So we're back, yes indeedy.
My thoughts upon returning from the Cooperstown pilgrimage:
As several folks know, Rich and I drove up to Baseball Mecca on Thursday morning. For the record, the only difficult part about this is if your directions include the words "New York Thruway" you sort of have to ignore them and hum to yourself loudly until 90 hits 88 and you can grab that down to 20. For the record, digital cell coverage dies somewhere around Duanesburg.
But anyway, no shit there we were, kneedeep in the land of "ya go down there and turn left at the light." THE light? Yeh. The one 11 miles down, but ya cain't miss it. It's the only one. Three radio stations. Farm Talk, Jesus Talk, and country and/or western. Hooboy. I'm right at home.
We pulled into Cooperstown proper a bit before 4:00. Wandered into Doubleday field for a few minutes and watched random people play ball. It was quite relaxing. Doubleday field is extremely well kept, by the way, very clean and plush. I suppose it needs to be for the Hall of Fame Game, but they don't let it suffer the rest of the season either. The local paper had an article about raising money for improvements to the bleachers and restrooms. There didn't seem to be much other news.
We toured the Hall of Fame that evening. In spite of reports that it would take a good day and a half, we saw most of it in about 5 hours. The only part we missed was the Library and Archives rooms, which unfortunately are not open after 5pm. I particularly enjoyed the photos and models of stadiums through the years, and the display on women's pro ball. I also really liked the new display on the home run chase of 1998; there's an entire panel of photos of the fans that returned the balls to Sammy and Mac instead of taking money for them. Very nicely done. Highly recommended.
By the time you get out of there, baseball has completely saturated your brain. Now, I know what you're thinking - baseball had already saturated my brain. But no. I'm talking about the kind of saturation that makes you think that a Fenway Park shaped tin that plays "Take Me Out to the Ballgame" when opened, is an item that you NEED. The kind of saturation that makes it not seem strange that nearly every person walking down the street is wearing a glove or carrying a bat, and makes you sit watching a little league game of kids you don't know. All the way to the end. In the drizzly rain. And LIKE IT. And then go to the overpriced batting cages.
There's an eerie kind of naturalness about the whole thing. I mean, some the locals seem a little bemused by all the cityslicker tourists, but the interaction of said visitors is surprisingly comfortable. A driver that lets you turn into traffic grins and tips his Red Sox cap, the colors that identify him as a brother in this remote town. The slogan over the Doubleday Cafe bar (pretty much the only thing open past 9pm) reads "A drinking town with a baseball problem" as the waitresses serve a pitcher of beer to a group of ladies seated under the TV that is showing a game over 2000 miles away. You smile to find you're not the only one squinting at the screen between innings to see how many Sosa hit today, and actually get sympathetic looks when you groan aloud at your team's score. These people know how it is.
So after a total of around 7 hours of living and breathing baseball on Thursday, we retired to the llama farm where we were booked into the B&B. Bed was a good thing. We regained consciousness around 8 the next morning. I staggered to the window and blinked out across the Mohawk Valley. 90 miles of... well... very picturesque nothing. With llamas on the llawn. Llamas are actually fairly unobtrusive creatures. They seem to live on practically nothing, don't stink from 100 yards away like cows do, and don't ruin your grass like sheep. I'm not entirely certain what they're good for, other than producing large amounts of hair, but then again, I've never been a llama.
After breakfast, Rich and I bowled a few rounds. Clausen Farms has a restored bowling alley in the rec area. Not as well maintained as one would wish, but interesting nonetheless. Originally built in the early 1900's, it of course is not mechanised in any way. Bowlers chalk the score onto a chalkboard while they wait for the next ball. The player that's not bowling sits at the far end next to the pins, removes the fallen wood between balls, and rolls the ball back down the ball return chute. After each frame, the pins are reset on the marks by hand. A strike looks much more impressive from this angle. Just so you know. Oh, and it wouldn't fit in our front hall after all, but I haven't given up on the skeeball idea.
So we packed up and headed back into Cooperstown, figuring we'd kill the rest of the morning snacking and shopping. Rich picked up a wood bat, which is difficult to find at normal sporting goods stores. A couple of hours later, armed with new baseball cards and various silly memorabilia, we paused to regroup at Doubleday field. My roommates will be relieved to know that I did NOT succomb to the urge to purchase the Wally the Green Monster Head Bobbing Doll, although baseball/glove shaped twinkle lights may have mysteriously found their way into the house.
We headed back to Boston before midafternoon Friday, mainly because it had begun to rain, and nothing puts a stopper to baseball like rain.
Trip time to Cooperstown is slightly under 5 hours, and we were home in plenty of time to watch Texas trounce the Sox. Again.
Hrmph.
-K.