For the Phillies, Dick Allen’s Hall of Fame journey became personal

COOPERSTOWN, N.Y. — John Middleton held a microphone Saturday night, hours before Dick Allen would finally be inducted into the Baseball Hall of Fame and tried to explain why it took so long for his boyhood idol — a hero he shared with a generation of Philadelphians — to receive baseball’s ultimate honor.

The statistics — 351 home runs and the second-highest OPS in the majors from 1964-74 — did not change since Allen retired in 1977 after playing 10 weeks with Oakland while wearing WAMPUM — his tiny Western Pennsylvania hometown — on his back instead of his last name.

But the statistics didn’t need to change.

» READ MORE: Sielski: Dick Allen’s Hall of Fame induction allows the Phillies, and Philly, to turn the page on the past

“Dick’s candidacy for the Hall of Fame over the last 40 years hasn’t foundered on the question of whether his performance on the field was good enough to warrant his admission,” Middleton said at a Saturday night celebration hosted by the Phillies. “It foundered on the question of his character. And character is the essence of a human being, and it’s incredibly personal this time around. This is my seventh induction, and it’s very different because of that reason.”

Allen refused to campaign for the Hall before he died in December of 2020. He didn’t care to rewrite the narrative — clubhouse cancer, lazy, angry — that Middleton believed kept his hero from Cooperstown. So others did.

Mark Carfagno, a former Veterans Stadium groundskeeper, started a campaign and Bill Kashatus wrote books. Mike Tollin, a Hollywood filmmaker, started making a movie. Mike Schmidt, the greatest Phillies player of all time, spoke up about his teammate. And Middleton retired No. 15 at Citizens Bank Park.

It was time for people to know the Allen they knew. For everyone involved, the march to Sunday’s Hall of Fame ceremony became personal.

“There’s the myth that we all grew up with, which is why the fans behaved the way they did,” said Tollin, who grew up in Havertown. “The reporters of the time created an image of a man who was aloof, sullen, angry. Angry? Does he have an angry bone in his body? The man, to me, was kindhearted, humble, generous, compassionate, and a deeply loving man. I felt that in every kind of way.”

» READ MORE: Bill Kashatus landed the final interview with Dick Allen before he died. His childhood hero then asked for a favor.

Fearlessly wielded a 42-ounce bat with presence and style, combining plate discipline and power to become one of the game’s most intimidating hitters during a notorious pitchers’ era. — Allen’s Hall of Fame plaque inscription

Allen retired after the 1974 season but Richie Ashburn learned he was considering a return. Ashburn, then one of the team’s broadcasters, recruited Schmidt and Dave Cash to drive to Allen’s farm in Perkasie for a secret meeting, as Allen’s contract belonged to the Braves.

“That was the first time I had ever met Dick,” Schmidt said. “And all he wanted to know was if the inner circle of our team really wanted to win. That’s what he asked us.”

They played H-O-R-S-E on a basketball hoop in the barn and Allen’s wife cooked ribs. Allen told the Phillies he would think about it. Three months later, the players learned that Dallas Green was firing fastballs at Allen to get him up to speed.

Six years earlier, Allen had kissed the dirt at Connie Mack Stadium and his wish to be traded out of Philadelphia was soon granted. He heard racial slurs from the crowd, clashed with reporters, had a rock thrown through the window of his living room, received death threats, and played the field with a batting helmet to protect him from glass bottles that some fans threw at him.

That narrative was written. Now he was returning to Philly and the tone was different.

» READ MORE: Dick Allen never liked special attention in his hometown. Now his friends in Wampum, Pa. are celebrating his Hall of Fame induction.

“I’ll never forget his first at-bat. It was redemption,” Schmidt said. “Dick went up to bat and it was the old Dick Allen. He walked up, he put the bat between his legs, he put the helmet on, he adjusted his glasses like he always did. And the fans gave him a standing ovation. That was one of the biggest moments of my career when the fans gave Dick Allen a standing ovation. They were saying to Dick, ‘We’re sorry. We remember how it was back in the day in the ’60s.’”

