Dave 'Eck' Miller got fewer Hall of Fame votes than Paul Molitor, which is a small enough item until you think for a moment about what that actually means. Put another way, Eck couldn't care less that he impressed 10 fewer humans than Molitor.

Which is as it should be. Getting in is reward enough, and Al Simmons, who sneaked in by one vote in 1953, felt as good about his election as Tom Seaver did when he fell five votes short of unanimous in 1992. The rest of it is just math, and the last thing the Hall of Fame should be about is math.

This is a small thing, one of those inside-ball/dateless seamhead things that would need a fireman's ladder to hit the bottom of the radar. In fact, more people will talk about the three write-in votes Pete Rose lost this time around, proof of sorts that half-hearted/half-accurate confessions of great hitters-turned-greasy con artists may be good for the soul but not much else.

But it also speaks to Eck's incandescence in his time as the A's most potent weapon that he overcame the harshest kind of bias (you don't play the right position, and you never will) to make it to Cooperstown, even if behind a long-lasting jack-of-all-trades sort like Molitor.

Eck made it in a year in which Bruce Sutter, the historical bridge for closers between Hall of Famer Rollie Fingers and Eck, got only a slight nudge in the Hall of Fame voting, and the two other great closers of their era, Rich Gossage and Lee Smith, lost voting support, and can now only be considered the longest of shots to ever reach the Hall.

True, Sutter has nine more cracks at it, Gossage 10 and Smith 13, but the history of the classic Hall of Famer is pretty much like Supreme Court Justice Potter Stewart's definition of pornography -- you know it when you see it, and you see it right away.

The voters don't see Gossage or Smith, and are still hesitant about Sutter. Case damned near closed.

Neither looks particularly imposing, electability-wise, leaving what little voting intrigue there is for Jim Rice and Andre Dawson, currently stalled at around half the electorate.

Both men clearly outrank Gossage, whose voting percentage has decreased each of the last four seasons, and Smith, who lost 25 voters from last year's ballot without throwing a single pitch.

And none of the above has a prayer in 2007, when the sure things include Tony Gwynn, Mark McGwire and Cal Ripken.

Thus, Sutter's last chance is either here or coming soon, and Gossage and Smith are basically doomed, joining a list of impact/great closers who were eliminated with a flourish -- like Jeff Reardon (24 votes in 1999, his only year of eligibility), Dave Righetti, Tom Henke and Steve Bedrosian (nine votes between them in 2001), Mitch Williams and Todd Worrell (zero votes each in 2003), and Randy Myers (one vote this time).

Just for those seven guys, it comes out to 56 saves per vote. Eck needed 421 votes to get in. Four-twenty-one times fifty-six ... nahhh. Not worth the bother.

And on the horizon? Only Mariano Rivera, who had the great fortune to be very good at his job while in New York playing for a series of World Series champions. No John Franco, no Trevor Hoffman, no John Wetteland, no Robb Nen, no Roberto Hernandez, no no NO!

Strength coaches get more respect.

And don't even start on what this mind-set of exclusivity does to the idea of a pure designated hitter going to the Hall, like Harold Baines (eligible in 2007) or Edgar Martinez (still playing at age 109). They're so not in, they'll have to wait for the inductions of Snoop Doggy Dogg and Jimmy Neutron.

All of which tells us that Eck's election was more of a compliment than it at first seemed.

The voters' reluctance to make any logical contortions on behalf of the reliever class tells you everything you need to know about Eck's career. He went to the Hall of Fame by overcoming his own job description, which is more than Babe Ruth ever had to do.