I didn’t buy the bat rack when I was in Cooperstown. I should have. I walked past it more than once in the gift shop, ran my fingers along the smooth curve of the wood, and told myself I’d come back for it. But like so many things, I let it slip by, distracted by the enormity of the Hall, by the ghosts in the jerseys and the hush that fills the place like cathedral air.
Weeks later, at home, the regret settled in like an unclaimed base runner. I went online and ordered a rack—not out of impulse, but out of longing. The kind that lives in the quiet between innings.
I wouldn't hang it, though, until I had a bat. Just one. A batless rack felt like a story without a protagonist. So I started digging—eBay, ShopGoodwill, digital pawn shops of forgotten Americana. And there it was: $10, plus a little shipping, for a Louisville Slugger etched with Cooperstown. It arrived like a sacred relic, and I hung the rack with care, set the bat in place, and stepped back.
It looked right. But it felt incomplete. Like a lineup missing a cleanup hitter.
So I found some photos—Bo Jackson, Irene Ruhnke, George Brett, and Satchel Paige—and used ChatGPT to turn them into art prints. Four saints of the game, each framed and watching over the bat like guardians of the diamond.
Bo was my childhood god. Not because of stats or accolades, but because of the way he broke bats. Not on pitches—though he did that too—but with his bare hands, over his knee, like some mythic lumberjack grown bored with the rules of physics.
One of my favorite memories is tied to that strength. My dad took me, my grandpa, and my brother to see Bo play. I can still feel the buzz of the stadium, the smell of hot dogs and fresh-cut grass, the way my heart thumped knowing he was there. I don't remember the score. I don’t even remember the opponent. But I remember the way my grandpa cheered, the glint in my dad’s eyes, the way my brother and I leaned forward in unison. That day is carved into my memory like the grain in that bat on my wall.
Baseball has always been a shared language. It’s how we say “I love you” without having to say it. How we spend time, how we remember. And now I’ve got a little space on the wall where all of that lives—a Cooperstown bat, a Hall of Fame rack, and five reminders of what the game can be.
Always,
Dave
Bo Jackson
Geroge Brett
Satchel Paige
Irene Ruhnke
