“The Simpsons” has taught us so much through the years. On the big subjects such as child-rearing, work ethic and diet. And on matters as seemingly trivial as appreciating our nation’s obscure sporting shrines.
“Homer,” Marge Simpson asked her husband in one episode, “do you remember our last family vacation when you made us go to the Bowlers’ Hall of Fame in St. Louis, Mo., so you could see that car shaped like a giant bowling pin?”
“Remember?” Homer answered. “Who could forget?”
I am proud to say I, too, have made that pilgrimage, and thrilled to the story of the late Don Carter’s rise from humble pinsetter to champion to Paula Sperber’s husband.
Going to the famous Halls of Fame in Cooperstown, N.Y.; Canton, Ohio; and Springfield, Mass., is a sort of sacred obligation. They are cultural repositories, important in an even Smithsonian kind of way.
There is a second tier of Halls that are of serious scope and command the attention of the specialist fan. Those would include the likes of the World Golf Hall of Fame in Florida (even if it did consider Fred Couples worthy of enshrinement), the NASCAR Hall in Charlotte, N.C., and the College Football Hall, once it grows some walls and roots here.
For true sports kitsch, though, there is no beating the lesser-known halls, scattered about the country in both big cities and obscure nooks. If a Hall of Fame is almost as difficult to get to as it is to get into, then you know you are at the right place.
I have seen more jeweled belts than in Elton John’s closet at the Boxing Hall of Fame (off Exit 34 on the New York Thruway in Canastota).
I have seen Ron Turcotte’s silks at the National Museum of Racing and Hall of Fame in Saratoga, N.Y. Be sure to go in the summer, when the track is open.
I have relived Jesse Owens’ victory over the Fuhrer at the Track and Field Hall of Fame in New York City.
I have a cherished writing award from the United States Croquet Association, but have yet to visit their office in West Palm Beach, Fla., to see what collection they may have to honor their hall of famers.
There are other halls to visit before journeying to that great one in the sky.
I want to explore Johnny Weissmuller’s non-Tarzan period at the Swimming Hall of Fame in Ft. Lauderdale, Fla.
I want to get of photo of me next to the big pike statue outside the Freshwater Fishing Hall of Fame in Heyward, Wis.
I want to see if there really is a Pro Wrestling Hall of Fame in Amsterdam, N.Y., or is it a fake?
I want to impress my friends and neighbors by being able to say I’ve been to the Poker Hall of Fame (Las Vegas), the American Curling History Museum (Chicago), the Sailing Hall of Fame (Annapolis, Md), the National Polish-American Sports Hall of Fame (Troy, Mich).
Who wouldn’t?
So much warehoused fame. So little time.
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