As the baseball season of 2007 winds down, a confluence of events suddenly gave me pause to wonder — whatever happened to baseball’s marvelous and colorful nicknames?

The receipt of the Baseball Hall of Fame’s 2007 “Memories and Dreams” noted the induction of two worthy electees, Cal Ripken Jr. and Tony Gwynn.

They surely rated a niche in the Hall for their baseball exploits — Cal with his 2,632 consecutive-games played record over a 17-year run, and Tony with a .338 lifetime batting average after 20 years in “The Bigs.”

But, two other things happened that took me back in time to the bleak and tough days of the 1930s and ’40s.

My friend, colleague and hard-working managing editor of the Napa Valley Register, Bill Kisliuk, had sent me an e-mail titled “Say it ain’t so, Ace!”

Bill had looked up the baseball record of my namesake, “Ace” Parker, once a Philadelphia Athletics shortstop who played in 1938 next to my Napa pal and second baseman Dario Lodigiani.

Bill had pointed out Ace’s two-year career batting average, an embarrassing .179.

In my return e-mail to Bill, I quickly pointed out that while “Ace” Parker was one of those “good field, no hit” guys, football was actually his game.

This once-young Virginian had starred for Duke University and was voted an All-American on the gridiron with his triple-threat passing, running and punting.

After he put his glove and spikes away, “Ace” — a first choice in the National Football League’s college draft by the Brooklyn Dodgers (yes, Brooklyn once fielded a team in the NFL) — immediately made those Dodgers credible, and this marvelous quarterback was eventually elected to Professional Football’s Hall of Fame.

Still living today at the age of 95, “Ace” is the oldest living member of Pro Football’s Hall of Fame.

I should note here that “Ace” Parker played his last game with the Brooklyn Dodgers at the Polo Grounds against my beloved football Giants on Dec. 7, 1941 (Pearl Harbor Day), and he and his teammate Pug Manders beat my heavily-favored football Giants 21-7.

Any kid playing football or baseball in New York in those days who happened to have the surname Parker was automatically assigned the nickname “Ace,” and that nickname stuck with me right on through the NYPD and right up to this very day when old pals call or write.

But, there was something else. I was saddened by the news that in August, a former Glendale Queens neighbor, Phil “Scooter” Rizzuto — another Hall of Famer — died at the age of 89.

The “Scooter” was given the nickname because he had a running gait resembling a kid flying by on a scooter.

Phil played sandlot ball in Glendale and Ridgewood with the “Skylarks,” a team my brother Georgie played on and a team who had a very young batboy in the person of yours truly.

After the “Scooter” came up to the Yankees, we Parkers — staunch Giants fans — still hated those Yankees, but rooted for the “Scooter” all the way.

With the names “Ace” and “Scooter” in mind, I had to go back 20 years in the Hall of Fame’s yearbook to find one single colorful name, and landed on the late Jim “Catfish” Hunter, inducted into the Hall in 1987.

After that it was Phil Niekro, Larry Doby, Don Sutton, George Brett, Orlando Cepeda and Nolan Ryan. Good, solid American names, but colorful? No way!

And the list goes on.

Beginning in the 2000s, the Hall inducted Carlton Fisk, Kirby Puckett, Dave Winfield, Gary Carter, Dennis Eckersley, Ozzie Smith, Wade Boggs, Ryne Sandberg and Bruce Sutter, right up to Ripken and Gwynn.

And that’s not all. Outside of the Hall of Fame’s walls, the “Grand Old Game” goes on. This season, San Francisco Giants fans root for two guys named Barry, while across the Bay in Oakland, the cheers are for Eric, Nick and Jack.

The Boston Red Sox feature Josh and Curt, the New York Yankees have Derek, Jason, Mariano and Alex, and in Detroit it’s Jeremy, Justin, Ivan and Brandon.

I think you get the picture — these are names more out of afternoon soap operas their moms enjoyed then the colorful names of yesteryear carved out on baseball diamonds.

Oh, how I long for those bygone days when Big Leaguers came with colorful names earned in small towns and on baseball diamonds. Names like “The Babe” and the “Sultan of Swat,” assigned to Babe Ruth; Ty Cobb, the “Georgia Peach”; John “Mugsy” McGraw; ‘The Iron Horse”, Lou Gehrig; “Wee Willie” Keeler, who “hit ’em where they ain’t” — and the list of Hall of Fame legends goes on.

Roger Hornsby, the “Rajah”; Frankie Frisch, the “Fordham Flash”; “King Carl” Hubbell; “Pie” Traynor; “Master Melvin”, Mel Ott, my first Giant hero; Paul and Lloyd Waner, “Big Poison” and “Little Poison”; then on to “Dizzy” Dean; “Ki-Ki” Cuyler; Joe “Ducky” Medwick; “The Yankee Clipper” Joe DiMaggio; Stan “The Man” Musial; “Rapid Robert” Feller; “The Splendid Splinter” Ted Williams; “Yogi” Berra — and the colorful nicknames roll on.

We kids of long ago yesterdays can never forget “Satchel” Paige and the “Say Hey Kid,” Willie Mays; “The Duke of Flatbush,” Duke Snider; “Poosh ’Em Up,” Tony Lazzeri; “Casey” Stengel; “Schnozz” Lombardi; Enos “Country” Slaughter; “Hammerin’ Hank” Aaron; and the pride of Shea Stadium, “Tom Terrific” Seaver.

I miss those colorful nicknames from another age when labeling a hero was in style. And, I’ll always be grateful to Clarence “Ace” Parker of Virginia for helping me shed my God-given name of Everett — a hand-me-down after my folks named their first three sons Robert, William and George.

“Ace” long ago came to my rescue and has served me well.