Wow.

You'll have to excuse me for a few minutes as I attempt to recover from the National Baseball Hall of Fame's Induction Weekend. The rampant capitalism, the orgy of sights and sounds and the frenetically charged atmosphere have left me a shell of a human being, burned out like a set of lungs on an 80-year-old chain smoker.

I knew coming into this job mere months ago that Cooperstown is a place of national prominence. Besides the major cities, Cooperstown is almost unique among small villages in that its name alone conjures images and emotions unparalleled in the world.

Yet, until last weekend, I don't think I completely grasped just how revered it is, and how a trip here really is a pilgrimage for so many people. This is America's Mecca, a holy land for worshippers of the one true religion: baseball.

You see, growing up so close, a paltry hour or so away in Stamford, I had little appreciation for the village and its mystique. Sure, I had visited the Hall of Fame once or twice, but what did I care about a bunch of dead guys who made money playing games?

Trips to Cooperstown were not about spiritual enlightenment. Far from it. No, as a kid, a trip here meant going to Bassett Hospital for a physical (or worse.) Maybe on a high note we would swing by Schneider's Bakery for a half-moon cookie and a jelly donut, but only if they were still open and had any left.

As I aged, the trips to Cooperstown fewer and far between. Once in a blue moon, I'd make the trip out to the area to use the batting cages, but only rarely so. It wasn't until college that I again frequented the area, although this time it was just to pass through.

Pinpointing the one-hour mark on my unholy four-hour exodus to SUNY Brockport, I was never inclined to stop and appreciate what the village had to offer. Especially since if I did stop, it would be at the bakery, which would in turn lead to bodily functions. No fun there.

So 22 years after I first entered orbit as a disgusting, crying bundle of pink flesh at Bassett, I found myself again in Cooperstown. This time employed in my first post-college job as a reporter with the Town Crier.

As I've spent time working at the Crier, a thousand or so feet from where I was born and a hundred feet from the road I passed through every time I drove to college, my understanding of the area has slowly increased.

Cooperstown cannot be summed up by the hospital, or the Hall of Fame or even the Dreams Park. It's not just a quaint little village, full of great people, great schools and a big, beautiful lake. It's all of those things and more.

I'm not presumptuous enough to assume I "get it" after such a short time here, but if I had to guess, I'd say Cooperstown is best described as the representation of an idea: the American Dream. Blessed with some of the best qualities, beset with some of the worst, this small village in the heart of central New York is truly a slice of Americana, apple pies, baseballs and the whole boat.

After this weekend, Wade Boggs and Ryne Sandberg are privileged enough to call Cooperstown home. Looks like I'm starting to feel the same way.

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