THE HALLOWED HALLS : For True Sports Fan, It’s the Perfect Vacation Trip

Editor’s note: UPI’s Fred Lief recently drove 2,000 miles through 10 states to browse among the wonders of the major sports Halls of Fame -- basketball at Springfield, Mass., baseball at Cooperstown, N.Y., pro football at Canton, Ohio, and college football at Kings Island, Ohio. He records his travels in this dispatch. This summer--with talk of a baseball strike fogging the air--may be the time to pay respects to Alfred J. Reach.

Understand that Reach is not one of the sport’s more luminous names. He never hit 61 home runs in a season or won 511 games in a career, but his rightful place in baseball is secure.

Reach played for the Philadelphia A’s of 1864 and was the first player to be paid openly. The first player to draw a regular salary.

Beside cases of old bats and gloves that look as if they are trinkets from Mesopotamia or vases from the Ming dynasty, Reach’s achievement is noted on the second floor of the National Baseball Hall of Fame and Museum in Cooperstown, N.Y.

The players’ union should see to it that Reach’s image is standing next to the wooden statue of Babe Ruth at the entrance.

The stopover at Cooperstown was part of a 10-day summer trip that encompassed a little sports history and a lot of driving. A vacation free of airport turmoil and all manner of travel advisories.

The other destinations were three sports Halls of Fame--basketball in Springfield, Mass., pro football in Canton, Ohio, and college football in Kings Island, Ohio.

In all, the trip covered 2,000 miles through 10 states. Along the way were rural New England churches, sparkling waters of New York State, industrial decay in Ohio and winding West Virginia roads.

There was also enough sports memorabilia to satisfy the cravings of the most dependent of sports junkies and enough old uniforms and equipment to open a chain of sporting good outlets.

It is the sort of summer trip you can go at alone or with friends or family. A detailed road atlas, gassed-up car and good attitude are the only essentials.

Sports is almost incidental to the venture. Even if you have trouble making the distinction between Mookie Wilson and Woodrow Wilson there is something to to suit most tastes.

In any event, pack a bathing suit and throw a tennis racket or set of golf clubs in the trunk. There will be opportunities to use them.

The idea was to stick to the back routes, hitting the big highways only when necessary. Fast food restaurants were outlawed. Local newspapers were required reading.

Interstate 91, through Connecticut and into Massachusetts, was the last highway for a while. Entering Springfield is a series of huge blue and green panels, creating the optical effect of a basketball player in motion for a shot. You are at the new Naismith Memorial Basketball Hall of Fame.

It may be only a matter of time before a gawking driver smacks up a car trying to figure out what is going on.

“We may have to put up a disclaimer,” cracks Jerry Healy, promotions director of the hall.

The three-story building, which opened June 30, overlooks the Connecticut River and is a short walk from downtown. It cost $11.4 million and replaces the one on the Springfield College campus where in 1891 Dr. James Naismith hung two peach baskets and invented the winter game for his students.

The exhibits from the old building have been retained. Like the size 22 sneakers of former Detroit Pistons center Bob Lanier--a tribute more to canal boats than to footwear.

But the new hall clearly puts basketball in the high-tech age. Visitors are greeted by a 40-foot high tube through which basketballs continually spurt. It is what amounts to the sport’s eternal flame.

In front of a mural of a stadium crowd are baskets of different heights. Traveling along a moving sidewalk, one gets the feel of being, say, seven-feet and shooting at a basket.

There’s also a room where game films project on four walls and quadraphonic sound simulates noise from crowd, coaches and players. Want to know what it’s like to slug it out on the boards with Moses Malone or run the break with Magic Johnson? This may be as close as you get.

“Before we had mannequins,” Healy says. “Now we have all these things flying around and it’s a feeling of ‘Oh, my God.”’

Springfield has the look of an industrial city that has seen more prosperous times. Between the ski country of Vermont to the north and the summer chic of the Berkshires to the west, it appears to have been left behind.

But it is certainly pleasant in Court Square and up the hill at the Quadrangle, an enclave of museums. Also in town is a motorcycle museum and the home of the inventor of the monkey wrench. It’s not a trip to the Louvre, but it’s fine for an afternoon.

The route west winds through roadside antique stands and small Massachusetts towns: Granville, Tolland, New Marlborough. There’s the sweet smell of cut grass and clean air.

In Sandisfield is a long road leading to a cemetery. Only the occasional whoosh of a car breaks the silence. The ground is uneven from coffins buried near the surface.

One gravestone belongs to Benjamin Smith, a Revolutionary War veteran who died in 1796. The dead in an English churchyard may go back centuries further, but in this country the roots don’t get much deeper.

Have lunch in Great Barrington or steer through the summer arts scene in Tanglewood. Take route 23 into New York State. The Hudson River is sturdy and elegant from the Rip Van Winkle Bridge.

On route 145 is the town of Durham. Shamrocks and green are everywhere. There are Irish bars and Irish linens and festivals during summer. Irish flags line the streets. It might as well be County Cork.

