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Half a century later, after his coaching career ended, I nominated Dad for the Indiana Baseball Hall of Fame. I gathered up his stats and submitted his credentials – Iron Man exploits, his 21-win season, countless victories and fun footnotes. (Who else ever faced Gil Hodges and Larry Pennell, who went on to play Dash Riprock on The Beverly Hillbillies?) I wrote a long letter to the induction committee, arguing that he belonged in the Hoosier Baseball Hall with Hodges, Don Mattingly, Mordecai "Three-Finger" Brown, Judge Kenesaw Mountain Landis and about 100 guys you never heard of. The hall turned him down. And you know what? The hall was right. Dad never reached the majors; his credentials pale beside Hodges' 370 homers, Mattingly's .307 average and nine Gold Gloves, John's 288 wins and the achievements of most – and maybe all – of the guys you never heard of. In fact, it was only through trying to get him inducted that I realized just how accomplished the real Hall of Famers are. Even Al Pilarcik hit .256 with 22 big-league home runs.  Art celebrates after a '40 play-off victory. Never enshrined, Dad is unshrined except in the hearts and traditions of those he taught the game. He taught me to play hard, have fun, never give the other guy a damn inch, but always shake his hand when it's over. Never much of a jock myself, I became a sportswriter largely to follow in his pigeon-toed steps. I have hung in big-league clubhouses, hit balls with Barry Bonds and studied hitters with Curt Schilling, but I learned more about baseball from Dad. My son, Cal, is now a middle-school infielder. On his way to his position he always steps over the baseline. Don't step on the chalk – he got that from Dad, through me. Dad never saw Cal take the field. Art Cook of Indianapolis, 70, got hit by a car on a rain-slick street and died ten years ago. That was a shock. Still is, sometimes, but I have come to think that there are worse ways to go. His health was starting to fail, and he may have faced a long downhill slide. Instead the end was quick. It was as if he had stepped off the field into the dugout, goodbye. There are black-and-white photos of him in Cal's bedroom. One shows a young, studly-looking Dad being lifted on his teammates' shoulders after a win. It's not the World Series, just some long-ago minor league playoff, but it's a Hall of Fame moment to me. And if they ever open a hall for dads, I figure he gets in on the first ballot. Kevin Cook has written for Sports Illustrated, GQ, Playboy, Details, Men's Journal and more than a dozen other magazines. His book, Tommy's Honor, will be published by Gotham in the spring of 2007. You can contact him at
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