There were only two then -- Grover Cleveland Alexander and Robin Roberts. Ashburn and his 2,574 hits were nowhere to be found amid the Ruths and Mantles. He'd been turned down by the baseball writers’ electorate in 1982, having spent 15 years on their ballot without getting in. His only shot was the Veterans Committee.

In the companion book to the lengthy PBS Ken Burns series on baseball in 1994, George Will wrote a piece about baseball in the 1950s. He wondered why Ashburn hadn't been elected. Me agree with George Will? Stranger things have happened, I suppose.

Whitey finally made it to the Hall of Fame when the Veterans Committee voted him in on March 7, 1995 -- my 27th birthday. Best birthday present I could have asked for. Mike Schmidt had been voted in by the writers two months earlier, getting more votes than any other third baseman ever. Two guys from Philly inducted in the same summer.

I kept in mind that Tom Seaver drew a record 20,000 to the ceremony when he made it in 1992, most of whom were obnoxious louts whose vocabulary that afternoon was limited to "Down in front!" By the time we got to Cooperstown, we were 30,000 strong. There were 200 chartered busses from Philadelphia alone, and they were parked in a semicircle around the outside of the crowd. Mayor Ed Rendell showed up, as did a Philly string band in full Mummer's regalia. The emcee said he felt like Moses, looking over "a sea of red."

Richie got his plaque before Schmidt. As the accomplishments on his plaque were read out -- number of batting titles, number of hits -- the crowd's applause built up spontaneously, like a floor demonstration at a convention. His full name was engraved on the plaque, and many of us learned that Ashburn's first name is Don. (His twin sister -- is Ashburn the only Hall of Famer who was born a twin, I wonder? -- was named Donna.)

Seaver, I think, gave the best Hall of Fame induction speech I've ever heard. Whitey's was a close second. And it was extemporaneous.

He said he regretted not getting elected sooner because his father, sister Donna, and grown daughter Jan had died within the past few years. For a second he seemed on the verge of tears, and we 30,000 held our breath. He then quickly noted that a benefit of being honored late was that his grandchildren, whom he introduced, were present to take part in the celebration. Everybody sighed in relief.

Ashburn said he had just been informed, "It's the greatest crowd in the history of the Hall of Fame." Another long ovation. "I wish I could tell you that we had Tastykakes and pretzels out there" -- laughter -- "but I think you're on your own in that department."

He concluded by talking about his final season with the original 1962 New York Mets. "The worst team in baseball history ... and I was the most valuable player."

That, I immediately recognized, was why it took until 1995 for him to get into the Hall. Phil Rizzuto spent years talking about the championship teams he played on. Ashburn, in contrast, was almost always self-deprecating. He recalled how, after their final loss that season, manager Casey Stengel told his players, "This has been a team effort. No one or two guys could have done all this." Ashburn said in closing that everybody, not just one or two people, were responsible for getting into Cooperstown.

I'm glad Richie made it to Cooperstown while he was still alive. Nellie Fox was voted in just this year, 20 years after he died. Negro Leaguer Leon Day, who went in the same day as Richie and Schmidtty, died a week after he was elected in March. And the Hall of Fame is still electing nineteeth-century players. Somehow, having a great-grandson accept a plaque for an ancestor who died 60 years ago doesn't have the same allure.

During Hall of Fame weekend in 1996, I finally met Richie, signing autographs in a Cooperstown storefront. He was, at last, a returning Hall of Famer. I plunked down the money and walked over to his table. He very nicely wrote out his name with the blue Magic Marker. I was going to bring up his getting elected on my birthday, but I couldn't say anything beyond "Thanks."

This past season, I contributed to an online baseball magazine and thus got press box access to Veterans Stadium. Once or twice I passed by Richie, but, again, never got up the courage to say anything.