There's a hall of fame for just about everyone

I was listening to a comedian the other day talking about the National Bowling Hall of Fame and I thought to myself – how fascinating that there should be such an animal.
So I dashed home to look it up on the internet and I discovered that the International Bowling Museum and Hall of Fame sits right behind Busch Stadium in St. Louis. The fact that it exists at all, and has the grandeur of being an international icon to boot absolutely blew me away.
Take a look at Wikipedia, search for Halls of Fame, and you too will be gobsmacked with the number and variety therein.
There of course are the obvious ones – football, baseball, basketball, astronaut and NASCAR (to be completed in 2010 apparently), but I’ll bet you didn’t realize there are hundreds of others.
Take, for instance, the National Surfing/Wrestling “Ironman” Hall of Fame which resides in the list. On clicking on it, however, it tells me – me the clicker, not the typer – that there is no such thing. Now how bogus is that? Don’t tease me with such a conglomeration of disparate sports and then tell me there isn’t a Hall of Fame after all. I’m crushed.
There are the National Italian Sports Hall of Fame, and the National Jewish Sports Hall of Fame, but I couldn’t for the life of me find a Catholic, Hindu, Muslim or Agnostic one nor one for the Poles, Germans or Vikings. Where is the parity in this?
There is a National Midget Auto Racing Hall of Fame, but I’m not sure if this is catering to small people or cars; and there is a Wrestling Observer Newsletter Hall of Fame. Again, I’m not terribly sure if this honors actual wrestlers, or if it hails the writers of the newsletter.
There’s even an Insurance Hall of Fame. I will bet those lovely leaders of AIG who spent $440,000 at a spa the week this great country bailed our their hind ends will get an honorable mention in that one. I think it should be renamed the Insurance Hall of Shame – I know there’d be thousands of nominees.
And so on the list went. I didn’t see one for out of work office managers, but I’d like to put up my hand for nomination if there was one.
The only Hall of Famers I ever knew, if you could call them that, were a couple of guys I met skiing years ago in the Australian Alps.
They both wore rather curious badges, and being naturally curious, I asked about them.
The badges depicted a rather bulbous balloon like shape, dangling under which were what looked like fingers. Beneath that was something I did recognize – it was a couple of crossed ski stocks – or poles as I believe they’re called here.
Well blow me down, I was actually speaking with the founding – and I believe only - members of the Crossed Stocks and Udder Club.
Founded in the 50s when skiing was a sport only for very intrepid athletes, these guys decided to take their university winter break down at Mount Kosciusko – Australia’s highest mountain at 2,229 meters (7,312 feet, give or take an inch to you Imperial people).
I do rather suspect alcohol may have played a small part in the ensuing tragic scene.
Having hiked up the snowy slopes in order to ski down them – all the while in a blizzard – one of the brave men was caught rather short in the bathroom department. And this wasn’t a case of just needing a convenient tree, if you catch my drift.
Not wanting to bother to take off his skis, he squatted neatly behind a large Snow Gum, but being in such blizzardy conditions, didn’t take into account the slope upon which he was perilously crouching.
Yes well, you guessed it, off he very reluctantly went downhill, in a position rather more crouched than a ski instructor would have you schuss, with his pants around his ankles. He was a tad abashed at also having to ski thus past the small group of children taking a ski lesson at the time.
Hurtling down the mountain, it apparently never crossed his mind to sit the hell down. I know that would have caused quite a shock to the nether regions, but as you will see as the story unfolds, it would have been the better thing to do.
Back in those days, there was a hotel to lodge weary skiers in winter, and happy hikers in summer. Being so remote, the hotel was clever enough to have a small herd of milking cows so the guests could have dairy produce at hand.
Our now shrieking out of control down-hiller met the herd. Well, actually, he didn’t meet them, he actually was perilously close to skiing under one.
Tragically, his flailing stock pierced the udder of one Bessy the Cow, thus causing her untimely death.
See you just never know how a Hall of Fame gets started, now do you.