attend a Hall of Fame induction will descend on Cooperstown. You'll be there, though not primarily drawn by Cal Ripken and Tony Gwynn, both 3,000-hit men and baseball ambassadors, one the game's Ironman, the other arguably its best pure hitter since Ted Williams.

For you, the attraction is The Commish. That's what everyone calls Rick Hummel of the St. Louis Post-Dispatch, the esteemed baseball writer and this year's ink-stained inductee as the winner of the J.G. Taylor Spink Award. A guy so beloved that the Cardinals have renamed their press box the Bob Broeg-Rick Hummel Pressbox. A writer Bobby Cox so likes and admires that the Atlanta Braves manager has volunteered to be the Commish's catcher when Hummel throws out the ceremonial first pitch before the Aug. 25 Cards-Braves game in Busch Stadium.

But en route to Cooperstown, with a stop at Shea Stadium to watch Tom Glavine take another step closer to baseball immortality and the Hall of Fame himself, there's still time to savor some more Cliff Dunn. I guess that's all right.

"Salem with a little itty-bitty one-zero lead," says Dunn, doing both minor- and major-league games from the 50th anniversary state Dixie Youth tournament. "Ya-ya...Bye-bye. Home run for Rashad Stewart. He T-C-B'd it, baby. Took care of some business."

And then this: "Bottom of the fourth, bases clean. Just as clean as a Porta-john on the first day of a tournament."

There's enough dirt, enough controversy elsewhere in sports. You've left the Michael Vick madness back home in Atlanta. You pass through Richmond, where Vick will plead not guilty in federal court to two charges involving dogfighting, and where angry protestors outside the courthouse will boo him unmercifully.

It's good, too, to see Barry Bonds leave San Francisco still one homer shy of Hank Aaron's record 755. It's even better -- almost restorative -- to stop by Shea Stadium to see Glavine inch one step from baseball immortality. Of course, it's a rookie writer's mistake not to check today's probable pitchers.

You spend the night in Stafford, Va., then continue up I-95 before stopping in Philadelphia at the corner of 9th & Passyunk for a cheese steak at Geno's. The counter conversation goes as follows:

"I'd like one wid."

"Wid what?"

"Wid whiz."

And you're reminded anew how tasty Cheese Whiz really is.

And you hit the road, Jack, and survive the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway to get to Shea, anticipating Glavine's second attempt at career victory 299. It's his day, the fifth day since his last outing. But with a day off Monday after returning from the West Coast, Glavine is holding court in the clubhouse and not taking BP. He's pitching Wednesday, not Tuesday. If you're stupid and you know it, clap your hands.

After BP, you talk to Glavine, the best guy you've ever covered in 34 years in the business. He's not only great, he's smart, down-to-earth, funny, unpretentious and understands a sportswriter's job. He'll join Cal and Tony in Cooperstown five years after retiring, another first-ballot certainty.

"You owe me $14," you tell Glavine. "For parking."

He laughs. You do, too.

The next night, Glavine escapes a first-inning, bases-loaded jam by inducing a double play with -- what else? -- a circle change, his signature pitch. He uncharacteristically pumps his fist, then leaves after six innings with a 6-3 lead. Afterward, 299 secure, Glavine tells his son Peyton, "Looks like you're going to Milwaukee, buddy. I'll get you a brat."

(A Chicago dog, too. After departing with a 2-1 lead in the seventh inning of his next start Tuesday in Milwaukee, Glavine sees the bullpen fail and 300 evaporate. His second shot at 300 comes Sunday night in Wrigley Field.)

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