I'm neither clergyman nor licensed civil servant, and so I can't join people in marriage. But the bride and groom, close friends, asked me to preside at their ceremony, leading them through the statement of intent, their vows, their exchange of rings. Then, after they'd departed under an arch of baseball bats, Pastor Tom Pullyblank, another close friend, sealed the marriage when he and two witnesses signed the certificate. So, don't worry. The couple is well and truly wed.

Wait! "An arch of baseball bats?" Oh, yes. This perfect wedding-beautiful music, gleaming Christmas lights, red poinsettias, beaming friends-took place at The National Baseball Hall of Fame and Museum, and in baseball's most sacred space: the Plaque Gallery.

You know that wonderful chamber. It's a marble mini-basilica with vaulted ceiling and an echoing nave. Along its length, the walls of side galleries are adorned with hundreds of bronze plaques honoring baseball's immortals. The December 19th wedding was held halfway down the central nave, at the foot of a handsome Christmas tree gleaming with lights. Along both sides of the nave were those beaming friends, about 150 of them. A third of them rested their hands on the grip end of baseball bats. At the end, they formed an arcade of crossed bats for the newlyweds to pass under.

It's rare, of course, for a wedding to be held in the Plaque Gallery. Visitors there are usually the baseball faithful, come to venerate the game's greats. But the December ceremony was especially apt. For the groom was Tim Wiles, research director for the Hall's Baseball Library.

Now, about Tim. You may know him as a baseball scholar who's never lost a boy's enthusiasm for the game. Or you may know him as leader and participant in dozens of community causes, especially the concert series. Or maybe you've seen him dressed as Casey, that embodiment of mythic baseball. Tim's public recitations of "Casey at the Bat," well-paced and dramatic, must number in the thousands by now. But his rich voice always makes the poem fresh, and usually he draws his audience right into the recitation.

For some years, Tim Wiles has also been Cooperstown's most eligible bachelor. His very active social life never seemed to bring him into orbit with just the right woman. Tim's many friends shook their heads over this fact. This bright, witty, warm-hearted, friendly man should be a family man, too. But where was the woman to match him, to complete his life?

Well, it turns out she was no farther away than Oneonta. And when their orbits finally crossed, both were bedazzled. Thus the wedding.

Now, about Marie Warchol. A sentence, two paragraphs above, applies a string of adjectives to Tim. Apply them, please, to Marie as well (and add "beautiful.") Like Tim, Marie is a successful professional. Successful, did I say? Well, you know the BOCES school down in Milford and the range of solid, well-taught vocational courses it offers. As a state superintendent, Marie oversees nineteen such operations. Enough said.

To that big, happy crowd gathered among the plaques, Tim and Marie's wedding seemed like a Christmas gift. It wasn't just their evident love. It was also the seriousness, the reverence of two self-possessed adults who had weighed their decision carefully and were ready to make it formal. When they repeated the beautiful old words after me, they made those words their own.

A jarring aside: Channel-surfing during the holidays, I lit on the comedy station just as a well-known aging comic told the audience that was solemnizing his marriage (his latest one) right then, as a part of his act. At that point four leggy harem girls came on stage holding the poles of a chupah, a wedding canopy. Then the comic was joined under the canopy by a poor blonde ditz who looked confused, unsure of her part.

The comic donned a yarmulke, and the couple stood before a prayer-shawled rabbi who struggled to make something serious of this travesty. The rabbi failed, and shame on him for thinking that he wouldn't. He had to know he'd be outgunned by the groom's mugging and quips. Halfway through, I walked out on the wedding. I switched to the Animal Channel.

I recount that outrage only because, in gross exaggeration, it reflects a tone that creeps into many weddings these days: a worldly cynicism that cheapens solemn, life-long vows to just part of the production-no more important than the candles, the potted palms, the caterer, the band.

Tim and Marie's wedding put the lie to that sort of emptiness. Theirs was the real thing; and, yes, their evident love, reverence, and joy were real gifts to the witnesses. Giving me a part in that ceremony was a great gift, too. I'll always treasure it.

Jim Atwell lives in and views life from Fly Creek. He can be found on the web at JimAtwell.com.