I did not expect to cry.
But there I was, misting up in the lobby of the National Baseball Hall of Fame and Museum in Cooperstown, New York. Not even past the ticket taker and I could feel my eyes moisten.
Before me, a trio of statues: Lou Gehrig, Jackie Robinson and Roberto Clemente and a sign explaining the importance of “Character and Courage” to the national pastime.
Gehrig’s words echoed in my ears, just as they had reverberated across Yankee Stadium on July 4, 1939.
“For the past two weeks you have been reading about a bad break,” Gehrig said, referring to his ALS diagnosis. “Yet today … I consider myself … the luckiest man on the face of the earth.”
I am not a sports fan. No question there. But I was a baseball fan, from age 6 when I went with my grandfather to my first Cleveland Indians game, until my mid-teens. I knew the Brooklyn Dodgers were the “Boys of Summer” because I read the book of the same name. I also read “Me and the Spitter” by Gaylord Perry and “Strange But True Baseball Stories” and …
“This might be more complicated than I anticipated,” I said to my wife, as we went in.
“Why is the Hall of Fame in Cooperstown?” she had asked, the day before. We had come to central New York State for Thanksgiving at our younger son’s new in-laws’ woodsy retreat. The Baseball Hall of Fame just happened to be here. I’d visited it, oh, just 50 years ago, on some family trip in the mid-1970s. My only memory: brass plaques. I had no burning desire to return. But my wife seemed to assume that, being here, and my being a man, we simply had to go. What else could we do?
“Because Abner Doubleday invented baseball here in 1839,” I replied, with the supreme confidence of the misinformed.
Only he didn’t. The Doubleday story is entirely fictional, as admitted early in a display at the Hall of Fame. A convenient lie marches on no matter how many barbs of truth are planted in it. The museum does its best to set the record straight.
“In fact, baseball was played decades earlier, evolving from similar bat and ball games,” a display notes. “Doubleday didn’t invent baseball … baseball ‘invented’ Doubleday, a thriving legend that reflects Americans’ desire to make the game our own.”
I couldn’t help but reflect on the Abraham Lincoln Presidential Library and Museum in Springfield, clinging to their spurious Lincoln stovepipe hat. Where is their display explaining that the whole thing is fanciful, if not fraudulent?
Chicago’s role in America’s pastime
There was a lot of reflection back to Chicago. The commission that gave Doubleday his undeserved honor was established by an early star of the game, Albert Spalding, a former White Stockings pitcher and manager (that team actually became the Cubs). Spalding left his mark on the game by starting one of the nation’s first sporting goods stores, at 108 Madison Street. It was Spalding who pressed first basemen to wear gloves and catchers to wear masks — measures then considered babyish — so he could sell them the equipment.
The Baseball Hall of Fame offers a first-rate museum, not flinching from delving into complexities of race and economics, with plenty of fun stuff too. There is a hallway devoted to baseball cards, including the coveted Honus Wagner rarity.
Steve Dahl’s army helmet from Disco Demolition is on display. I never had reason to envy the man before, but he’s in the Baseball Hall of Fame and I’m not. So kudos, Steve.
I tend to read museum displays carefully, and noticed a chart titled “BASEBALL’S BILLIONS” on the exploding value of teams from 1990 to 2020. There was something I already know intuitively, but never saw laid out in hard figures before.
In 2020, the Chicago Cubs were the fourth most valuable major league team, valued at $3.2 billion, behind the Yankees, Dodgers and Red Sox. And nine places lower, behind the Phillies, Astros and Rangers, are the Chicago White Sox. Worth roughly half as much as the Cubs, at $1.65 billion.
Well … that explains it, huh? Don’t blame me. I’m only the messenger.
The actual Hall of Fame itself is arranged like a chapel, and I paused before every single plaque while my wife, who had been soldiering along bravely until then, finally gave up and sat on a bench, checking her email. I made sure that each member of the “trio of Bear Cubs, fleeter than birds,” Joe Tinker, Johnny Evers and Frank Chance had their plaques. It seemed important.
Aaron’s quest — and mine
On the third floor is a large area devoted to Henry Aaron and his quest to beat Babe Ruth’s record. I pointed out his 704th home run — I saw that home run, at the old ballpark in Montreal, while my family was on vacation. I snapped a picture of the ball. Then my wife and I left the museum, and were having lunch. I looked up, suddenly struck, as if hearing a noise far away. It wasn’t home run No. 704. It was 703. I saw Henry Aaron hit his 703rd home run.
“I have to go back,” I said, explaining that I wanted to send my brother a photo of the ball we last saw sailing into the stands 50 years ago.
“What does it matter, 703 or 704?” my wife said. I looked at her, boggled. Of course it matters. Everything in baseball matters. An aspect of the game I hadn’t really thought about came to me. Baseball is an endeavor where every throw is recorded. Every strike, ball, foul ball. It is a dream of documentation. I’m surprised I didn’t take to it.
We returned — we still had our wristbands on — and while my wife busied herself in the gift shop, I bolted to the third floor to photograph the right ball.
We were about to leave a second time when, in passing, I noticed a lifesize bronze statue set before a display showcasing the John J. “Buck” O’Neil Lifetime Achievement Award. O’Neil, a veteran of the Negro Leagues, was the first Black coach in Major League Baseball, signed by the Cubs in 1962. A first-rate scout — he signed Lou Brock — but teams down South complained if he sat in street clothes on the bench during games. So O’Neil was elevated to coach so he could wear a uniform and sit on the Cubs bench.
What else? Too much more. Just go. And don’t miss the 17-minute movie. But bring Kleenex. Yes, “there’s no crying in baseball.” Well, that’s a movie. In reality, tears rolled down my face. Though they cheat, with Kevin Costner’s “Hey dad … you wanna have a catch?” scene from “Field of Dreams.”
Catching in my throat
Did I ever mention — I don’t believe I have — that I keep three baseball gloves in a lower desk drawer at home? They’re supple, from regular application of neatsfoot oil. One is the first baseman’s glove my younger son used when he played with the Park District. Another is a lefty mitt bought about the same time, so we could practice together, because the only glove I had was the third glove, a small, battered 1965 Sears Flex-Action model I got when I was 5, and had my brief flirtation with Little League. It looks like something Charlie Brown would wear.
Three gloves, at the ready, though 364 days a year they stay in the drawer. Except on Father’s Day, when they come out, along with the baseball stored there. I hand them to my two boys and we go stand in the front yard and play catch. For as long as I want. That is the only non-negotiable demand I have, in return for bringing them into the world and showering them with unwavering love. My older boy, who never had need for a proper baseball glove, is also a southpaw, so uses my ancient glove. My younger uses his own, the same glove he used throwing out the first pitch at a Cubs-Sox Crosstown Classic at Wrigley Field.
Sometimes for 10 minutes, sometimes closer to 20. The day, fine — as days in June tend to be. The ball thrown, caught, tossed high, snagged, or missed, rolling, retrieved. I can’t speak for them, but for me, it’s a highlight of the year. No crying in baseball? Heck … I’m surprised anyone can keep a dry eye.
