Lincicome: Where have you gone Barry, Roger...Sammy? Without you, hall of fame ballot is boring
Smack dab in the middle of awards season we find our old friend, the Baseball Hall of Fame, its ballot free at last of the unworthy and the soiled, excepting Alex Rodriguez, lumped in with disgraced heroes yet still hopeful.
The most prominent rogues are gone, Barry and Sammy and Roger and Curt, those who tested the conscience of voters who cheered them once and disdained them later, refusing their sacred vote of approval, mine, too, for a long time.
My last vote, several years ago, went to Bonds and Clemens but never for Sosa. I apologize for any small part I may have had in Sosa's exile, though he did bring most of it on himself. The point here is that, save A-Rod and Manny Ramirez, we are back to a clean ballot, and I have to say, it is pretty dull.
The debate over those genuine stars making shaky choices gives way to head scratchers like R.A. Dickey and Bronson Arroyo and others just happy to be nominated. Arguments over whether hold overs like Scott Rolen or Todd Helton are worthy (they probably are) do not get heated or repeated.
By Tuesday we shall know who will join the ghosts of Cooperstown, if anyone at all, save Fred McGriff, getting the on-second-thought committee's vote, something Bonds, Clemens, et. al. could not get.
Oh, there is Carlos Beltran, a substantial player, maybe worthy, but tarnished in his own way for figuring out how his Houston Astros could cheat the Dodgers out of a World Series title. I don't remember all the details, but small crimes or large must be penalized, and for some reason the Hall of Fame is both the carrot and the stick.
Consider guiltless, luckless and shoeless Joe Jackson, banned for taking a bribe, but yet Jackson remains the persistent symbol of old time baseball glory in books, movies and the odd internet post, his fame lasting longer than if he had a spot on the Cooperstown wall.
No election is more diligent than for the Baseball Hall of Fame. No voters take their responsibilities more solemnly than the baseball writers. Trust me on this. Electing a president is a choice. The Hall of Fame is a sacred duty.
To get the vote, an elector must hang around dugouts and press boxes and clubhouses for a full 10 years, has to dodge a whole lot of careless spit and look away from a whole lot of inconsiderate scratching.
He must know an infield fly rule when he sees one. He must keep score. These are heavy dues.
And every honoree earns it. A full 75 percent of the vote is needed to elect, when a simple plurality is good enough to run the United States, and sometimes not even that.
Football elects folks by the handful and yet baseball too often turns up with Induction for One, the Reggie-Ozzie-Willie stag shows.
If this seems unfair, it is. Or to use the second best movie line after "there's no crying in baseball," we should not forget that "it's supposed to be hard, or everyone would do it."
Here's the beauty and the curse of Halls of Fame. Once you're in, they can never get you out.
So, say, a Bruce Sutter or a Rabbit Maranville is forever unerasable, just as is O.J. Simpson, even if Simpson is no longer asked to share the free bar. It is why Pete Rose goes a little nuts about this, as he should.
If Beltran or Rolen are selected this year it will be that they were chosen from the company they were in, not for the company they would be joining.
And what of Pete Rose, banned for weakness, the poster rascal for the evil of gambling on the very game that now kisses wagering on the mouth and builds betting annexes to its ballparks. Maybe Rose will, too, one day become a tragic figure instead of the goofy whiner we are now familiar with.
If Rose will always be contaminated by his vices, those 4,256 hits will always be there. And if they are not enough to put him in the same room as folks who might be slightly better humans but much worse ballplayers, then the Hall of Fame should have an altar and a poor box.