It’s wise to have hotel reservations during the summer in Cooperstown. Especially July 29 when Lou Brock, Enos Slaughter, Arky Vaughan and Hoyt Wilhelm will be inducted in the Baseball Hall of Fame.

There are inns along the street of this village of 2,300. The lakefront Otesaga Hotel management reminds guests that jackets must be worn in public after 6 o’clock.

One bed-and-breakfast lodging is run by George and Jane Amas. Their home is three miles outside of town. For $25 a night you practically have the run of the place plus a sumptious breakfast of freshly laid eggs.

Drive up the hill for a sweeping view of Lake Otsego. The water is clear and blue and encased by layers of hills. Sailboats gather on the water like ducks.

Or sit on the front porch and read into twilight. Forget the honking of the cars back home and listen to the honking of the geese.

Over breakfast there is talk of the local weekly paper. It does not have the most expansive world view. Should one of the locals venture to New York City for the weekend, the paper reassures its readers that the visitor “returned home safely.”

In Cooperstown in 1839, Abner Doubleday, the father of baseball, marked the lines of a baseball diamond with a walking stick. A hundred years later the Hall of Fame opened.

The town is a throwback to less complicated times. There’s a flag pole and a traffic light. Flower pots stuffed with red geraniums hang from street gaslamps.

The myth of baseball and rural America is well preserved. Domed stadiums and Astroturf are not of Cooperstown’s age. Yet, across the street from Doubleday Field, site of the annual major league exhibition game, is not a hot dog stand but a vegetarian restaurant.

The hall is baseball paradise. Past the statue of Ruth in front is the gallery honoring the game’s immortals. Double rows of plaques line the room. But after this year’s induction little plaque space remains and adjustments must be made.

Go from the sublime to the ridiculous. A few steps away on TV screens are repeated showings of the classic “Who’s on First?” routine of Abbott and Costello.

On the second floor is some history: from the Egyptians (who used a ball for sport) to Alexander Cartwright (who set the rules and spread the game) to Alfred J. Reach and the advent of professionalism.

The abbreviated display of early black leagues will be augmented in the coming months with the Hall’s recent acquisition of material from the Negro League Hall of History in Ashland, Ky.

In the next room is a poignant photo of Enrique Clemente, son of the late Pittsburgh Pirate star Roberto Clemente, kissing a picture of his father.

For baseball card connoisseurs there is the rarest of items up a flight of stairs--a Honus Wagner card removed from circulation because the legendary Pirate shortstop, a non-smoker, did not want his name associated with a product sponsored by a tobacco company.

Down the corridor is Ruth’s metal locker from Yankee Stadium. And for the serious Ruthian scholar there is a showcase of the Bambino’s bowling ball and personal Christmas cards.

Go downstairs for a baseball film or get a jump on your holiday gift buying at the souvenir shop.

For lunch, the Short Stop restaurant is down the block. The man behind the counter wears suspenders and loves to talk baseball.

“The players today don’t concentrate,” he says. “They’re thinking about all that money.”

It’s a quick drive to the Farmers’ Museum, a replica of 19th-century farm and village life. Across the way is the ancestral home of novelist James Fenimore Cooper. If Cooper’s writing always seemed turgid, the reason is now clear. He stood no chance against this resplendent lake view.

The road out of Cooperstown curves past silos, pastures and cows in conference.

On route 17 is Elmira and the grave of novelist Mark Twain. His inspiration may have been the Mississippi River but Twain loved this place and wrote many books here.

Close by is Corning and, if need be, stock up on glassware. A highway sign miles later announces Cuba is upcoming. Pull off the road for a look, but there will be little evidence of Castro in military fatigues.

“I don’t know,” says a waitress when asked how Cuba got its name. “The question never occurred to me.”

Knock off for the night in Jamestown. And if the Jamestown Expos of the Class A New York-Penn League are at home, hit the ballpark.

There is a crowd of 352 on this chilly night. Between games of the double-header with the Batavia Braves the players descend on the concession stand for what is presumably dinner. Mike Roundtree, an outfielder for Batavia, orders nachos with peppers. Eat to win, no doubt.

Afterward, players sign autographs before going to the locker room. No matter that the signatures are not those of Dale Murphy or Jim Rice. This is pro baseball at its source and not even the bad lights, bumpy infield or wild pitches can diminish the thrill.

Turn the next day toward Cutting, a speck of a town that rubs noses with the Pennsylvania border. A woman in the general store recalls the tornado in May that devastated the area.

She tells of one woman and her child who were swept away but left unhurt. Canceled checks, blown miles from Corry, were found in Jamestown.

“It just went through like a lawnmower,” she says. “It left everything in sticks.”

There’s destruction of another sort in Youngstown, Ohio. Once the great engines of industry churned here. Now the steel mills are closed and all is quiet. Factory shells sit idle. Equipment rusts in the yards.

On a Tuesday at 5:30 p.m. there is not even a hint of rush hour. Stores are shut. Streets are deserted. Music is pumped into a mall but no one is there to listen. It’s as if the city were under quarantine.

