I was 9 years old and fresh off kidney surgery when I first visited Cooperstown. We had a family tradition, which began with my three older sisters: When each of us turned 9, we could choose any destination, within four hours' driving distance, for a weekend excursion with our father. It was designed as a bonding experience. When their times came, my sisters chose Block Island, Montauk, and Hershey, Pennsylvania, respectively. Me? I chose the National Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown, N.Y.

At the time (1982), I fashioned myself quite the baseball player. I played shortstop for my Little League team, played Wiffle ball in my living room, and basically broke every window in our house. (Note: Tennis balls only seem safer.) Anyway, it was apparent to me that I was destined for Cooperstown too. And not simply as a fan. I was convinced I'd be inducted after my playing career was over; that I'd be enshrined alongside Ruth, Cobb, Wagner, and The Big Train. In short, my focus as a 9-year-old was on baseball immortality. But because of a bum kidney, my focus soon shifted to human mortality.

Thanks to a blockage in my kidney, surgeons had to open me up in the summer of '82. Afterwards, my right side was laced with staples and stitches, so physical exercise was forbidden for several months. No baseball, no Wiffle ball, no diving over the sofa to catch a self-tossed fly ball. That summer I couldn't mimic my heroes; I could only read about them. And so I did. My father bought me books and programs from the National Baseball Hall of Fame, and during that summer of physical disability, which wouldn't be my last, my appreciation for the game deepened, as my scars slowly healed.

            This past summer I made another journey to Cooperstown - my fifth in 23 years. These trips have been evenly spaced over the years, though not by design. And like that first visit to the hall of fame, each subsequent trip has created its own fond memories.

Cooperstown...even if Abner Doubleday didn't invent the game in that small, New York village (and there's some question about that), I'm confident the baseball gods would have insisted on a similar birthplace. It's postcard Americana. The village is cute, quaint, and borderline kitschy. There's red, white, and blue bunting everywhere. I walk its streets and half expect a Fourth of July parade to break out. I'm not ashamed to say it might be my favorite place in the world - and that's why I asked my wife if we could go there for our first anniversary last summer.

Her answer was the same as when I asked her to marry me: "You're kidding, right?"

OK, fine, I made that up. The fact is she said yes to both requests. And seriously, could a baseball fan be more lucky? First, for my birthday, she bought me the MLB Extra Innings package through Cablevision, and then we went to Cooperstown for our wedding anniversary.

And believe me, I knew the way.

Our path from Connecticut was the same as always: Route 8 towards Waterbury, to I-90 West, to the New York State Thruway, and then to routes 87, 90, 88 and, finally, the last 41 miles on 20 West - the definition of a backcountry road. I first traveled that road as a legal driver in the summer of 1989, when I turned 16 and paid my second visit to the hall of fame. That was the summer I broke my leg, so I had to wear an ankle-to-hip cast, followed by a shin-to-thigh brace. No, I didn't dive over any sofas during those months, but I did break several windows.

My third trip to Cooperstown was in 1996, for my great-grandfather's hall of fame induction. Ned Hanlon was manager of the Baltimore Orioles in the late 19^th century, and was credited with developing the Baltimore chop. He was also credited with being one of the game's biggest cheaters, as he reportedly encouraged his players, including Hall of Famers Hughie Jennings, John McGraw and Wilbert Robinson, to gain a competitive edge by any means necessary - and that included tripping players as they rounded the bases (Back then, baseball only used two umpires, so things like this often went unnoticed). Contextually, if he managed at the end of the 20^th century, his entire team probably would have been on steroids.

Anyway, on to my fourth trip to Cooperstown.

That was in 2000, for the induction of Red Sox great Carlton Fisk. It was a steamy late July day, and a buddy and I left Connecticut at sunrise, embarking on the familiar four-hour jaunt. Somewhere outside Oneonta, by the turnoff for the Soccer Hall of Fame, he was clocked driving 85 by a New York State cop. Unless I'm mistaken, he never paid that $300 ticket, so his driving privileges are still suspended in the state of New York. So, if Jim Rice gets elected to the hall of fame next month (and he should!), I guess I'm driving to the induction ceremony in Cooperstown.

