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There is certain magic to Cooperstown on an induction weekend that I can't imagine you find anywhere else. And yet, while so much stays the same – the serenity of the lake, the tree-lined hills, the white wood slat rocking chairs on the veranda at the Otesaga Hotel, Doubleday Field, and the brick museum that welcomed its first class in 1936 – so much changes. Time does that. Life does that. The names in '36 were Ruth, Cobb, Mathewson, Wagner and Johnson. Today they are Ripken and Gwynn. I first came to Cooperstown in the summer of 1991 for Rod Carew's induction. Carew was enshrined that year with Fergie Jenkins, Gaylord Perry and Poosh 'Em Up Tony Lazzari, second baseman for the 1927 New York Yankees. I had the honor of assisting Rod write his induction speech, and while I wasn't sure if I was up to the task, I understood if Carew could somehow figure out a way to "carve and slash his way to 3053 hits" – as his plaque reads – my task was not nearly as formidable. Plus, the incumbent Hall of Famers had instructed Carew to "keep it short" as they do to every inductee, so that mandate made the job a little easier. It was that week in July '91 that the history and mystique of the national pastime came to life for me. As I watched Carew deliver the speech better than we wrote it, I couldn't help but divert my eyes to the men sitting on either side of Rod's podium who hung on his every word. Joe D sat next to Teddy Ballgame who sat next to Charlie Gehringer who sat next to Spahnnie. Mickey was there. Pee Wee was there. So was Catfish and Pops Stargell. They're all gone now.  Baseball Hall of Fame inductees Tony Gwynn and Cal Ripken Jr. pose with their plaques during the induction ceremony in Cooperstown Ten years later I returned to Cooperstown for the induction of Kirby Puckett. Now, tragically, Puck's gone too. I was in Cooperstown this year because I've known Tony Gwynn since he came up to the Padres in 1982. Heck, I knew of him even before that as the sharp shooting point guard for Smokey Gaines' San Diego State Aztecs basketball team. And while I enjoyed the celebration of Tony and Cal's magical careers, what I treasure most from this year are little things. I treasure the sight of Bob Feller. The legendary right hander and WW II hero who entered in 1962 with Jackie Robinson, Feller has been a Hall of Famer more than half his life. I treasure the moments around Yogi and Whitey and the shrieks of laughter from Willie Mays as he shares tall tales with Bob Gibson, Monte Irvin, Willie Mc Covey and Sandy Koufax late into the night – as if any story about their exploits on the field could be exaggerated. On Saturday, I sat and listened to Carew, Brock, Boggs, Morgan and Gywnn talk hitting down to the most infinite detail, knowing that at the Hall of Famers Sunday night dinner, they would again be sent be to the "singles hitters table" by Killebrew, Jackson, Duke and Frank Robinson. But missing from that table is Phil Rizzuto, the Hall's oldest living member forced, by illness, as was Stan Musial, to miss this year's reunion of the world's most exclusive fraternity. Meanwhile, at another table, in another part of town, Pete Rose, baseball's all-time Hit King, sits for another year, pen in hand signing autographs awaiting the call from a Hall that will someday welcome Barry Bonds. The call will come to Bonds, as it should. It will come to Clemens, Maddux, A-Rod, Randy Johnson, Tom Glavine, Frank Thomas, Derek Jeter, Ken Griffey, Jr. and more. When it does, Bench, Seaver, Marichal, Brock, Yount, Ripken, Gwynn, Brett, Ozzie and the others will follow the summers greatest rite of passage and return to Cooperstown to welcome them.
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