Lots of Famous Players, No Canopy Mark Fame Induction

They stood outside -- the few, the wet, the brave. They were lined up at Cooperstown High School under bright orange Baltimore Orioles umbrellas in the hope of seeing Jim Palmer made bronze. These folks had made the pilgrimage from Baltimore to share a piece of history with a local hero, and all they shared instead were gloomy skies.

The weekend was a fiasco, to put it kindly. The people who run the Hall of Fame, an indoors museum, had apparently never considered the possibility of rain at an outdoors event. A canopy, to cover the dais and protect the speakers, would have saved the day, but this low-tech solution seemed to elude those in charge. It was said, though never confirmed, that erecting a canopy would have violated village zoning laws. Can you imagine the police raid that might have followed?

Anyway, there was no canopy Sunday, when the ceremonies were scheduled, and many people, at least those with jobs, had to leave town. For those who stayed and weren’t one kind of VIP or another, it meant hours in the rain outside the school awaiting Palmer’s induction, which was broadcast over loudspeakers to what would be described as a remarkably friendly, if damp, crowd of about 200.

Regular folks -- just fans, you understand -- couldn’t get inside but they were treated to more than simply the amplified strains of history. There was also this delicious irony: The rain stopped almost as soon as the ceremonies began.

For the 700 fortunates who crowded into the school auditorium, the day went as expected. There were many tears. Palmer, the original emotional boy, began crying during Joe Morgan’s speech. Morgan, who also cried, made a moving speech, full of wonder and appreciation for what he had accomplished.

It was harder to say what Palmer’s talk was about, except that it was about everything. You have to understand Palmer and his remarkable mind, which will wander from subject to subject, much like a jazz riff dancing lightly from note to note. He is a rambling man, who never could focus on any single object for long, unless it was a catcher’s mitt.

But when he got to the end of his tearstained speech, Palmer would finally explain why all the people had come in the first place. As corny as it may sound, and, in fact, as corny as it may be, baseball’s appeal is based on the idea of a continuum. Nowhere is that concept more fully realized than at the Hall of Fame, where Babe Ruth is as alive as Willie Mays, who is as current as Jose Canseco. The game, for whatever reason, is in the blood.

“The reason I tried to be as good as I was, was because of what the gentlemen behind me were able to do,” Palmer said. “The fact that Warren Spahn won 363 games. ... I wasn’t left-handed, so I was going to be another Bob Feller or Don Drysdale. That’s what baseball is all about, to grow up as a kid in New York, being a Yankee fan -- which proves nobody is perfect -- to dream about pitching against Mickey Mantle or Roger Maris, guys I did have a chance to pitch against. Then to be one of them is something I never thought I’d have a chance to do.”

Morgan, who called himself a baseball traditionalist, understood. He had already said, “No matter how long I’m in the Hall of Fame, I’ll never be able to say Mays, Musial and Morgan in the same breath.”

To Morgan, Mays and Stan Musial are heroes, as much as they are to you and me. Musial, Spahn and Feller were among the 20 Hall of Famers who sat behind Morgan and Palmer, smiling as fathers might. A record 32 Hall of Famers had shown up for the affair, but a dozen left after the delay. They were missed. They all meant something.

The highlight of the weekend for both inductees was the dinner Sunday night in which the old Hall of Famers welcomed the new. That’s when they began to understand that they, too, truly belonged.

“I didn’t really get in touch with it until the dinner,” Palmer said. “The most poignant moment was Ted Williams standing up and saying how happy he was to see so many of his friends healthy and able to be here.

“It’s hard to talk about the Hall of Fame without sounding like you’re gloating. These guys had .331 lifetime batting averages. They expected to hit .330. That’s what kind of players they were. And they came here because they care about each other.”

This feeling of fraternity is understandable. What’s funny is that, almost immediately, these two former players, only five years retired, became old-time wardens of the game. Both cried out for standards. Both worried that money would spoil the game, even as Musial and Williams had worried that money would ruin the game Morgan and Palmer played.

“My advice for the players of today,” Morgan said, “is despite the distractions of big money and media pressure, to practice your craft and to enjoy every game.”

Palmer, who complained each year of his career that he was underpaid, said players should not use money as a motivational factor. The important thing, he said, was to have the desire to excel.

Of course, many modern players do have that same desire or they don’t succeed. If big money has changed the game, it has not done so in any substantial way. In 10 years or in 50, people will still troop to this little village to honor new heroes. Maybe by then, they will have scared up a canopy.