Cemetery visit reminds Hawk of journey to Hall

On a day that every year devolves into tantrums and hostilities, Andre Dawson didn't wait for the vote – a simple yay or nay on a 21-year baseball career – to honor the people who put him there.

On a day the roar over the jilted and the process that bore the injustices would drown out the words of the gracious and appreciative, Dawson dragged himself on two rebuilt knees into a south Florida cemetery.

Yay or nay, whether what came was good news or bad, Dawson said his thanks. He might not run like he once did, might not be as strong as he once was, but he could still carry his share of gratitude.

To the uncle, who taught him the game.

To the grandmother, who taught him patience.

To the mother, who taught him so much more.

Together, they'd turned ''Pudgy,'' his childhood nickname, into ''Hawk.'' Together, they'd supplied the broom sticks that clubbed the pitched rocks off the neighbors' houses on Southwest 7th Place in Florida.

They'd pushed him through Southwest Miami High and Florida A&M, watched him grow into a ballplayer and then into a man, encouraged him when it seemed his legs would not take him another step.

Now those relatives are gone, but Dawson wouldn't let them miss this, this day, because – yay or nay – it would be as much about them as it would be about him.

So he got up early Wednesday morning and went to the gym and on the way back home, hours before the phone call would come or not, stopped to maybe lean on them one more time. He'd lived this day eight times before, had started them all out the same, but had not taken this particular route home before.

''I felt a little more optimistic,'' he said. ''I wanted to share a few things at the grave sites. … And it kind of alleviated a lot of the nervousness.''

Meaningfully, it was his grandmother – Eunice Taylor – who'd told him so long ago that this was all a blessing, that the game should be fun and never to forget that, to enjoy the journey and try not to think so hard about the outcome.

She had forbidden him from running off after high school to play baseball at the Kansas City Royals' academy. She had sent him instead to college. And then she would write three times a week telling him not just to stay there, but to ''take God with you.''

And it was she who had told him, ''If you have the talent, the ability, one day someone will take notice,'' and there he was Wednesday morning, nine years on the ballot, still waiting on one more ''one day.''

''I had to do what I had to do this morning,'' he said. ''I thanked her – for the way she instilled things in me.''

Beneath the blare over blank ballots and wailing over near misses for Bert Blyleven and – OK, shockingly – Roberto Alomar, Andre Dawson pulled 15 more votes than were minimally required, became the 292nd elected member of the National Baseball Hall of Fame and in July will be enshrined with Whitey Herzog and Doug Harvey.

With him, he takes almost 2,800 career hits and 438 home runs and an MVP award, earned lifting the Cubs into last place in 1987. He takes the face of late-'80's collusion, having hurled a signed and otherwise blank contract at the owners' deceit. He takes five tools rubbed raw and ragged by the floor of Olympic Stadium, and rebirth in Chicago, and knees he somehow managed to stand on past his 40th birthday.

''It was painful,'' he said Wednesday afternoon. ''It was painful for a lot of years. [But], I knew if I fell flat on my face, somebody would carry me off the field.''

By the end, he said, he was simply thankful to have lasted as long as he did. Thirteen years later, it seems he'll need another knee-replacement surgery, which will be his third overall. He sort of laughed when asked about it, like the process of wearing out knees – both his own and prosthetic – had long ago advanced past anything reasonable.

But, somehow, they got him this far.

So, he cried some, and warmed in the delight of his wife and daughter. He stared at the final vote, at how close he was to sharing the stage with Blyleven – ''It's awful to even think about five votes,'' he said. ''My heart goes out to him. I feel for him. Five votes, it's a little hard to swallow.'' – and at all those great ballplayers feeling like he did for eight years.

His mom, Mattie Brown, was alive for the first five or so.

''It's going to happen one day,'' she'd say. ''It's inevitable. Just be ready when it happens.''

It happened. If it hadn't, well, Andre Dawson still wanted to say thanks.

Yay or nay.

''It has been,'' he said, ''a wonderful day for me.''