Conlin fiesty, witty in memorable HOF address

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COOPERSTOWN, N.Y.For sportswriters, its not easy coming up with something that is memorable, let alone resonates past a specific bit of time. Sporting events and the way they are chronicled have a certain shelf life and like so much of our culture, its disposable.

Theres a game every day with a new plot and story line that moves on with the speed of mercury. To try and keep up is almost foolhardy.

But Bill Conlin, the Philadelphia born and Temple University educated scribe from the Philadelphia Bulletin and later, the Daily News, never had the problem of writing words that were quickly forgotten. In fact, even his quips in the press box had a way of turning into phrases that were often repeated in a faux-gravelly speech the irascible old ballscribe is known for.

Conlin was given the J.G. Taylor Spink Award on Saturday in a ceremony at Doubleday Field, just a short, two-block walk from the National Baseball Hall of Fame and Museum at the end of Main Street here in Cooperstown. Though the Hall of Fame people are quick to point out that Spink Award winners are not inducted into the Hall of Fame, but instead celebrated with an award, thats just semantics. To members of the Baseball Writers Association of America and baseball writers all over, the Spink Award is about as close as a someone not affiliated with a team can get to having a plaque in the gallery of heroes.

More to the point, Conlin received the highest honor a baseball writer can receive.

And as many who have read his work over the years can attest, Conlin dropped some memorable lines on the crowd at Doubleday Field on Saturday during his 10-minute speech. No, it didnt begin quite so smoothly, with the old ball writer fumbling with his Teleprompter app on his iPad that contained his address, but once he got going it was clear Conlin still had a hissing fastball.

Of course it seems apropos that Conlin would have his day on a sun-splashed afternoon waiting for his digital device to upload his speech. Better yet, it happened on a Saturday which means if Conlin wouldnt even cover the event because his newspaper doesnt publish on a Sunday. How arcane is thata news agency taking a day off?

Regardless, to fill the void, Conlin ad libbed:

I dont want you to think it was hot today, but Pete Rose was reported down on Main Street selling autographed Slurpees -- 5 for the autograph and 20 for the Slurpee.

Rose, indeed, was on Main Street selling autographs, but for much more than 5 or even 20. Though hes not an official inductee of the Hall of Fame, Rose still gets top dollar to scrawl his signature on a picture, ball, bat or whatever else the collectors prowling the street brought with the proper MLB hologram proving authenticity.

Nevertheless, it would not be the last time Conlin talked about Rose during his speech, one that clocked in at an even 10 minutes after being whittled down from its original 16. Those extra six minutes, according to those who spoke with the man during the editing process, could have been full of gems.

I had to cut the b---- off it, Conlin told friends.

Still, what remained was pretty memorable. In documenting the sinuous and untamed course that Major League Baseball has traversed since he first started covering it in 1966, Conlin was unflinching. He challenged and celebrated. About the future he was hopeful and worried, and just as he always was, Conlin spared nothing when looking at history through a jaundiced eye.

Before baseball could truly call itself the National Pastime, it had to be available to players and fans of all races. Jim Crow laws were out. George Crowe was in. Branch Rickey and Jack Roosevelt Robinson had seen to that in 1947. However, the integrated game was hardly a stable one. When free agency blew up the Reserve System in 1976, New York Daily News columnist Dick Young called arbitrator Peter Seitz, 'a terrorist' after he granted free agency to Dave McNally and Andy Messersmith. There were disruptive strikes. Only one league adopted the DH rule. A strike canceled the 1994 post-season.

He was even more brusque about the modern era.

The 21st century began under a chemical cloud. Everybody but Bud Selig was suspected of juicing. All Bud ever juiced was the cash registers of 30 clubs. Baseball has managed to thrive during the worst economy since The Great Depression, despite the absence of a salary cap.

When Harry Kalas received the Ford C. Frick Award in 2002 as his entry into the broadcasters wing of the Hall of Fame, he talked about the artistry of the sport.

Its such a beautiful game, Kalas said in interviews before his day in Cooperstown.

Naturally, Conlin also echoed his old friend Harrys sentiment in his address, talking about his love affair with the game despite its faults.

The excellence of the game itself keeps dragging it back from the edge. Between the white lines, it remains a game of infinite possibilities. Anything can and will unfold from first pitch to last. It is why we watch and those of us lucky enough to write about it will never, ever, run out of story lines. Unremitting unpredictability and routinely wild surmise make the Pastime our legal narcotic.

In the end, of course, Conlin made his requisite reference to a Civil War general, this one named Abner Doubleday, named-dropped CSNs Michael Barkann three times, but brought the house down while revisiting Pete Rose.

The lifetime banishment has gone on too long, Conlin said.

One last thing: please get Pete Rose off Main Street and into the Hall. Keep the ban for the compulsive gambler we met in the Dowd Report. But enshrine the guy who played with his hair on fire, the overachiever who lashed those 4,256 hits. Commissioner Selig, tear down that Ban!

With that, Conlin ended with the words, Im out. If there was a microphone to drop before exiting, he surely would have done that, too. Instead, the old ballscribe tucked his iPad under his arm and moved to his seat to watch the rest of the ceremony.
E-mail John R. Finger at jfinger@comcastsportsnet.com. Follow him on Twitter @JRFingerCSN.

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