In the summer of 2005, my family and I made the trip to Cooperstown for the Hall of Fame induction ceremonies. I had been there when I was younger because my dad’s baseball team played in some tournaments at Doubleday Field. I remembered touring the museum and having a blast, but going to the induction was going to be something special. I could feel it.
The baseball pilgrimage was planned during the winter immediately after it was announced that Ryne Sandberg was selected to join baseball’s immortals. My favorite player of all-time and namesake would soon have a plaque in Cooperstown. I was ecstatic. And my parents decided it would be worth the trip to up-state New York that summer.
The summer finally came and so did Hall of Fame weekend. The atmosphere in the birthplace of baseball was incredible. Main Street was packed with baseball fans from all over the country, there to support their heroes one last time on their special day. The heroes on this weekend were Sandberg and Wade Boggs, so the crowds were filled with Cubs and Red Sox fans.
But the most memorable part of the weekend was walking up and down the streets and seeing the Hall of Famers. The crowds disappeared as I just watched in awe as the legends signed autographs and conversed with fans. For a baseball fan, there was something about seeing Yogi Berra five feet away that was surreal. I read stories and watched TV specials on these guys and now, they were all right in front of me – together. Yogi, Rollie Fingers with his waxed mustache, and others sat in front of a shop. […]
Others were inside various stores making appearances.
I remember seeing a sign for Ozzie Smith inside one. Sure enough, the Wizard was sitting inside with a long line of admirers waiting for the chance to get an autograph. For a 15-year-old kid who played shortstop, just being in the presence of the greatest of all-time put a smile on my face. Not much ran through my mind as I saw all the immortals. I just stood in the crowds and watched these men – mere men – in awe, because in Cooperstown, they were gods. And in my mind, they were gods. And I could feel their presence.
One man’s presence was too much to ignore. A jovial black man with gray hair jutting out from a red and white cap embroidered with the letters “KC” who didn’t have a table set up. His time and signature didn’t cost a nickel. He wasn’t one of the immortals. I didn’t know who he was. But his image and his warm smile have stuck with me as a lasting memory from that weekend. The man was talking to anyone who passed by, just spreading his love for life. I walked by him and he said hello. I shook his hand and went on my way. My dad told me who he was.
The old man was Buck O’Neil. And since that weekend in 2005, I haven’t forgotten his kindness and infectious personality. O’Neil wasn’t in Cooperstown because he would take his seat behind the inductees on the stage Saturday afternoon. He was there because he loved baseball and maybe even more, he loved people. O’Neil just wanted to spread his love and perhaps share some old memories from the ball field.
The “KC” stood for Kansas City. O’Neil played for and managed the Kansas City Monarchs for nearly his entire Negro League career. O’Neil was a two-time batting champion and top player for the Monarchs before becoming the skipper from 1948-1955. He then became the first African American to coach in the major leagues when he joined the Cubs in 1962.
His list of achievements could go on much longer. But that’s not what O’Neil was about. And that’s not his legacy.
O’Neil’s legacy is his magnetic personality and how he used it to touch people through baseball.
The greatness of Buck O’Neil was on display in 2006. That year, a special 12-person committee made the final call on the remaining Negro Leagues stars for Hall of Fame enshrinement. O’Neil was among the candidates and seemed like a lock to be chosen. He would finally get his day on stage in Cooperstown. But he was not selected, missing by one vote.
Despite the disappointment, O’Neil was not bitter. He showed grace after the announcement and even became the voice for those elected in the Negro League vote. O’Neil was the only hopeful in the group who was still living. And he traveled around the country to make sure the players were remembered as Hall of Famers. He spoke for them at the induction ceremonies in Cooperstown that summer.
While he will never have a plaque in Cooperstown, I will always remember him there, sitting on a chair on the sidewalk spreading the joy of life and remembering baseball in Kansas City and beyond.
