Boston’s Fenway Park is deceptively small. You can spend four years watching the Red Sox on NESN (or, if they’re playing the Yankees, ESPN), and you’d get the decided impression that Fenway is a typical baseball stadium. Perhaps a low-capacity one, but still built on the gargantuan scale of such behemoths as Dodger Stadium or the Oakland Coliseum — spacious arenas built in a spacious country.
When I was a kid, my favorite baseball player was Barry Bonds. My fandom was mostly due to the fact that he was the best player on the planet and he played for my favorite team. I even attended the game during which he passed Babe Ruth by hitting his 715th home run. Bonds eventually went on to hit 47 more, passing Hank Aaron’s record and finishing his career with 762 home runs.
I would like to get an early start with my attempts to convince 573 of the stubbornest, most irritable, least compromising, nostalgic old fogies this side of Mount Crumpit–the Baseball Writer’s Association of America–that Major League Baseball’s Hall of Fame has a responsibility to open its doors to many of the players whose careers have been tainted by playing in The Asterisk Era.