Conversations From Cooperstown
Since I'm in lovely Bennington, Vermont at the moment -- and it has been rather lovely: cool temps, fireflies, maple syrup, a softball game between prose writers and poets that the prose writers won despite the latent poetical rage, the whole deal -- I decided to escape campus this week and make the 100 mile drive to Cooperstown to visit the Baseball Hall of Fame. I took a bunch of pictures which I'd post here had I remembered the cable, but, alas, that will have to wait. I will say that if you're a baseball fan, Cooperstown is made from the very fabric of awesome -- I spent about 6 hours in the museum itself and then we wondered the shops a bit buying hats and shirts and that sort of thing. I did note a supreme East Coast bias, however, as there was far more Yankees, Mets and Red Sox paraphernalia then I was comfortable with.
I was overwhelmed by the number of really old men wearing full uniforms, middle aged men wearing full uniforms, and men of my age dressed like they were taking BP and shagging balls in the outfield. You know what I'm talking about: Tight athletic shorts, baseball jersey covered by a batting practice pullover, baseball cap slung low with those sunglasses outfielders wear resting on the bill, gold chain, sideburns, gum, wife named Ginny, son named Billy. These men had the same conversation over and over again. Here's a real sample:
Man: Billy.
Boy: (nothing)
Man: Billy.
Boy: (nothing)
Man: Billy.
Boy: (nothing)
Man: Billy.
Boy: (nothing)
Man: Billy.
Boy: (nothing)
Man: (grabbing son by the back of the neck and pointing at the plaque on the wall) That's the Iron Horse.
The other most prevalent conversation was between the old men in full uniform and their wives, all of whom looked like my Nana.
Wife: Honey, was Walter Johnson good?
Husband: If he's in the Hall of Fame, he was good!
Wife: What about Cy Young, was he good?
Husband: If there's an award named for him, he was good! It's the Hall of FAME!
(Later, this same couple was looking at display of baseball cards through the years. So while some were of very good players -- Rogers Hornsby and the like -- some were just of crappy players from the 70s like Wayne Garland.)
Wife: So all these players were good? Wayne Garland?
Husband: Those are baseball cards! It's a display! Wayne Garland was a bum!
Wife: But they are in the Hall of Fame. You said if you're in the Hall of Fame, you're good.
Husband: It's a DISPLAY!
Wife: But can Wayne Garland say he's in the Hall of Fame?
Husband: He was a BUM! Jim Palmer, that's a Hall of Famer. Wayne Garland just has a card.
There wasn't much to be disappointed by in the Hall of Fame apart from what seems like a glaring error: There's no one selling hot dogs inside the Hall. You can smell hot dogs and pop corn in the stadium portion of the Hall, which is pretty cool, but it would be nice to walk through the joint with a dog and a beer.
The really surprising thing was that the memorabilia sold by the Hall was really cheap. You know how you go to Disneyland and it's 50 bucks for a t-shirt? Everything at the Hall was moderately priced -- 20 bucks for a t-shirt, 20 for a hat. The village of Cooperstown was like a snapshot of Americana -- wide, tree-lined streets, houses with large front porches with swings and rocking chairs, a persistent breeze that blew in from Otsego Lake, the architecture is classic row buildings with shops or restaurants on the bottom, offices or other shops on the top. The day we went it was damp and overcast in the morning and then sunny in the afternoon and as it warmed you could see light shafts of steam rising from the still moist pavement, which gave the impression that you were already looking at a memory, if that makes sense. As a baseball fan, it was quite fun to visit, but it's also just a very vivid snapshot of small town America that, at least on the West Coast, you don't really ever see.
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