I seem to have the most interesting times in Cooperstown. This year was no exception.
Of course, nothing can ever top my 2010 Cooperstown adventure. I mean, casual conversations with all those Hall of Famers is pretty high on any baseball fan's list of most exciting moments. How many women get to have their attire insulted by Jim Palmer? At least I had the presence of mind to take photos with my cell phone that year. This year, I forgot until after the fact.
Not that 2013's adventure can even compare to 2010.
This year's Herwood Cooperstown weekend coincided with a Furthur concert (Phil Lesh and Bob Weir of Grateful Dead fame), which brought in Dead Heads from around the world. As per our custom, TV Stevie checked out the baseball memorabilia shops while I sat on a bench and read.
"Excuse me," a tie-dyed, braided-haired man said. "Do you like poetry?"
I nodded.
"May I recite an original poem -- sixty seconds or less -- to you?"
I just stared at him.
He went on to explain. He is one of the new Beat poets from San Francisco, who came to "this god-forsaken town off the beaten track" for the concert, but he didn't have the money for the price of admission. Therefore he was selling his book. He handed me a photocopied sheaf of papers, filled with his own original poetry and artwork.
I returned the book and explained I had no cash. He recited a poem to me anyway, something about sleeping on a beach with sand as his pillow. It was full of lovely imagery. I thanked him, he bowed, and wandered off down the sidewalk, looking for a sale. I waited quite a while, hoping to see him again so I could take his photograph, but I never did see him again.
