“…once they get to the show, all it takes is a great day for them to be remembered.”
–Brad Horn, Hall of Fame Senior Director
So not “Steve Carlton” Hall of Fame. “Eric Bruntlett’s jersey from the unassisted triple play” Hall of Fame. They could have also asked Jeff Francoeur for his helmet from that afternoon, which he slammed to the ground in frustration, as one of the best examples of “pure disgust” ever embodied on a baseball diamond.
It was great.
You thought those Double-A and Triple-A farm system teams were completely drained of talent, didn’t you? You sick son of a bitch. It seems that you’ll finally be proven wrong for your crackpot theories on “sacrificing the future” and “disemboweling the minor leagues” when a bus full Reading Phillies and Lehigh Valley Ironpigs pulls up in front of the Hall of Fame next summer for the sole purpose of putting our entire rosters inside.
Apparently, yes, there is a difference between going to the Hall and being inducted into the Hall, but if I didn’t phrase things incorrectly on purpose, then there would be no reason for you to read this web site.
It is spectacular to know that the Phillies are the kind of organization who treats things like the Hall of Fame with enthusiastic reverence. The offer to have buses full minor leaguers carted up to Cooperstown for a little show and tell next summer went out to multiple teams, so they could have very easily said “No, we don’t want our youngsters’ organs at any sort of risk just before the harvest.”
But they apparently believe this sort of historical, mystic motivation is a brilliant catalyst for young players, so, cheers.
Brad Horn came down and talked to a room full of the kids, giving them the sense that if they work hard enough, they can be immortalized in the most hallowed ground known to people who make baseball a priority all summer. As a ballplayer, it must be at least somewhat inspiring to be informed of the eternal life available to you if you can just be legendary enough. So let’s hope Mr. Horn is a vivid enough public speaker to have transformed all of our almost Major League-ready talent into epic champions.
I remember my father-and-son trip to Cooperstown. I was a surly teenager and spent most of my time putting gel in my hair until it was a hardened, crystallized mess. My dad could do little more than shake his head, and had he been holding Jeff Francoeur’s helmet in his hands, I am sure he would have slammed it to the ground in disgust. And he would have been right to do so.
Apparently the Baseball Hall of Fame isn’t the best place in the world to meet teenage girls anyway. Somehow.