The rest of the day, we wandered around the town. Hank Aaron and Willie Mays were signing together in a store, hidden from the public. Just the idea of them being upstairs was amazing. Aaron and Mays were two of the greatest of all-time.
And we saw Reggie Jackson. I say saw because Jackson wasn’t so excited to meet his fans like Buck O’Neil was to meet anyone. Reggie is my twin brother Chris’ favorite player of all-time. The weekend was a gift for me. But meeting Reggie Jackson would be a memory for Chris. He found Jackson’s Hall of Fame program from 1993 in one of the memorabilia shops and then took it to get autographed for $75 by Mr. October himself. Reggie, Willie McCovey, Red Schoendienst, and others were at tables in a hotel. The line moved quickly as the baseball legends scribbled their signature on cards, magazines, and more. We reached Reggie and he signed the program without looking up. He didn’t say a word to any of his fans. Instead he talked with some women at his table while he signed. Needless to say, it was a huge disappointment that Reggie couldn’t smile, say hello, and shake some hands. A few simple actions go a long way to making someone’s day when you’re Reggie Jackson. But on this day, he appeared uninterested and arrogant.
It was the one low during a spectacular weekend for a baseball fan.
The highlight came Sunday, induction day. It was a glorious day on a sprawling field a mile from the museum.
Every Hall of Famer was introduced in a paragraph summing up their achievements and playing style. Seeing and hearing about all of them as they took their seats was quite a scene.
Peter Gammons then accepted the J. G. Taylor Spink Award. I knew him from his coverage on ESPN. But Gammons made his name and reputation in newspapers. At 15, I wasn’t thinking about the future too much. Five years later and I’m aspiring to be just like Gammons. He is the most-respected baseball writer around and I can only hope that my career in sports journalism is half as good. I didn’t know it then, but watching Peter Gammons and the rest of the Hall of Famers was all part of a dream I was destined to chase after. The feeling I got that whole weekend and when I played was too powerful and special to lose. I soon realized I wanted to become a sports writer and now, I’m in college studying journalism and watching sporting events with a keen eye. Peter Gammons is just one of the writers I began to admire in the years since 2005. Others have admired him much longer, joining him in the world of baseball and writing.
I don’t remember if Sandberg or Boggs went first, but it doesn’t matter.
Boggs’ speech was good. He talked about fried chicken and hitting and his journey to the majors. He got emotional when he talked about his father, the man who taught him the game that made him into a legend.
But I was there to see my hero. I was there to see and hear Ryne Sandberg. I didn’t know what to expect.
Then, he took the podium and started his speech. His voice echoed over the meadow and gave me chills. Those first few words made it real. Ryne Sandberg was a Hall of Famer. I was hypnotized by his words.
And his words were stirring. The stoic player used his platform to come out of his shell and let baseball know how he felt about today’s game – a game ravaged by greed and steroids. Sandberg was angry. The game he loved and revered so much was being ruined. And staying quiet wasn’t an option anymore. All of the things he no doubt held in during his playing days and retirement flowed free in a shocking speech.
It was the most memorable speech in recent memory at the Hall and I was there to witness it. And it was my favorite player who delivered the words that are still ringing from the hills of Central New York to the professional ballparks across the country. It was a wake-up call from a player you would least expect it. Sandberg never said much, which made the message that much stronger. A guy who kept his mouth shut and earned the respect of his teammates and opponents was letting loose and he was right.
I had goosebumps from start to finish. Ryne Sandberg put an exclamation point on an awesome weekend. I never forgot his words and his message of respect. I applied it to my play in high school baseball and basketball. And I was never prouder to share his name. I carry my name with pride because of his career as a player and because of that day.
That day is still fresh in my mind today. And it had a profound effect on me. Peter Gammons would later become a model for me as a writer. Buck O’Neil as a person. The message from Sandberg’s speech is something I try to live by. It’s something that was instilled in me by my father who taught me the games that I love. He taught me how to play the game the right way.
Cooperstown is a magical place that is a must for baseball fans. Induction weekend is that much more special.