As I begin writing this, it occurs to me that we are drawing a 26-year circle now complete. Romantic? For me, yes. But profound? Probably not.
In the below composite are some pictures my grandfather Robert J. Hall snapped of my first trip to the Baseball Hall of Fame. A successful entrepreneur and businessman, distance runner, golfer, and pilot. He was also an accomplished photographer. Beside the point here, however. I cherish these candid shots. They’re perfect in reflecting how much my grandparents meant to me and my family. Their memories are a blessing to us all. My daughter carries my grandmother’s maiden name, Parker, very much in her honor.
Robert and Mary Ann were always on the move. I remember seeing the itineraries stuck to the fridge. Meticulously credentialed and time-stamped. Their excursions exposed me to new parts of Alaska, England, Germany, and Croatia. That year, I turned 13. It was a milestone on several levels. That feeling of an arrival. New fronts and clear vision ahead. The intangibles of being that age can be only felt. I was coming into high school the following year. I changed my sports number to 13. My regular 12 was taken and 14 was retired. But most importantly, 13 meant that my twin brother and I, on a generous offering from my grandparents, were posed a question:
“Where do you boys want to go? Anywhere in the contiguous 48.”
Intuition struck and we chose a place that was foremost, completely unlike our West Texas town of Abilene. We went with New York City, of course. That decision fortified a continued passion and reverence for the game of baseball, as a final four-day leg in Cooperstown was included at the end of the trip. First and always in the spirit of baseball, I went to my first and last game in old Yankee Stadium. The air was notably abuzz as just five weeks prior, a 35-year-old David Wells made history by becoming the 15th pitcher and second Yankee to run perfect all the way across the board. One thing from that historic day in May and this day in July remained identical — David Wells started and got the win. This time aided by work from Mariano Rivera to preserve the game with a save.
Maybe by sheer fate, the 1998 Yankees would go on to win their second World Series in three seasons. Two seasons before, in ’96, marked the first championship since their largest drought of 18 years (1978-95) and the signs were undeniably there for a new Yankees dynasty. But just for this day, the Yankees beat the Chicago White Sox 6-4. Register another win for Wells (12-2). Also don’t forget that a 24-year-old Derek Sanderson Jeter made his first All-Star appearance that season.
And then another 12 after that. What a time to look back on now, no?!? Jeter and Wells have in-game items now on display at the Hall. Much to my delight, so does former Texas Ranger Joey Gallo. His contribution being some batting gloves. It’s the type of thing I surely never caught on to during my first visit in 1998 but you can’t help to notice the more obscure things like fan-made signs, homemade apparel and hats, ticket stub collections, books, and vinyl albums. There’s a broader history to the game of baseball that the Hall reflects so well.
The Hall
To me, the Baseball Hall of Fame is the only house that confidently carries such brevity. I’m firm on that being why they call it America’s Favorite Pastime. While there have been many changes to rules, uniform aesthetics, comprehension of records (i.e. the legend of Josh Gibson and the Negro Leagues getting their due), not much has changed with respect to the township founded on and by the sport of “Base ball”.
Where It All Began is a bat factory with the most perfectly esoteric name. From a single plane of wood, you can watch every step of what is going on behind the curtain. Nicolette’s is the best bet for being seated next to MLB legends and has that quintessential Italian fare this area is so well-known for. Doubleday Café is a wonder of controlled chaos for happy customers. The blissful strolling outside pales in contrast to the fleet-footed staff. I worked as a waiter for several years in college and after. I know when someone is in the zone. A perennial attendee of the Hall ceremonies said he eats breakfast and lunch here every day. I’m not sure how to say no there. Circumspection, we need not. Cooley’s and Pioneer Patio are across the street and down the alley from one another, respectively. If it’s not already clear, they are all worth a sit. The latter two I made much more of an acquaintance with on this most recent trip — “hiccup.” But wait, there’s more — the aura ripples out from there. The landscape, the history, the kindness of the people, and the food and drink offerings. Everything in Cooperstown takes quality as a standard.
As we(me) are just being poured our(my) wine, we catch some intriguing whispers. Someone quite notable is showing up for dinner. The anticipation leads way to extreme practicality. Which player is it? How many are with them? Ooo, six, it’s a table for six.
Rob Manfred and Joe Torre. Monumental figures in the game of baseball now and for ages to come.
