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Wade Boggs: Hall of Fame 2005

This one's for you, mom and dad, with love

By GARY SHELTON
Published August 1, 2005

COOPERSTOWN, N.Y. - Through a father's eyes, watery and wondrous, it looked like the far side of a dream.

On the finest day of Win Boggs' 80 years, he sat on a folding chair beneath a revival tent, and he felt his heart swell in his chest. That was his son on the stage. That was his son on the highlight screen. That was his son being welcomed by the legends.

That was Wade, and now Wade was saying the words that would leave knots in both their throats.

"Daddy, I wouldn't be up here without you," his son was saying. "I owe everything to you. My mentor, my idol. Without you, I wouldn't be standing up here."

Win Boggs, sitting a sharp single away to Boggs' right, reached up and saluted his son.

Then he dabbed away a few more tears.

Measure the moment not in his statistics, but in the tears of a family. The Hall of Fame didn't just induct Wade Boggs on Sunday. It inducted the family. There was a piece of all of them on the stage with Boggs: his mother, his wife, his siblings, his children. And his father. Especially his father.

"This day is for him," Wade said. "It's for him. He taught me the way the game is played."

Boggs' voice broke again. "I'm just happy he was here."

When the first ovation rose, Win Boggs stood with everyone else. He pulled himself up on the tent pole in front of him, and he gripped it for support as he stood, ignoring the ache of the arthritis in his knees.

That was his son up there with Willie Mays and Johnny Bench and the rest of them. That was his son lifting the plaque. That was his son drawing the applause. For a father, it was a pretty good payoff for all the ground balls, for all the advice, for all the encouragement.

"I've been proud of him his entire life," Win said in that crusty former Marine, former Air Force voice of his.

That Win was here to see it has been considered something of a family blessing. Over the last couple of years, Win has battled lung cancer and heart problems, and for a while, there was a fear he might not witness this day.

"We could have lost him a lot of times," said Ann Ashton, Wade's sister. "I believe God's hand has been on my dad. He was supposed to see this."

Through a father's eyes, how could a day appear more perfect? Under a blue sky, in a town Win calls "the prettiest place I've ever seen," that was his son talking about doubters and dreamers.

On this day, Win was among the doubters. He had read Wade's speech, and the words had left him choked up. No way his son would get through it.

"Forget the damn speech," Win told him on Saturday night. "Get about six beers and just talk."

"Debbie would kill me," Wade said. So he stuck to his speech, and everyone wept. Still, Wade made it through.

"Surprised the hell out of me," Win said. "I never thought he'd make it through."

* * *

Through the eyes of a mother, it would have appeared magical.

Sue Boggs would have cried, too. She would have cheered and she would have danced and she would have hugged everyone in upstate New York.

Almost two decades have passed since Sue was killed in a traffic accident, but for Boggs, the wounds remain as fresh as her memory.

Sue Boggs was up there with Boggs, too. Of course she was.

"There is one person that's not here today," Boggs said, voice cracking. "She should be. She was the rock of the family.

"Mom, I love you. I miss you. I wish you were here."

For Ann, struggling with her emotions, that was the hardest part. As important as this day was to Win, Ann said, it would have been more so to Sue.

"She loved baseball," Ann said. "She loved watching him play. They talked every day.

"I'm a Christian. I believe my mother is in heaven. And I cannot believe that a loving Father would not pull that curtain back and let her see this day when she was missed so much. I want to believe with all my heart that she is watching."

* * *

Through the eyes of a sister, it looked something like a slide show.

Wade would talk about Little League, and the image of Wade as a boy would pop into Ann's mind. He talked about high school, and there he was as a teenager. Every time Boggs would mention a moment in his life, the images would shift.

Sunday was a difficult day for Ann Ashton. Next month is the 20th anniversary of the diagnosis of her multiple sclerosis, and the field beside the Clark Sports Center is ill equipped for wheelchairs. Despite the bumps, despite the heat, despite the journey, Ann was not going to stay away.

"I don't care if they would have to bring me in on a stretcher in an ambulance, I would have come," she said, laughing.

Ann sat in the tent near her father. Her husband, Warren, also in a wheelchair, sat next to her.

"I just want Wade to know how proud I am of him," Ann said. "Not just as a ballplayer who has made the Hall of Fame, but as a man, as a dad, as a husband, as a son, as a brother."

Ann grins, then she tells a story. She was 12 years old, maybe 13. She was babysitting Wade who was 4 or 5.

"He would be out playing in the yard, and it would be time to get him cleaned up," she said. "He always had a bat. I would tell him to come inside and he would say no. I would say it a little more forcefully, and he would say no.

"I was 81/2 years older than him. I was the boss ... until he picked up the bat. I would want to grab his ear or his shirt, and he would take the bat and say, "If you get close to me, I'll swing this bat.' I'd say, "Fine, just stay out there.'

"Even at 4, he swung with authority."

When Wade was 27, Ann was diagnosed with M.S. Hers was a catastrophic onset, and she remembers how her brother helped her pull through.

"I had just been diagnosed, and I was really depressed," she said. "I didn't want to eat. I really just wanted to pack it in. Wade came into my room and talked to me.

"He put it in baseball terms. He said, "The game may not be going your way, but you've got nine innings to play, and you don't forfeit. You play all nine and you see how the game comes out.' It was wonderful. It wasn't sob, sob, sob, pity, pity, pity, oh, poor sister. He was frank, but it was very loving. He has always been an encouragement for me."

Ann's disease has gotten worse over the years. It has been 12 years since she was able to walk. Her endurance is poor, her energy is slight. Still, she says she has gained more spiritually than she has lost physically.

"I think my father and Wade know that. I hope it brings them some comfort. I see the pain in their eyes. I know they hate this disease and what it's done to me. But I hope they know I've been blessed."

Ann did her share of crying Sunday, too. She was fine, she said, when he talked about facts and numbers. Every time he mentioned his family, however, the tears flowed. It was wonderful.

Oh, and when the ovations came, despite the M.S., Ann stood, too.

"I am flying," she said. "This chair can't hold me."

* * *

Through a father's eyes, it looked like forever.

Win stood in the Hall of Fame gallery on Saturday night, looking at a blank spot on a wall. No one will see that spot again. As of Sunday, his son's plaque is hanging there.

"That thing's going to be there until the end of time," Win said. "That's mind-boggling, isn't it?"

[Last modified August 1, 2005, 01:06:15]