Handshake Deal Dept. — Dick Allen's widow, Willa, told one of her favorite stories about her late husband while accepting his (long overdue) Hall of Fame induction: In 1971, while the corner infielder/outfielder was with the Dodgers, a teenaged boy waited for him after a game, spotted him, and called out, "Mr. Allen, can I have your autograph?"
"Son," Allen replied, according to his widow, "I'd rather shake your hand."
"The young boy eagerly replied, 'Yes, sir'," Mrs. Allen continued.
What happened next turned into something unforgettable. They stood there, just the two of them, for two full hours. Dick didn't rush. He didn't wave him off. He stayed, he listened, he shared. That night, a friendship began . . . That season, Dick spent hours with him, showing him different kinds of food, introducing him to people he respected, even taking him to the racetrack to meet his horses and friends. He affectionately nicknamed the boy 'Baby Bro.'
A name that young man still uses today when he speaks of Dick Allen. And now, over 50 years later, that one teenager is 70-years-old, and here today in Cooperstown to honor the man who changed his life with kindness.
The slender, gray-clad, graying man stood up and gave the crowd a thumbs-up to gracious applause.
"That was Dick," Mrs. Allen said. "He was devoted to people, not just fans, but especially his teammates."
Enough so that, when he was trying to survive the worst of the racism and condescension of 1960s Philadelphia and its sports press, he went out of his way to keep his teammates out of it, as best he could. Even the manager who succeeded Gene Mauch on those Phillies, former Pirates outfield standout Bob Skinner, got the picture, despite a dispute with Allen over Allen's bid to move his locker out of his teammates' way to keep the issues he didn't deserve from getting in their way:
I didn't appreciate some of his antics or his approach to his profession, and I told him so, but I understood some of it. I do believe he was trying to get [the Phillies] to move him. He was very unhappy. He wanted out. There were people in Philadelphia treating him very badly . . . He obviously did some things that weren't team oriented, but his teammates did not have a sense of animosity toward him. Not that I saw. They had some understanding of what was going on.
After he departed Philadelphia — in the trade that fired a shot across baseball's reserve-clause bow, when Cardinals outfield standout Curt Flood refused to report to the Phillies and elected to sue to end the clause's abuse (he lost at the Supreme Court, but he'd lit a fire) — Allen spent a year in St. Louis, one in Los Angeles, and three with the White Sox, where his astonishing play was throttled only by injuries. Then, he returned to the Phillies under a very different regime and took a nervous young third baseman named Mike Schmidt under his wing:
Mike, you've got to relax. Baseball's supposed to be fun. Remember when you were a kid and you'd skip supper to play ball? You were having fun. Enjoy it. Be a kid again.
Mrs. Allen and family had every reason to be bitter that his Hall of Fame election came after he left this island earth. They chose instead to practice the kind of hard-earned gratitude Allen himself came to practice. "Thank you for honoring him," she concluded. "And thank you for bringing him home."
The Bard of the Yard Dept. — Dave Parker lived long enough to be elected to the Hall but not to be inducted. No matter. The big man with the Allen-like long ball power and the howitzer right field throwing arm had a gift of gab Muhammad Ali might have envied. Whatever Parker lacked, confidence and self-worth weren't among the missing.
His son, David II — who bears an astonishing resemblance to his father, up to and including the mischievous eyes that suggest their owner is waiting for his latest gag to detonate, about 10 miles away from where he left it — read the poem his father wrote for the occasion:
Here I am — 39. About damn time.
I know I had to wait a little. But that's what you do with fine, aged wine.
I'm a Pirate for life. Wouldn't have it no other way. That was my family.
Even though I didn't go on parade day, I love y'all. The Bucs own my heart
because those two championships I got, y'all played in the first part.
I'm in the Hall now. You can't take that away.
That statue better look good, you know I got a pretty face.
Top-tier athlete, fashion icon, sex symbol. No reason to list the rest of my credentials.
I'm him. Period. The Cobra.
Known for my record arm, and I will run any catcher over.
To my friends, families, I love y'all. Thanks for staying by my side.
I told y'all Cooperstown would be my last ride.
So the Star of David will be in the sky tonight — watch it glow.
But I didn't lie. In my documentary I told you I wouldn't show.
Only his body didn't show. On Sunday afternoon, Parker's spirit was all over the Cooperstown place. The problem was, his running any catcher over when he thought the occasion demanded it damn near kept him out of Cooperstown, sending him to the disabled list when he wasn't shaking off other troubles.
Parker left something else behind other than affection, laughter, and memories of this extraterrestrial blast or that throw home as if from one of the guns of Navarone. He left behind his foundation to battle the Parkinson's disease that finally sent him to the Elysian Fields. Where I'm quite convinced assorted fellow Hall of Famers are giving him the appropriate grief in return.
But his son also recalled the flip side of the man's insouciance. When growing up and noticing the man he called Pops had a lot of fans, Pops corrected David II: "They ain't fans, son. They're friends."
CC Rider Dept. — For CC Sabathia, his Hall of Fame induction was a call to thank those he believed got him there, from his mother and other women in his family to his wife/agent. From remember Mom strapping on catchers' gear to warm her son up to throwing grapefruits at Grandma's house and thus discovering he could throw hard.
And, remembering how he'd actually hoped to sign with the Dodgers for the free agency payday that came out of New York, until his wife agreed with him and with Yankee general manager Brian Cashman that they could make New York work for themselves and their children.
Known for his bulk on the mound, the former left-hander now looks almost svelte, as svelte as a man 6'6" can look, the net result of his courageous call for help against the bottle (into which he dove over years of grief and insecurity) and an eventual angioplasty to unblock an artery to his heart, not to mention deciding it was long past time to be kinder and gentler with himself.
Sabathia even found a moment to thank his fellow inductee Ichiro Suzuki — "for stealing my Rookie of the Year award." (He finished second that year.)
Rookie of the Year Redux Dept. — Clearly savoring the moment, Ichiro couldn't resist opening his speech with a nod to his rookie status. Nodding to his original signing with the Orix Blue Wave in his native Japan, then with the Mariners for 2001, and now his first-ballot Hall of Fame status, he said, "But please. I am 51 years old now. So — easy on the hazing."
It drew the second biggest laugh of Ichiro's speech — after he acknowledged that statistics were things for writers. "Well, all but one of you. The offer for that writer to have dinner at my home has now expired."
As usual, Ichiro knew just how to connect and lined it into the gap.
And the Last Shall Be First Dept. — Unlike his customary pitching assignments to finish games, Billy Wagner was written into the Hall of Fame induction's leadoff slot Sunday.
"My baseball life has come full circle," the opening closer said. "I was a fan before I could play, and back when baseball wasn't so available on TV, every Saturday morning I watched Johnny Bench and so many of the other greats on a show, The Baseball Bunch . . . Now that my playing days are over and I'm back to being a fan again, I'm lucky enough to be a fan with an inside view of this great game, a kid in a candy shop."
If that all helps a kid who turned himself from a right-hander with an arm fracture into a Hall of Fame left-hander nobody could hit, not to mention his deep enough religious faith and his gratitude for teammates, coaches, and his family, then Billy the Kid certainly found the only kind of help he ever really needed.
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