A religious experience

To enter the Pro Football Hall of Fame, adults have to fork over $21, but I didn’t consider it an admission fee Tuesday when a few other beat writers and I finally made it to Canton, Ohio, about an hour’s drive from the 49ers’ temporary home in Youngstown.

It was more like an offering.

As a child, I worshiped Tony Dorsett and the moments when the sermon ended, my dad ferried us home and — glory, glory, Hallelujah! — the voice of the pastor was replaced by Pat Summerall. True story: At 8, I watched the Pro Football Hall of Fame Game in its entirety (final score: Packers 0, Chargers 0).

Thirty-two years, a wife and two daughters later, I arrived in Canton and was transported back to a time when I pulled tube socks to my knees and was riveted by scoreless preseason ties.

There was a display case with Eric Dickerson goggles! And over there were Bob Griese’s glasses, Tom Matte’s wristband, the knee brace Joe Namath wore in Super Bowl III, Refrigerator Perry’s size-23 Super Bowl ring and, of course, the busts of every Hall of Famer (they did a bang-up job of getting Dorsett’s likeness right, by the way)…

It was all so great, but then we discovered the best part. Guess what? Heaven on earth is in a basement: Yes, we were allowed to see the archive room at the Hall of Fame.

What’s that rolled-up green carpet? Oh, it’s the section of Three Rivers Stadium turf where Franco Harris caught the Immaculate Reception. The innocuous-looking green garment bag? It’s what Pat Tillman traveled with when he played for the Cardinals. That writing on the white box on the metal shelf: “Weeb Ewbank Super Bowl III Film Reels.”

And the mind also reels. At least mine did down there.

So, is the Pro Football Hall of Fame everything a lifelong NFL degenerate could hope for?

Amen.