With No Living Inductees, Only Echoes Stir the Quiet at the Hall of Fame Jerry Watkins, left, the great-grandson of Deacon White; Anne Vernon, the great-grandniece of Jacob Ruppert; and Dennis McNamara, the great-nephew of Hank O'Day, after a ceremony Sunday. COOPERSTOWN, N.Y. - The Baseball Hall of Fame celebrates the sport's history at this time each year by inducting at least one new member with small-town pomp and fealty to decades of tradition. Usually, he is alive, filled with joy and stories of his first days as a ballplayer. But on Sunday, for the first time since 1965, there was no breathing inductee to deliver a speech, tell a joke or remember advice from his first manager. Instead, in a rain-delayed and sparsely attended ceremony that underscored the lingering damage that performance-enhancing drugs have inflicted on America's national pastime, the three men who were enshrined have been dead since the 1930s. Two were better known to historians and aficionados than fans. Several living players have Hall-worthy statistics and might have lured a huge crowd to this village, which was founded by James Fenimore Cooper's father and boosted by the myth of baseball's invention here. But Barry Bonds, Roger Clemens and Sammy Sosa, who were all in their first year of eligibility for election but tainted by their involvement in or connection to baseball's steroids era, were firmly rejected by the Baseball Writers" Association of America earlier this year. Last week, Ryan Braun, the Milwaukee Brewers star, was suspended for 65 games by Major League Baseball for his involvement with an anti-aging clinic in Florida that baseball officials believe distributed performance-enhancing drugs. Alex Rodriguez, the Yankees star who has not played this season, is a focus of the investigation and could be suspended soon. "I think baseball is hurt and the Hall suffers," said Johnny Bench, the Cincinnati Reds catcher who was inducted in 1989 before thousands of fans who had ridden buses to see him. Referring to players linked to performance-enhancing drugs, Bench said, "Do they qualify by putting numbers that are tainted?" Ozzie Smith, the Cardinals and Padres shortstop who entered the Hall in 2002, said that being rejected by voters "is one of the things you have to weigh when you decide to do something wrong." "You have to realize you won't get in," he said. The Hall estimated the attendance at 2,500 at the Clark Sports Center - that seemed kind, and it was well below the usual 10,000 to 15,000 - to see the inductions of Jacob Ruppert, the Yankees" owner from 1915 until his death in 1939; the umpire Hank O'Day, who officiated at the first World Series in 1903; and Deacon White, a 19th-century catcher and infielder. There were no broad swaths of colorful team jerseys worn by fans to cheer for Ruppert, O'Day and White as their distant relatives stood below a canopy to speak for them. Rows of white seats were unfilled. Fans played catch on the grassland that was so packed six years ago - when at least 75,000 attended the inductions of Cal Ripken and Tony Gwynn - that fans watched from distant hillsides as if they were faraway bleachers. Even onstage, there were 32 Hall of Famers where there are usually 40 to 50. No Willie Mays. No Reggie Jackson. No Tom Seaver. No Yogi Berra. Still, Jim and Carol Needham of Mira Loma, Calif., were in the sparse crowd. They knew little about the inductees but love baseball and love the pomp of the induction - even without the likes of Bonds, Clemens or Sosa. "It's a shame that some players have to resort to that to make their games better - they were great already," Carol Needham said. Keith Pittman of Terre Haute, Ind., came for his 12th induction, with friends who have attended the ritual for 17 and 32 consecutive years. "It's about honoring our heroes," he said, looking around at the near-empty grounds that he preferred to see as jammed as they were in 2007. He said that he was "hurt and disappointed" but had put his emotions aside because "everyone is to blame" for the steroids era, "including fans; it was too enjoyable to let go." One of his friends, Jim Mishk, a power plant mechanic from Fishkill, N.Y., said: "I like to see the players on stage. Nobody got elected. But so what?