Allen was no longer the phenom he was at Connie Mack Stadium as he said he played through an Achilles injury. But he was a needed presence for the cast of players who would eventually win the franchise’s first World Series crown. He hosted team dinners in his hotel room during road trips and hung out after games at Garry Maddox’s home, where Maddox’s wife made dinner while Allen made Maddox believe in himself.

Schmidt was mired in an early-season slump in 1976 when Allen told him to stay in the clubhouse while the rest of the team stretched on the field before a game at Wrigley Field. Schmidt sat with Allen at his locker and Allen told him he needed to smile more.

“That wasn’t my nature,” Schmidt said.

Allen told Schmidt he wanted him to act like a wide receiver when they played catch before each inning started while Allen acted like a quarterback when he threw over from first base. He wanted Schmidt to give him a thumbs- up after pitches. They’re going to have fun, Allen said.

“Three hours later, I had four home runs and went 5-for-6 and we won the game,” Schmidt said. “I had more fun in a game than I ever had in my life thanks to Dick Allen.”

Earned 1964 N.L. Rookie of the Year honors with Phillies after leading league in runs, triples and total bases during his first of nine straight seasons with at least 20 long balls. Reinvigorated White Sox with 1972 A.L. M.V.P. campaign, tallying league-best totals in home runs, RBI and walks. Corner infielder led his league in homers twice, in OPS four times and was a seven-time All-Star. — Allen’s Hall of Fame plaque inscription

Tollin and Allen hung in dive bars, sang The Intruders’ “Cowboys to Girls,” and comforted each other when they needed it. His boyhood idol — Tollin used to ask his dad why fans booed Allen — became a friend.

He called Middleton in the spring of 2020 and told him Allen had cancer. If the Phillies were going to retire No. 15, it had to be now. They brought him to the ballpark that summer and honored him even though the club typically waited until a player made it to Cooperstown before retiring their number.

“I’ll never forget that day when Mike Tollin called the house and said, ‘We need to speak to Dick. John is on the line.’ I put it on speaker,” Allen’s widow, Willa, said Sunday in her Hall of Fame speech. “John said, ‘Dick, we’re going to retire your number.’ Dick looked confused for a moment and said, ‘What number?’ I jumped in and said, ‘No. 15.’ There was a long pause and then he simply said, ‘Thank you. I really appreciate it.’ That was it. No big speech. No long reply. Just quiet gratitude.”

Allen prepared a proper speech to deliver at the ballpark with the help of a speech writer. But the cancer was setting in. He couldn’t read it. So he instead spoke off the cuff.

“What I did not expect,” Middleton said as his voice began to break. “What I don’t think I could have ever anticipated is what Dick did for us that day.”

» READ MORE: Playing in Arkansas scarred Dick Allen. Decades later, his son returned to honor his long journey to the Hall of Fame.

Allen said it was the “honor of a lifetime” and a day he would never forget.

“And he closed by saying, ‘I want to support the many great fans who supported me during my career. You always believed in me, and I am forever grateful. I hope that I proved I belonged,’” Middleton said. “So what Dick did in the five minutes he spoke was, he gave everyone absolution. He absolved us from what we did to not help him. He absolved the organization. He absolved the fans. He absolved the entire city.”

“He emerged from the sad place of his life as a baseball player, and he emerged with goodwill and peace. There was no recrimination, no bitterness, no vindictiveness, just love, forgiveness, and grace. And for me, that is the final word about Dick’s character.”

After that ceremony, Tollin sat with Allen in the ballpark. He asked Allen how he felt. No words. Just a tear in his eye. The man — not the myth — was finally honored.

“You could feel everything fading away. All that hurt,” Tollin said. “If he was here, he would just say, ‘Can you believe this?’ The humility. Not ‘It’s about time.’ I don’t think we’d ever hear this. We would hear, ‘Man, oh man.’ That was his thing.

“There’s going to be a plaque that they’re going to put up and that means forever little boys and girls are going to walk in there and go, ‘Daddy, mommy, grandpa, who was Dick Allen?’ And they’re going to tell them great stories. I know when it’s my turn, I’m just going to say, ‘Man, oh man.’”