COOPERSTOWN, N.Y. — I was lucky enough to join legions of Atlanta Braves fans last weekend in this small upstate New York town, home to the National Baseball Hall of Fame. For the weekend when it hosts the induction of baseball’s latest Hall of Fame class, Cooperstown takes its place as the center of the baseball universe.
It’s quite a scene, and requires a journey that devoted baseball fans promise themselves they’ll make. Upon telling friends I was going, almost all responded with “I want to do that some day.”
Some day finally came for me and my son, and we were rewarded with some incredible moments. I had little choice but to set aside my journalism instincts and simply enjoy meeting childhood heroes, taking in the scene and breathing rarified air.
Of course, it was a big day for Atlanta fans. Cooperstown was, as our sports page headline said: “Bravestown, N.Y.” Everywhere you wandered, people were in Braves caps and jerseys, hugging and high-fiving.
The Atlanta faithful owned Cooperstown, which isn’t a very big place. The downtown area, blocked off for the 40,000 fans (estimates were wide-ranging, but that seemed to be the most reasonable one), is only about three or so blocks — including the area that houses the actual Hall of Fame. Think of an area not quite as big as Marietta’s downtown square.
(The televised induction ceremony takes place outside of town on a huge sports field, to accommodate the large crowd. More about that later.)
Fans packed the streets, shopping in the souvenir stores and making their way to the Hall of Fame for a tour.
The Hall houses anything a baseball aficionado could imagine, including a room devoted to Atlanta’s Hank Aaron and his quest to break the home run record, and a display about the Colorado Silver Bullets, a women’s professional baseball team coached by longtime Braves pitcher and Hall-of-Famer Phil Niekro. Even a casual fan could spend all day in the Hall and not see everything.
But mostly the thrill of being in Cooperstown comes from the unexpected, serendipitous incidents. You overhear people talk about getting a picture with the Braves’ Tom Glavine, or about how they met Greg Maddux, both of whom were among the inductees.
People shout as they see one of their favorite players in the parade that comes down the street and ends at the Hall. They chant names, and clap when a player hops off the truck and signs autographs for a moment for some lucky fans.
In a less-inspiring part of the scene along the streets, signs are posted with former players’ names. That’s so fans can line up, and pay for a chance to get their autograph. Some lines are long; other players wait, unrecognized, with no one seeking their autograph. It seems like some of the players need the money. For others it’s the most efficient and fair way for fans to get their autograph.
Further up the street, the shamed and banned Pete Rose, baseball’s notorious gambling manager, signs for money in the musty back room of a souvenir store.
But just when you feel like Cooperstown has a dark side, you spot beloved former Brave Dale Murphy. Sure, he’s signing autographs for money, but he jumps out of his chair as he greets fans, poses for pictures and talks to people as if he’s known them all his life.
The Hall of Famers stay in the exclusive Otesaga Hotel, a resort where the lobby brims with baseball royalty. To linger in the lobby, as my son and I did, is to observe one of the world’s most exclusive fraternities.
Old ballplayers greet one another and their families. You notice a special bond between the older African-American players, some of whom fought long and hard for their rightful place in baseball.
The Hall of Famers themselves are thrilled to be in Cooperstown to see each other for an annual reunion.
One of the most thrilled is Niekro, who also sits on the Hall of Fame’s board of directors, and has only once missed the annual trip to Cooperstown since his induction in 1997.
“I always check on my plaque — to see if it’s still there,” he joked. He called Cooperstown “a baseball heaven.”
The induction ceremony draws thousands to an athletic field just outside of town. Only a small part of the crowd has tickets and seats for the ceremony, which took place in the blazing sun. Fans come with lawn chairs, blankets and coolers, trekking a long way from their parking spot to just be part of the day.
Each of the Hall of Famers take their place on a covered dais, and they are introduced, one by one, to the cheers of the crowd. On this day, Aaron enjoyed the loudest and longest applause.
For those who got access, the most thrilling part of the weekend occurred the night before, when the Hall of Fame hosted a reception.
We bumped into baseball greats as they chatted with people in the Hall of Fame Gallery that houses their distinctive plaques.
My son got a photo with Hank Aaron. I met my boyhood idol Johnny Bench, to whom I was introduced by the gracious, back-flipping shortstop of the St. Louis Cardinals, Ozzie Smith.
We took a picture in front of the plaque of Bob Feller, my father’s favorite player, who pitched for the Cleveland Indians in the 1940s and ‘50s.
The scene was out of some baseball fantasy.
But my son captured it for me when we returned, exhausted, to our hotel room.
“That was the best day of my life,” he said.