But that's no problem, 'cause I know the way.

 

 

So four Minnesota Vikings were charged today with misdemeanors in conjunction with the team's bye-week boat party: Daunte, Mount, Smoot, and Moe. Sounds like a law firm with offices in hell.

I wonder if the president of the Philadelphia chapter of the NAACP will criticize Culpepper for his role in the matter. Or is this the type of quarterback that blacks like to see? Culpepper has achieved one-quarter of the success of Donovan McNabb in the NFL, and yet he seems to get a pass from most critics. He's never led them to an NFC title game, much less four conference title games and a Super Bowl. Perhaps it's because Culpepper has more street cred than Mr. Campbell's Soup. But is McNabb supposed to apologize because he's marketable and likeable?

McNabb has taken heat for not being a scrambling quarterback, in one of the most inane attacks since Larry Lucchino snarled that the Yankees were the Evil Empire. But if McNabb was on that boat in Minnesota, and he'd been charged with lewd acts like Culpepper is, you can be sure that he'd be taking abuse from all sides.

But Culpepper's career won't suffer for this. He has no image to uphold, so what's he have to worry about? This is the kind of thing that would probably endear him to that jackass president of the Philadelphia chapter of the NAACP.

"You go, Daunte. You get some, you get whatever you can. We still love ya, ya scrambling, fumbleitis, turnover-prone, brother. Rehab that knee now. You got a long mediocre career ahead of you."

Pathetic.

 

Over the years my friends and I come back to two sports debates repeatedly:

1. What is a sport and what is not?

2. Should Pete Rose be in the Hall of Fame?

Those are the only two timeless sports debates. Everything else shifts with the tides.

Like, Who's the greatest basketball player? Jordan or Wilt? LeBron or my unborn son? Changes all the time.

Should Jim Rice be in the Hall of Fame? Well, in this era of post-steroids revelations, his statistics now look Ruthian...

Is Tiger better than Jack?

Is UCLA a better basketball school than Georgetown or North Carolina?

ad infinitum.....the argument changes depending on who has been added to the mix.

But the two questions I posed are the only two which seem timeless, which can probably never be answered, which don't change, and which say an awful lot about the responders. So, let me put it out there:

1. What do you think is not a sport, though it's genuinely considered a sport by many? (My answer is NASCAR, b/c drive fast and turn left is not a sport. Then again, I don't think anything that involves moving parts -- bike racing, car racing, sailing -- is a sport either. Nor do I think golf is a sport. A skill, not a sport -- to know the difference, play me in foos ball.) 

2. Should Pete Rose be in the Hall of Fame? I say no. Not unless -- and Bob Costas, I believe, suggested this -- his plaque includes a reference to his ban from baseball for BETTING on baseball. Even then I'm not sure I want him in there. But ask me again when I've had two more beers, and I might sit a little lower on the bar stool.

P.S. Jim Rice does belong in the Hall of Fame! Check USA Today sports section today. For the 16 years he played, no one else had more home runs or ribbies during that time in the AL.

BTW, how often do you find yourself stumbling over the phrase, "I read in USA Today....today....that...."?

 

 

 

 

Michael Vick reminds me of Bobby John, the hick from "Survivor: Guatemala." He's all uncontrolled energy, and always hurting himself by trying to do too much. Bobby John never had a prayer of winning. He couldn't get out of his own way half the time. He'd chop down a tree and the damn thing would fall on him. Vick's the same way. His career figures to be short and spectacular, and I doubt he'll ever win a title. The urge to do too much cannot be easily subdued. Maybe the only way he'd become a pocket passer is if we was unable to run anymore. God knows McNair became a better player when he ran less. It's unfortunate, because I think Vick is a winner. But in a way, I feel bad for Falcons fans, because the other shoe is always about to drop. Move him to wideout now and let Matt Schaub throw to him.