What do you know? It's finally Dick Allen's time

Awards — accolades, too — often walk the invisible line of being meaningful or meaningless. All depending on the circumstances surrounding their occupied space and acknowledgment.

The Baseball Hall of Fame has always been one of the most protected spaces in sports but also one of the hardest to have unconditional respect and reverence for — for reasons too long and deep to write in this space.

The circumstance of the moment today: the MLB life of the undeniable Dick Allen. The ambiguous one who twice missed the HOF Golden Days Era Committee’s induction by one vote. First in 2014, then again in 2021. Whose name first appeared on the Baseball Writers’ Association of America HOF ballot in 1983.

In 1993, during the All-Star Game in Baltimore, Negro Leagues legend Ted ‘‘Double Duty’’ Radcliffe — this according to Allen’s son Richard — saw Allen, stopped him and said, ‘‘You coulda played with us.’’ To which the senior Allen looked at the junior Allen and said, ‘‘Did you hear what he said?’’ He asked Radcliffe to repeat it one more time. Radcliffe: ‘‘You coulda played with us.’’ Allen turned back to his son and simply said: ‘‘That’s my Hall of Fame right there. I’m good.’’

Allen won the American League MVP in 1972 while in a White Sox uniform, purportedly saving the team from moving to St. Petersburg, Florida, or Seattle. (Sound familiar?) Something we still should be thanking him for. He won National League Rookie of the Year in 1964 in a Phillies uniform. At one time, he was the highest-paid player in baseball.

Death found him in December 2020.

The Sports Illustrated cover in 1972. Famous. Infamous. The subtitle: ‘‘Chicago’s Dick Allen Juggles His Image.’’ Pregame cigarette appropriately dangling from his lips. Inappropriate. Still hangs in the Sox’ press box. Inside the Allen iconic cover issue, SI wrote on him: ‘‘Nomadic and nonchalant Dick Allen (see cover), who could be almost anywhere, is now in Chicago, and surprise of surprises, he seems to like it there, hitting game-winning homers and receiving homage as the White Sox leader.’’

The same player SI would admit, almost 50 years later, that while in Philly ‘‘played in the face of racism from team and fans alike’’ and had on its cover in 1970 in a Cardinals uniform, smiling, alongside the headline: ‘‘Baseball In Turmoil.’’ (And the symbolism of how he was referred to as ‘‘Richie’’ on the cover, finally changed to ‘‘Dick’’ for the White Sox cover after years of him telling the media ‘‘Richie’’ was not his name, is also not lost.)

The angry black man. The overconfident ‘‘colored’’ teammates and coaches couldn’t vibe with and fans struggled to understand. The ‘‘I ain’t’’ Jackie Robinson. The other Reggie Jackson. The original Albert Belle. Rickey Henderson before Rickey Henderson. My hero.

Every time he did something MLB and the game considered ‘‘anti,’’ his stock dropped like a Model S Plaid. Only to rise whenever he displayed his unmatched talent on the field. His career .378 on-base percentage, almost 2,000 hits (1,848, to be exact) with a .292 batting average, .534 slugging percentage and .912 OPS indicate one vote for the Hall should have sufficed.

Allen’s baseball history in Chicago is defined by two historic manifestations. One, on April 17, 1976, while a member of the Phillies in a game against the Cubs, Allen pulled Mike Schmidt aside in the dugout — to help get him out of an early-season hitting slump — to remind him that central to all things baseball is to have fun, remain a kid at heart, smile. Which led to Schmidt having the only four-homer game in the history of Wrigley.

The other? That entire 1972 season on the South Side. The second (to Nellie Fox in 1959) Sox player to win the AL MVP. And only one of four in the 124-year history of the franchise.

Two seminal books would be written to capture the relationship between Allen and baseball. The first, his co-authored autobiography ‘‘Crash: The Life and Times of Dick Allen’’ (with Tim Whitaker) in 1989, in which Allen wrote: ‘‘I wonder how good I could have been. [Baseball] could have been a joy, a celebration. Instead, I played angry. In baseball, if a couple things go wrong for you and those things get misperceived, or distorted, you get a label. I was labeled an outlaw, and after a while, that’s what I became.’ ’’

In 2016, the book ‘‘God Almighty Hisself: The Life and Legacy of Dick Allen’’ was published. Described in summary as Allen having ‘‘established himself as the premier individualist in a game that prided itself on conformity.’’

Outside of the disrespect that shadowed his 15-year playing career and his post-career, for that matter, most often lost remains the greatness of not just what Dick Allen did but of whom he truly was. And to the people of his time, what he stood for and against. His honor, so conveniently vacated.

An honor that was more than likely held against him by those with baseball power until now. Which is why the joy accompanying his Hall induction is so subdued. Can’t trust them.

The movie ‘‘Crash’’ (made 16 years after Allen’s autobiography of the same name) is described as ‘‘a raw and unsettling morality piece on modern angst and urban disconnect.’’ How’s that for art imitating one man’s life?