I was inducted into the baseball Hall of Fame in 2010. After all the years of grudging respect from the players, managers, and the lords of baseball, to be treated with such reverence was almost overwhelming. I was treated as though I was a long-lost member of the family, the prodigal son returning home.
I get so emotional, it’s still tough to talk about. And the bad thing, I had cancer and a couple of strokes before I went to Cooperstown for the induction ceremony. So in order for me to go from one station to another, to talk to a writer or have my picture taken by a photographer, or for a radio broadcaster to talk to me, ask me questions, and put me on the air, I need two people—one on each arm, helping me to walk.
It’s thrilling now, because I can walk unaided. About a month ago I collapsed from pneumonia, and they thought it was over with. I called my two surviving sons and brought them in. One came in from Las Vegas. But now I’m feeling good again. Joy says I should have been dead about six times. So I’m hanging in there pretty good for an old guy who started out with twenty-two months in the hospital when I was four years old. I had to fight it then, and I’ve had to fight it all the way.
My trip to Cooperstown began with a telephone call. They tell you that you have to be at a certain telephone. You have to give them the number of that telephone. Then you have to be close enough to an airport to catch an airplane almost immediately. To do that, Joy and I drove from our home in Springville, California—gateway to Sequoia National Park—to San Diego, a five-and-a-half-hour drive. We took up residence with my son, got up in the morning, and had breakfast at a restaurant close to the airport, waiting for the call.
I hadn’t been told a thing, whether I was in or out.
Why all the cloak-and-dagger? Because they’re scared to death the news media will get ahold of it and break the news. They hold off until the last minute and then they tell you.
We were down in San Diego waiting for the call, and Joy answered the telephone.
“Doug, it’s for you,” she said.
I knew enough to know that they don’t call you if you don’t get in. I walked over and grabbed the phone, and a voice said, “Mr. Harvey, you’ve been elected to the Hall of Fame. You’re to be at the San Diego airport in an hour and a half.”
I started crying like a baby. Hell, I get all teary-eyed now just thinking about it. I mean, I was awed. I thought to myself, How could a kid from El Centro, who’d never been anywhere in his life, wind up in the Baseball Hall of Fame?
Joy and I got on a plane and flew east to Indianapolis for a press conference.
I still had one more command performance in July 2010. The Hall flew Joy and me to Cooperstown. I had to fly to what seemed like the middle of nowhere, and they sent a limousine there and drove me to the Hall of Fame. I will say this: The ride was breathtaking.
I met the staff and was given a tour of the Hall that knocked my socks off. We were wined and dined, and the people were so gracious it brought tears to my eyes. Everything was first-class, just superb treatment, and the other Hall of Famers present were just so welcoming and gracious. All the old grudges disappeared, and instead we were able to laugh about them. Joy and I felt welcomed, and it wasn’t always that way. They went out of their way to find accommodations for forty family members, in-laws, out-laws, cousins, nephews—they came from all over. It was such a great honor. There are so few umpires in the Hall. I was number nine.
I had umpired for thirty-one years. I made a lot of sacrifices, missed a lot of time with my kids and other family members. To have that induction was really wonderful.
The day of the ceremony was memorable. A few months before, I had been pretty sick. The doctors weren’t sure my health would be good enough for me to give my speech in person, so I went ahead and taped one. Luckily for me, I recovered enough to make the trip to Cooperstown. I was on the stage while my prerecorded video was playing, and wouldn’t you know it, it started to drizzle. My wife, who was wearing a beautiful purple dress and a purple hat, was getting soaked. I had to do something.
As a sort of joke, in my role as God, I put my two arms up to signal the rain to stop, and darned if it didn’t stop within thirty seconds of my doing that. After the video ended, I told the crowd, “I want you to notice, I stopped the rain.” They cheered and cheered. They loved it. So did I.
There’s an old saying that they hire you to be the best, and they expect you to be even better. That’s what umpiring is all about. It’s a tough racket, believe me. I worked hard every day and never compromised my integrity, on the field or off. Being fair and honest is all I know. That’s what got me into the Hall of Fame.
Ted Williams always said that hitting a baseball was the toughest thing to do in sports. Hell, to me, calling balls and strikes in the big leagues is the toughest thing to do in sports. I’d have liked to have taken Ted back behind the plate during a ball game to show him what tough really is.
I’ve heard it said that umpires are a necessary evil. Well, we’re necessary, but we’re not evil. We’re the backbone of the game, the game’s judge, jury, and executioner. Without us, there’s no game.
Before each game, no matter what, I’d tell my crew, “C’mon, boys, let’s walk into hell.”
That was my world. I loved what I did. It was my whole life. Just that and my wife and kids. I loved it.