COOPERSTOWN, N.Y. -- The baseball man stood in the garden outside the Hall of Fame. No one had to explain to him he was in a special place.

"When you come here," he said, "it reminds you of everything that's great about our game"

Then came a moment of thought and reflection, one nobody can escape in these ugly times baseball lives in.

"Boy," he said, when that moment of reflection was complete, "we could really screw that up. Couldn't we?"

Hoo boy. Could they ever.

Hall of Fame induction weekends are no time to be thinking about strikes and revenue sharing. Hall of Fame induction weekends are a time to think about the romance of a beautiful sport, a time to savor the memories of the heroes of our youth.

And so, on an overcast Sunday afternoon on the final weekend of July, thousands of people descended on the magical village of Cooperstown.

Fathers. Sons. Grandfathers.

Mothers. Daughters. Grandmothers.

You saw them traipsing through the streets of Cooperstown, with their blankets and their coolers, to spend an afternoon stretched out on a hillside in upstate New York.

And why? Ask yourself that question: Why?

Were they there simply to listen to speeches by a retired shortstop (Osborne Earl "Ozzie" Smith) and an enduring voice of summertime (the Phillies' golden-throated Harry Kalas)?

Heck, no.

They were there because these men, because this sport, meant something -- no, STILL means something -- in all of their lives.

"That was really something, looking out and seeing that sea of red," said Kalas, after accepting the Ford C. Frick Award that enshrines him in the broadcasters' wing of the Hall. "It's a reminder that without fans, we don't have a job. Without fans, we don't get to do what we love to do.

"We get paid to call games for baseball fans. And seeing all those fans out there today, it was something I'll never forget."

The official estimate was that 19,000 people showed up Sunday for the induction of Smith, Kalas and longtime Detroit sportswriter Joe Falls into their assorted wings of the Hall.

Those 19,000 people didn't need a ballgame or a fireworks show or a rock concert to bring them there. No, they came because all the joy that men like Smith and Kalas have given them has made their lives more worth living.

They came because baseball holds a place in those lives that years of labor wars and turmoil haven't been able to kill.

"Those people here today, they were baseball fans," Smith said. "You know a lot of these people had to go out of their way to get here today. And the fact that there were so many who did, I think, speaks to the support our organization has. It was very special, very heartwarming."

In St. Louis, they love baseball more than riverboats, more than pasta, more than Kurt Warner. So it said something that close to 10,000 Cardinals fans dressed themselves in red and made a convenient little 1,200-mile trek to shower the Wizard with one last barrage of cheers.

On the other hand, it also said something that on the three occasions Sunday on which Bud Selig's name was announced, the boos were so loud, you could probably have heard them in the upper deck of Busch Stadium.

When the day's emcee, George Grande, summoned the commissioner to introduce Ozzie, the boos were especially vociferous. At which point a fascinating thing happened:

Many of the 47 Hall of Famers on the stage rose to their feet and gave the commish a brief, but pointed, standing O.

Later, after the boos had stopped and the ceremony had ended, Smith was asked what he'd made of that standing O.

"I think what they were saying was that this was about baseball," the Wiz said. "I think irregardless of what's happened (in the game) . . . they still support baseball. Sure, we'd like some changes made. But this was a day that was about baseball -- and the love of baseball. And that's what I think the Hall of Famers were saying."

The Hall of Fame, and the men in it, are supposed to be above their sport's never-ending fray. And if the commissioner was listening closely to those boos, what he ought to hear is not their unhappiness with him -- but their unhappiness with the odor that keeps wafting over their field of dreams.

Even George Grande -- normally the perfect, smiling, apolitical master of ceremonies on these normally joyous occasions -- seemed to sense the message these lovers of the game were sending.

So, during a brief intermission that preceded the induction of Ozzie Smith, Grande looked over his shoulder at Selig, then glanced out into the crowd at union chief Donald Fehr.

"They both care about this game," Grande said. "They both love this game. . . . So remember what Ted Williams told us long ago -- that this game is bigger than any one of us.

"Through compromise," Grande concluded, "Bud and Don -- with your love for this game -- let's get a settlement and let's keep baseball playing."

And with that, 19,000 people clapped as loudly as they clapped all day. Selig and Fehr were among them. Out there on the hillside, fans chanted: "No strike, no strike."

Nowhere does the thought of a strike seem more sacrilegious than it does on Induction Sunday in baseball paradise. Nowhere does baseball seem more important, more romantic, more pure.

Boy, they could really screw that up. Couldn't they?