Posted: Wed July 29, 1998

Whereas by now every institution under the sun has a Hall of Fame, if you just make a reference to "the Hall of Fame," everybody assumes you mean the Baseball Hall of Fame, in Cooperstown, New York. The Baseball Hall is generic, like Kleenex. I would call it "the grandaddy of halls of fame," but surely, somewhere, there is a Hall of Fame for grandaddys, too, so that would be confusing.

Each summer, Cooperstown attracts flocks of fans to celebrate legends and the game they played.    (Chuck Solomon)

The annual induction of what are called "immortals"—held this past Sunday—is especially nice . . . if only because it is so redolent of summer. If we aren't careful, summer is going to become just like all the other seasons, only warmer. There used to be all sorts of special lazy summer things—summer songs and summer smells and summer romances and summer games— but they're all pretty much gone with the air-conditioning.

So, Cooperstown at induction time is still the best summer sports thing. Oh, it's changed some. The entire commercial area of Cooperstown, such as it is, is now devoted to the sale of baseball memorabilia. Well, baseball memorabilia . . . and Beanie Babies.

Nowadays, too, there are also more immortals who return to the scene of their honor. Of course, some of the immortals, are back to make a few mortal bucks signing autographs. However, the longest—and most worshipful—lines, are reserved for Pete Rose, who is, of course, ineligible for the Hall, but quite eligible to take advantage of this martyrdom that has been conferred upon him. Since most fans fervently want him in the Hall of Fame, where he belongs, Charley Hustle's signature is taken as something of a badge, as well as a souvenir.

I've come to think that baseball has suffered some recent damage from all the neo-fans, who seem more interested in either the memorabilia or the statistics than in, incidentally, the game itself. Sometimes, it seems, the American and National Leagues play a baseball schedule, just so that these addicts will have things to buy and numbers to analyze.

But at Cooperstown, the collectors actually like . . . baseball. Many of these pilgrims return, faithfully, every summer, and they talk about induction years like the wine crops in France. This 'ninety-eight, for example, was not an especially vintage crop for induction, headlining only Don Sutton and Larry Doby—fringe stars.

But all the aficionados are already licking their chops for next July. Ahhh! Nolan Ryan and George Brett are sure to be voted in, and Carlton Fisk, Robin Yount and Dale Murphy are also serious possibilities. The fans at Cooperstown this July stop you on the street, just to talk breathlessly about next July—their eyes shining, in the manner of children who start speculating about next Christmas on December 26th.

Also, there is the possibility that Shoeless Joe Jackson will finally be admitted into the Hall next summer. Ted Williams himself is spearheading a campaign to, at last, put old Shoeless Joe—dead now 47 years—to rest at Cooperstown.

As the century ends, how wonderful it would be to finally begin to put the memories of the Black Sox scandal of l9l9 behind us. Shoeless Joe inducted—that would make for such a dear, sweet moment; why, it would even qualify as a summer to put in the Summer's Hall of Fame.

These commentaries, which appear each Wednesday on National Public Radio's Morning Edition, are posted weekly by CNN/SI.

 

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