No. 159 – Baker Street

Performer: Foo Fighters

Songwriter: Gerry Rafferty

Original Release: My Hero single

Year: 1998

Definitive Version: None.

On Opening Day of The Baseball Room, I awoke not long after going to bed at the crack of dawn (good ol’ No. 364). After pulling an all-nighter preparing for the debut June 18, 1998. I still had some work to do before the festivities began at noon.

First, I had to finish assembling the room. Most of the heavy-duty work was complete, but I still had a few final touches, such as the Babe Ruth faceplate for the light switch. Second, I had to put away empty boxes and clean the room, so it would appear as immaculate as the Hall of Fame itself.

Finally, everything was as ready as it ever would be, and I felt a real sense of pride. It was done, on time, and in my inestimable opinion, it was … perfect. Now, all I had to do was await the guests.

Scott and Shani were on the VIP list and the first to arrive. Scott sensed the opportunity to make up a bit for some tomfoolery that had been absent since the Indy 500 barbecue stopped due to the rift between team owners that wrecked open-wheel racing and opened the door to NASCAR’s domination.

If I were going to have a big baseball party, he thought, might as well do it up right. He used his Kinkos skills to print up programs and tickets for the opening ceremony. The programs I knew about—just that he was doing them. I had no idea about the tickets.

When they arrived, Scott sent Shani to the door and told me to look out, that there was someone who wanted to contract some business. I smiled when I saw right away what Scott was up to. He stood on the sidewalk with his shades on and a sign that read “Got Tickets” in black magic marker, you know, just in case anyone in the neighborhood needed to scalp a ducat or two to the prized event. I raced out to break up the ill-gotten activities … and secure two tickets for myself.

Debbie’s friends Sharon and Roger showed up, as did Steve and his new wife, Katie. Brutus from work and his wife attended as well, which should give some indication of how our relationship had been before Brutus ascended to management at The Dispatch.

Unfortunately, Dave and Jim sent their regards, which was no surprise, really, but a disappointment nonetheless. Jim, however, made his presence felt via a donation to The Baseball Room in lieu of his appearance. I hope he remembered to take the tax write-off the following year.

When Jim worked for the White Sox as a public-relations intern in 1985, he procured a set of 1967 World Series tickets that the White Sox were allowed to sell but, of course, never used for games that were never played at Comiskey Park. He sent the ticket for what would’ve been Game 7. The face value for upper deck seats, in case you’re curious: $12. I put the ticket front and center on my Chicago shelf.

When everyone was assembled, the pageantry began. I brought everyone up the stairs to the hallway outside the closed door marked only by a hanging bat and ball ornament and a baseball doorknob. Through the miracle of modern recording technology, Carl Lewis butchered the National Anthem and Marge Schott butchered an introductory speech as part of the tearful festivities. Then, by the power invested in me by Commissioner Bud Selig, I declared The Baseball Room open.

I turned the knob and, like Willie Wonka, moved out of the way, so everyone could partake of the delights therein. (I passed on the opportunity to serenade the guests with Pure Imagination, however.)

Like the kids in the classic 1971 movie, everyone was overwhelmed. Even Debbie, who had seen The Baseball Room in various stages of construction was wowed by the final result. I gave a tour of the room, pointing out the themes of each shelf, and a few took particular note of how I layered the shelves, stacking up memorabilia so it looked like a museum display.

In The Mitt (the one I bought in 1993 that made the epic journey from Seattle to Chicago with me and Scott), I had a baseball that I called the Guest Ball. Anyone who visited The Baseball Room had to sign the Guest ball.

After proper homage was paid, we repaired to the first floor for refreshments—hot dogs, cracker jack, beer and soft drinks. A few people peeled off, while the rest stayed to watch the Reds on TV. Hey, if you’re going to have a baseball-related party, might as well go all out, right?

Scott was hopeful that this would turn into an annual celebration—to replace the sorely missed 500 barbecue—but, really, you can open something only once. It wasn’t to be repeated.

Of course, there was impermanence to The Baseball Room itself. Three years later, it was returned to that of a working bedroom. The museum collection now sits in a storage garage, deserving of a better fate than it received. Maybe someday I’ll have another house and another Baseball Room, but it’s also possible that it was a one-time thing. It’s difficult to top perfection.