The other day I picked up my thesaurus, and started reading out of curiosity. I’ve tried reading sections of the dictionary, but the thesaurus was uncharted territory. I figured it’d be a basic line up of synonyms, but I was wrong. I opened the thesaurus to a random page, somewhere in the M’s. Move, moving, mow, moxie, mozo, Mr., Mrs., Mrs. Grundy … Wait what? Mrs. Grundy? What in the world does that mean?
Me and my Old Man, in front of Nellie Fox’s plaque at the Baseball Hall of Fame (July 1997)
The Baseball Hall of Fame has always been the biggest amongst corridors of notoriety. Pro Football Hall of Fame? Hockey Hall of Fame? It’s where those who excelled in and around America’s pastime are honored eternally. It beats out Hollywood’s Walk of Fame because, well, I’d like not to hurt anyone’s feelings, but you’d be surprised at the list of people and Tokyo-terrorizing monsters who have a star on the boulevard. It defeats all other sports hall’s of fame. Not only because it was established first, but it hasn’t changed its enshrinement style since it’s doors first opened in 1936.
I’m talking more about the plaques, and what it means to be on one of those plaques. Your now immortal baseball likeness in bronze; and right below it your career record, and a 12-lines or less bio that captures your stats, status and spirit. It’s a 100 word summary of why you deserve a permanent place in the history of the game.
Jake Berent 