Baseball, hot dogs, metaphors and Hall of Famers

Speaking of legends wearing No. 4 for Wisconsin professional sports teams ... my wife and I got to meet Paul Molitor tonight.

Molitor was my childhood baseball hero. I followed him through his run as a Milwaukee Brewer, a World Series MVP Toronto Blue Jay and finally a Minnesota Twin. But my wife is an even bigger fan than I am. Tracy is a baseball fanatic (really a Brewers fanatic), and Molitor is her all-time favorite player, too.

Some time after Tracy and I started going out, she shared with me that she always promised herself that she would make it to Cooperstown, N.Y., when Molitor was inducted into the National Baseball Hall of Fame. So when that rolled around in 2004, while we were engaged, I made sure she got there. That was a pretty awesome experience (if you're a baseball fan, I strongly recommend Cooperstown for your next vacation). But we didn't actually get to meet "The Ignitor" himself at that time.

So there was a real sense of awe two weeks ago when Tracy's museum in Farmington, Minn., got an invitation to attend the preview opening of the Hall of Fame's touring Baseball as America exhibit at the Minnesota History Center in St. Paul. Molitor, a St. Paul native, was scheduled to greet fans, along with fellow Hall of Famers Harmon Killebrew of the Twins and Ryne Sandberg of the Chicago Cubs. And this was taking place during my break week at Luther Seminary. What could be more perfect? I'll tell you what: free hot dogs. (There was a price involved to attend, but I'll tell you, those hot dogs were really too good to be free.)

Meeting Molitor, Killebrew and Sandberg was cool enough. All really nice guys. But the exhibit, which opens on Friday and runs through March 4, was a grand slam in itself. There was a ton of stuff on display that I hadn't seen at the Cooperstown museum. The focus here is on baseball as a metaphor for the larger American experience.

Progress in racial desegregation: A jersey worn by Jackie Robinson in his last season and a supportive letter sent to him by then-Senator John F. Kennedy; the jersey worn by Hank Aaron when he broke Babe Ruth's all-time home-run record and a letter from an angry baseball fan who wished Aaron, as an African-American, nothing but bad luck as he neared that milestone.

The developing American lust for money: A copy of Willie Mays' 1951 rookie contract for $5,000, and near it, a thick prospectus from 2000 touting then free-agent Alex Rodriguez as he sought what proved to be a 10-year, $252 million contract.

And the unifying, national thrill of the game: The bats used by Babe Ruth, Roger Maris and Mark McGwire when they each set their single-season home-run records; Harry Caray's enormous glasses; the original manuscript for the lyrics to "Take Me Out to the Ballgame"; Curt Schilling's cap decorated in memory of those killed in the Sept. 11, 2001, terrorist attacks.

It's a remarkable exhibit, and it makes you realize how far even a game can go to bring people together. Indeed, one of the reasons Tracy first asked me out almost five years ago was because she noticed me wearing a Paul Molitor jersey. I got to thank Paul for that tonight.