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Homeward Bound

Tonight we have come full circle, back to the same hotel in Providence, Rhode Island where we first landed three long weeks ago. It seems like an eternity. I have to wonder if perhaps three weeks was a bit ambitious.

Most of this past week was spent in and around Cooperstown, New York, the home of the Baseball Hall of Fame. Before you question the sanity of dragging two very young children across the country to engage in five solid days of shameless baseball worship, let me explain that my mother-in-law, Billie Jane, is old buddies with Dave Winfield, one of this year's four inductees.

Billie Jane was Winfield's first true fan when he came up as a San Diego Padre in the seventies, and they have stayed in touch ever since. She rented a large house for the entire week, so the event was as part baseball-fest and part family reunion. She swore from the beginning that when it was time for him to enter the Hall, she1d be there if she had to be pushed in a wheelchair.

And it nearly came to that.

We had enjoyed unseasonably mild weather in New York City. "A few days ago," according to a waitress, "it was so hot ya wantedda shoot yaself. But disS now, dis is nice." But a week later, the weather in the Cooperstown area was consistently in the nineties, with high humidity. The induction ceremony, attended by over twenty thousand people, was staged on a huge grass field which was strategically positioned about ten miles from the nearest shade or running water. Our man Winfield went first, which was fortunate, since his speech lasted forty minutes.

Emma and I ducked out for a hot dog during the opening hoopla, but after picking our way through the thick crowd and then standing in line, we decided to crawl under the condiment table to eat. There was literally no shelter to be had anywhere. Sitting under that folding table, watching thousands of pares of feet come and go and listening to the primordial squirts of ketchup and mustard overheadS this was my most comfortable moment of the day.

I then had the ridiculous idea that we might eat some ice cream on the way back to our skillet à I mean blanket. We didn1t make it ten feet before the stuff was melting right out of the cone, running down our arms, onto our clothes.

I discovered that the mixture of sunblock and melted ice cream is to be avoided in a situation where running water is scarce.

After Winfield's speech we linked arms and dragged each other out of there. I really did want to hear from the other inductees, but not at the price of heatstroke. We retired to the relative comfort of downtown Cooperstown, where the overflow crowd consisted of eighty percent professional memorabilia dealers; craggy, unshaven, middle-aged guys, chain smoking, throwing the butts on the ground, convening in the street to compare notes and cross names off their lists.

Eventually we were able to visit the Hall of Fame Museum itself, which held special sentimental meaning for me, not just because I am a lifelong baseball fan, but because the facility is air-conditioned. It was a real thrill to feel my body temperature stabilize while contemplating an authentic replica of Babe Ruth1s jockstrap.

Not only were the exhibits truly fantastic, but the gift shop was also first-rate. Beyond the outstanding selection of shirts and hats, I was ecstatic to find official Baseball Hall of Fame sippy cups. It was more than mere coincidence; more than pure synchronicity. I knew, at that moment, that the universe held meaning. I bought two. Then, this morning we had to load up the rental car for the millionth time and hit the road again.

Today1s drive was no picnic; it was in fact one of the worst legs of the entire trip: Cooperstown, to Providence, in the middle of a pounding summer rainstorm. According to the Parenting Law of Averages, only one child may sleep at any given time, while the other one must be demonstrably miserable. I will spare you the details except to say that the right hand shoulder of the Massachusetts Turnpike, during a rainstorm, is not an ideal place for a three-year-old to squat and pee.

Still, all things considered, we1ve made it through these three weeks of car touring with a minimum of hassles. Despite the occasional rocky moments, we encountered only one legitimate Class Three Vomit Episode, which by definition, involves clothing, upholstery, and carpeting.

Before I start patting us on the back, however, I should note that we still have the flight home to consider. By the time most of you read this, we will be on our way to the airport, if not in the air. We have had a great time, but it is safe to say that we are all really, really ready to get home. I am reminded of the old saw about the optimum duration for family vacations: Weeks of family vacation are like martinis, because one is not enough, but three is too many.

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© Todd Pinsky 1998-2002. All rights reserved.