“We were just talking about that,” says one woman leaving the Metropolitan Savings and Loan building. “Ten years ago it wasn’t like this. It’s sad, and all the young people are leaving.”

The Pro Football Hall of Fame in Canton is a paean to automotive convenience--it’s as easy to get to as an exit ramp. But have a hotel reservation; otherwise, haul 25 miles down I-77 for a room.

The hall, built in 1962, inducts five members Aug. 3: Frank Gatski, Joe Namath, Pete Rozelle, O.J. Simpson and Roger Staubach. The exhibition game that day is between the Houston Oilers and New York Giants.

A bronze statue of football legend Jim Thorpe is in the lobby. Head up the winding ramp to view a football from the 1890s that looks like an overripe cantaloupe or a helmet that could pass for a World War I flyer’s cap.

Worth noting is the templet, a curved metal device once used to measure footballs. The home team had to provide a ball that matched the templet’s contour before a game could begin. The current ball, by the way, is made from cowhide, not pigskin.

In the room devoted to football’s modern era are televised finishes of 16 memorable games, such as the 1972 Immaculate Reception by Franco Harris. A phone recording gives a radio account of Tom Dempsey’s record 63-yard field goal in 1970.

Soak up some esoterica--Weeb Ewbank’s hat, Bob Griese’s eyeglasses--before moving on to the bronze busts and films in the enshrinement gallery. There you discover that lineman Ron Mix had but two holding penalties called on him in 10 years.

In the photograph section there are shots of a streaking Drew Pearson and an enraged John Madden. There’s also Lester Hayes after a touchdown looking as if he’s in the middle of the Sahara.

Walk past an imperious painting of NFL Commissioner Pete Rozelle to another room, where amid a grab bag of trophies is an account of how the Super Bowl got its name. Apparently, the daughter of Lamar Hunt, president of the Kansas City Chiefs, had a toy called Super Ball.

“Subconsciously, I may have been thinking of Sharron’s toy,” Hunt recalls, “and one day I just happened to come out and call the game the Super Bowl.”

Canton is the birthplace of pro football, also the resting place of William McKinley. Near the hall is a soaring rotunda honoring the 25th president. So should you suddenly be swept by a wave of longing for the McKinley Administration, there is no better place to be.

The National Football Foundation’s College Football Hall of Fame at Kings Island, Ohio, opened in 1978. It looks like a country New England high school, done in colonial red brick with gardens out front.

Photos of Hall members are housed in a room resembling a chapel. Among this year’s 17 inductees are Paul Hornung and Tommy McDonald.

Video terminals allow visitors to test their football wits and read about enshrined members. You can also kick a football through uprights to the accompaniment of cheers or boos. A pressbox features the typewriter of columnist Grantland Rice.

Across the room are the “gold medal honorees,” a largely political group. Headphones attach to each display. Richard Nixon is lauded for offering “encouragement to the conquered.” The last name of Ronald Reagan is mispronounced.

College fight songs and alma maters fill the Hall all day, raising an interesting question. How many times can you listen to High Above Cayuga’s Waters before going berserk?

Walk through a replica of an old Notre Dame locker room before reaching the Time Tunnel--an historical tour reminiscent of a World’s Fair exhibit.

Unfortunately, it begins with a deep-toned narrator who speaks of “war” and “brotherhood” and suggests football may link to our “primal self.”

Stay with it. Learn about “harpaston,” a game played by the ancients. Or how 11th-century English schoolboys took to kicking the skull of a Dane. Alas, poor Yorick.

There are pictures of the first college football game in 1869 between Princeton and Rutgers. And even back then there were problems with college sports.

In the late 1800s, Cornell’s game at Michigan was canceled by decree of Cornell president Andrew White, who said: “I refuse to allow 40 men to travel 400 miles merely to agitate a bag of wind.”

Stroll through the golden age of the 1920s and Notre Dame’s Four Horsemen. Wander past the great Midwest teams of Red Grange of Illinois and on to the post-World War II era and Army’s famed Lonely End play.

Near the Hall is Kings Island amusement park, a sprawling complex with a parking lot the size of Vermont. Admission is $13.95 but you can easily make an entire day or night of it.

At the entrance is an international section leading to a 330-foot replica of the Eiffel Tower. Stuff yourself with pizza--$1.11 for an insubstantial slice--and bratwurst and the like. There are roller coasters, arcades, water rides, a zoo. Concerts are on the grounds during summer.

A short drive away is The Beach, an aquatic playground spread over 35 acres and many miles from the nearest ocean. Slide down watery shutes, swing from a pulley a la Tarzan or swim in a huge pool with manufactured waves. The “low” admission is $9.50. Still, it’s a good afternoon for everyone. However, 12-year-olds have a decided advantage.

On the trip home, cling to the back roads though you may yearn for a Lear jet by this point. Ahead may lie the steeped ridges of West Virginia coal country or the lush Shenandoah Valley.

Ahead may also lie hotel bills to pay at home. But take consolation. Alfred J. Reach would understand.