I assume the sea of men beginning to congregate outside is meant for Torre. They’re happy to wait for hours to snag an autograph when Mr. Torre will inevitably have to wade through the outstretched arms clutching baseballs and Sharpies. In the midst of the crowd patiently waiting, a new hero emerges. A boy no older than 12 walks right in. With the confidence of an old teammate, he quickly is met by one of the staff and says, “I want to pay for Joe Torre’s dinner. Tell him it’s on Max.” Having witnessed all of this first-hand, our jaws hit the floor, in utter shock by the impressiveness of this kid. He says it with such coolness and you know that can’t be taught. This absolutely is our new hero. Max then turns and walks out like he owns the place. Maybe it was his autograph we should have gotten?
After running into a few more card shops and some stool time at Cooley’s, we ended up running into Max and his dad once again. My two friends are deep into card collecting and asked Max for help in choosing a box of Topps baseball cards. It’s the kind of camaraderie that you suddenly remember from years past. Everyone arrives here for the same reason. The long weekend was awash with moments crystallized, one after another, in the space where hope and happening meet. As we continued to see them over the next several days, we shared stories, autograph encounters, cards pulled, and in-season predictions for our respective clubs. It really does feel like an experience belonging only to Cooperstown.
I Wish You Were Here
Our reason for attending the Hall of Fame this year was mostly for our collective and beloved, all-time favorite player Adrián Beltré. He goes in along with three, stellar mainstays in Todd Helton, Joe Mauer, and legendary manager Jim Leyland. Friday was the official start to the weekend. We took the advice of a local man Kerry — come early and come and go as you please. With three nights ahead of us, we quickly scouted the layout. We made the most of very reasonably priced parking and spent the afternoon exploring the plaque hall and the second-floor museum. In the midst of marveling in the atmosphere, former Rangers Elvis Andrus, Mitch Moreland, and Ian Kinsler were out in the open, likely heading to dinner, when we stopped for some handshakes and photos. There are many card dealers set up along Main Street and I know that we went up to every single one. Each place we found ourselves hungry or thirsty as there was a minimal wait if any. The last official task for the day was driving out to the ceremony grounds to place our chairs in the field with the other spectators. You can literally sit anywhere. Easily visible taped off aisles and base path white boxes make clear where you set up and leave your chair of choice among the rows. This help yourself aspect in consideration to the experience is one of my favorite things about it all.
The next day was Saturday and it was more of the same. We arrived quite late for some, but 11 a.m. was fine for all of us. We spent several hours touring the museum, catching the parts we glossed over or missed. We had an incredibly good lunch at Doubleday Café and took up some deck space at Pioneer Patio. I’m intensely German-Austrian on my father’s side, so a dark and foliage-bathed pub is my perfect place for reflection. In the spirit of “Choose Your Own Adventure,” we decided to skip the parade once we got to Utica for leg stretching. We did consider heading up north into Buffalo for some of the iconic chicken wings, but sensibilities were had. Driving out here is not difficult. Between rolling hills and corn fields, it’s a fresh reprieve from my home of Chicago and my friend’s Dallas. Not only that, the weather was perfect. Perpetually partly cloudy and 75. The landscape around this time looks like the Microsoft Windows background and rolling through the Catskills while blasting albums from our youth (Incubus’ “Morning View”) was the best possible coupling.
That next afternoon was the ceremony. We parked in the same lot adjacent to Doubleday Field and happily took our pilgrimage with front-clasped hands in reverence for the moment. Placed within an open field, there was no limit to the nostalgia. A total of 48 Hall of Fame members were announced one after another. Poignant speeches and seminal videos recounting each inductee. Laughter, grateful tears, chants, and joy gave even more life to the swath of families and fans who flocked to Cooperstown. After Adrián’s speech, we walked back to Main Street and watched the rest of the speeches in the comfort of our choosing. After final visits to the Hall’s museum and gift shop, more card and memorabilia runs, our most special time was complete. This year was one that you would be happy to attend. Next year’s induction class is going to be a landmark. Ichiro Suzuki is surely getting in on his first ballot. Who else will join him?
I have a sneaking feeling some of you reading this may take this as a call to action so perhaps you should. Cooperstown is the perfect location for you to take in the raptures of established and live recorded baseball history.
All images are owned by Kurt Wasemiller.
Featured image by Kurt Wasemiller (@kurtwasemiller on X)