l At the Fly Creek Cider Mill, a museum, restaurant, and specialty food store, fresh apple cider tops off a rich culinary experience of farm- fresh foods.
American pastime—is one that is easily linked to a friendly game of baseball. The myth of Abner Double- day’s invention of baseball might not stand up to scrutiny today, but it is easy to imagine nonetheless. How might it have gone back in 1839? A group of friends gathers on a sum- mer’s day on an open field of Elihu
Phinney’s farm (the very land that would become Doubleday Field). Some of the friends are still a bit dirty from their work in the hop crops; others have come out from the stifling parlors of their homes.
They share goodies from their picnic baskets; wives, sisters, and girlfriends pass around jars of apple
butter and hunks of fragrant cheeses. A bushel of apples is there for every- one. Someone has brought a ball. Someone else has a bat. They’ve played ball games here before, but in a casual way, a loosely structured series of physical movements—throwing, hitting, and catching.
“Let’s play a game,” someone suggests, and the others agree, and get to their feet.
Cider presses from olden days are on exhibit at the Fly Creek Cider Mill.
PHOTO: PHILIP HARTIGAN T H E E L K S M A G A Z I N E 51
“All right, but I’ve been thinking.” The speaker is twenty-year-old Abner Doubleday, home from his studies at West Point. “We need some rules.” He strokes his upper lip, where soon enough he will have a bushy mustache that he will sport for most of his adult life. He pulls a piece of paper from a pocket, spreads it out on a picnic blanket between the cider jug and a plate of dried meats and cheeses. His friends gather around. “Here are the bases,” he says, pointing at circles he’s drawn around a diamond pattern. “This is where the pitcher stands,” he taps a knuckle in the center of things. “And this,” he says, looking up at the tilted faces of his friends and placing a finger on the tip of the diamond, “this is home.” And indeed it is, myth or truth, either way. This place in the foothills of the Catskills, on the banks of Lake Otsego, is baseball’s home. Yes, Cooperstown is more than just this, but it is difficult, among the legends and artifacts and celebrations and evidence, to dispute this: Cooperstown is the home of baseball. ■
PHOTO: FRANK FORTE PHOTOGRAPHY
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