Calling the Pen: My visit to the Baseball Hall of Fame produced more than I expected

When I was a kid, I used baseball as an escape. I made up rosters, kept statistics and played games, using a Wiffle ball, in my backyard. I pitched for both teams and hit from both sides of the plate. I threw only right-handed into the backstop my dad had built, but I had all the pitches.

The imaginary games played by the imaginary players kept my mind off other things that weren’t as pleasant, such as struggling in school. Baseball was my pastime, and my passion … a spark to my imagination.

The imaginary games played by the imaginary players ended a long time ago, but my passion for the national pastime has never faded. Knowing that, my wife Barb encouraged a visit to Cooperstown and the Baseball Hall of Fame on our way to Albany to see our granddaughter in a school musical.

I wasn’t prepared for the emotion I would feel, or the conversations I would hear when I stepped inside the hallowed room where every Hall of Fame plaque resides. The room felt spiritual, and the spirits seemed to be speaking.

In fact, to my amazement, I could hear them.

I was trying to listen to our knowledgeable tour guide when I thought I overheard Satchel Paige telling his wallmates about the last time he pitched. The longtime Negro Leagues standout was with the Kansas City Athletics and he pitched against the Boston Red Sox. At age 59. He chuckled as he recounted that he held them scoreless, and to one hit, over three innings. He repeated a quote attributed to him: “Age is a question of mind over matter. If you don’t mind, it doesn’t matter.”

Nearby, my favorite pitcher, Sandy Koufax, was smiling but had to be coaxed to discuss his last game — against my favorite team, the Baltimore Orioles, in the 1966 World Series. The Dodgers’ ace faced 20-year-old Jim Palmer, whose plaque rests farther down the wall. Centerfielder Willie Davis lost two fly balls in the Los Angeles sun, leading to a 6-0 loss in a series the Orioles would win in four games for their first world championship. Koufax decided to retire that fall because of an arthritic elbow. He was too humble to mention that he went 27-9 with a 1.79 ERA in his final season.

Across the room, I sensed some tension. Joe DiMaggio was still reluctant to talk about Mickey Mantle, who replaced him in center field for the New York Yankees but never earned DiMaggio’s approval. In the 1951 World Series, they converged on a fly ball hit by another Hall of Fame centerfielder, Willie Mays. Mantle, playing right field, seemed ready to catch the ball when DiMaggio, playing center, called him off at the last minute. As Mantle pulled up to avoid a collision, his spike caught an exposed storm drain, tearing up his right knee. He never again played without pain. His partying lifestyle and the fact that he succeeded the straight-arrow DiMaggio in center created a divide that neither could close.

A little farther down the wall, the great Jackie Robinson was explaining why his initial plaque didn’t include the fact that he broke the color barrier in baseball in 1947. He wanted it to reflect that he was elected to the Hall of Fame based on his skills and statistics. After he died, he appreciated that his wife, Rachel, asked the Hall of Fame to add a line: “Displayed tremendous courage and poise in 1947 when he integrated the modern major leagues in the face of intense adversity.” He said if we wanted to see the original plaque, it was on the second floor.

Across the room, the Robinson brothers — Frank and Brooks — were reliving the Orioles’ best years. I told Frank that he was my favorite player, winning the Triple Crown and leading the Orioles to that first title in 1966 after he was traded by Cincinnati, which considered him an “old” 30. He had a muscular upper body and an intimidating presence, being the last baserunner a shortstop or second baseman wanted to see coming on a potential double play. In 1967, he remembered sliding hard into Chicago’s Al Weis at second base. Frank remembered little else because he was knocked out after hitting his head on Weis’ knee. He also didn’t remember that we had met, briefly, at a fast-food restaurant when I was in high school; I don’t think the concussion had anything to do with that.

The collision seemed to knock the Orioles off their game for a couple of seasons, but they were back in the World Series for the 1969, ’70 and ’71 seasons when they were the best team in baseball. They won their second title in 1970 when Brooks took away hit after hit from Johnny Bench, Tony Perez, Lee May and the rest of the Big Red Machine in a remarkable one-man show that led Reds manager Sparky Anderson to say: “I’m beginning to see Brooks in my sleep. If I dropped this paper plate, he’d pick it up on one hop and throw me out at first.” Still humble, Brooks said he never again had a five-game stretch like that in his 23-year career. He also lamented that the ’69 Orioles didn’t beat the Mets because he thought that was the best Oriole team of all. Brooks did remember meeting my wife, Barb, and me when we were dating. We introduced ourselves to Brooks after a game, and he introduced us to his wife, Connie, in a gesture that reflected his kindness.

Nearby, the combative Earl Weaver, who would get the most out of players as different as Frank, Brooks and Palmer, could be heard arguing with umpire Nestor Chylak that Pirates pitcher Steve Blass did not maintain contact with the pitching rubber in Game 7 of the 1971 World Series that the Pirates won, 2-1, on a Roberto Clemente home run. Chylak continued to patiently listen to Weaver, respecting his knowledge and passion for the game. Weaver continued to make his point, still wanting to get in the last word.

In the back of the room, the chatter grew louder, and I soon realized what it was all about. In the center of the back wall was the Hall of Fame’s first class, the 1936 group of Babe Ruth, Ty Cobb, Christy Mathewson, Walter Johnson and Honus Wagner. Cobb was in the center, with The Babe to his right and nestled under Mathewson. The sportswriters who voted for that first class thought Cobb was the better all-around player. Cobb argued that he was regarded as the game’s best player until the showoff Ruth came along and maintained that Ruth’s home run focus detracted from the way the game was meant to be played, spraying hits and stealing bases with sharpened spikes. The Babe shot back that his plaque should have the prominence of his status in the game — center stage.

I asked Barb if she thought the Hall of Fame would be upset if I had Cobb and Ruth switch places, but she said it was time to move on. There were sportswriters and broadcasters to see; baseball card collections, including an old bike that had cards clothespinned to its spokes the way I did for that special sound; bobbleheads that were constantly bobbling; the Orioles’ exhibit, where Frank, Paul Blair and Moe Drabowsky revealed Superman shirts under their jerseys; a pretend movie theater decorated with posters from the many movies about baseball (my favorite is The Natural); the Souls of the Game: Voices of Black Baseball; Diamond Dreams: Women in Baseball; Japan’s influence on the sport, led by the game’s best player, Shohei Ohtani; Hank Aaron’s memorable 715th home run; and an hourly movie, Generations of the Game, that begins with the voice of Cal Ripken Jr., and triggers emotions similar to those felt on the night Ripken passed Lou Gehrig for consecutive games played.

Barb and I have been married for more than 50 years, and our first date was an Orioles-Red Sox game at Memorial Stadium. Baseball has always been a part of our lives. I’m thankful she arranged for our visit to the Hall of Fame. I would have missed the history. I would have missed the voices. I would have missed a place I was destined to see when I was playing those imaginary games with those imaginary players in my backyard as a kid. Baseball has kept that kid alive, and that’s not my imagination.