There was only one stoplight in the town, which probably isn’t necessary. The street was practically abandoned, but anyone I passed made eye contact and offered a friendly hello. All of the stores were closed, but one glimpse in the windows told me what they sold: baseball apparel, baseball paraphernalia, baseball cards or everything baseball related.

I made my way down the road, past the wax museum of famous ball players, past the town diner and general store, past the famous Doubleday Field, which looked ready for a game despite the sheet of white snow covering the infield. A car pulled up beside me and asked if I needed a ride. It took me a minute to realize the lady meant no harm. She wanted to help and I accepted, even if my ride was only three blocks long.

Welcome to Cooperstown, small town U.S.A. and a baseball haven — even in the offseason.

When I told people I was going to Cooperstown, N.Y., for my spring break I got two responses: “You must be a baseball fan,” or “What’s in Cooperstown?”

For those who asked the latter don’t feel too bad. You’re not completely un-American. Cooperstown is home of the National Baseball Hall of Fame and Museum — and library, even though that’s not in the title.

I was there for an Alternative Spring Break, compliments of the University of Illinois Graduate School of Library and Information Science — the No. 1 program in the country, FYI — researching and studying in the museum’s library.

I shadowed librarians, I answered reference questions, I explored the museum and library. I froze in the temperature-controlled artifact rooms. I picked up the phone and didn’t know what to do when someone demanded answers about what to do with vintage World Series tickets.

I fact checked publications for the Hall of Fame, I answered and checked 500 baseball trivia questions. I made enough copies to kill a rain forest, I dropped enough boxes to severely injure my toe. I learned how to use microfilm the right way, then proceeded to learn the hard way that there was only one right way. I balanced piles of books up to my nose. 

I explored the extensive collections of the library, the boxes and boxes of baseball movie scripts — proof that we can do a bracket competition with only baseball movies — and every baseball related book one could ever imagine. I perused newspaper clippings on any ballplayer or individual affiliated with baseball or topic semi-affiliated with baseball and countless other two-dimensional objects you’d never even dream of.

But most importantly, I experienced, interacted and observed.

It was all baseball, all the time. And it was perfectly normal.

My supervisor, Jim, gives tours hundreds of times a year, but his face still lit up when he showed me Russ Hodges scorecard where Hodges forgot to pencil in the winning run because he was too overwhelmed with excitement screaming, “The Giants win the pennant, the Giants win the pennant!”

Jim said it was a religious experience to walk through the hall of plaques after hours, surrounded by the bronze faces of baseball heroes. He’d done it a million times so the effect had wore off a bit, but walking down the hall with him after hours, I felt the dreamlike effect.

The museum walls united everyone with the common love of America’s pastime. The stories honored those with great successes and those who suffered great hardships. I quadrupled my knowledge about baseball, thanks in large part to the 500 trivia questions and grew to respect the game more than ever before. I learned about the Negro Leagues and about countless phenomenal athletes who didn’t have the opportunity to play Major League Baseball because of their race. 

My favorite part was the Sacred Grounds exhibit. It explored ballparks and fans like Hilda Chester, who rang a cowbell to support the Dodgers for more than three decades starting in the 1920s, and Pearl Sandow, who attended every professional baseball game played in Atlanta except one for 55 years starting in 1934. And the best part of the exhibit was an empty box of concession popcorn from which one could waft in the scent of buttery perfection.

The employees stories seemed unbelievable but they were a dime a dozen; meeting Hall of Famers like Cal Ripken, being recognized by Charlie Sheen and answering questions for notable journalists. Jim’s son made Jim send pictures so his college friends believed his stories about roaming the Hall and training with famous ballplayers. A librarian, Tim, got married in the baseball Hall of Fame. One visitor took 600 photos in less than 30 minutes.

There seemed to be an endless supply of baseball ties and baseball jokes and baseball debates.

You introduced yourself with your name and what team you rooted for. Whenever I admitted I was a Cubs fan, a collective groan filled the room, without fail.

The conversation would drift to other sports every once in a while: basketball — because of March Madness, as well as soccer, football and lacrosse. But then someone would mention Opening Day and the conversation returned to the main event.

Opening Day. It’s right around the corner. Normally, I would barely bat an eye, but there’s something about being submerged in an enchanted baseball land that makes anyone addicted to the allure of the sport.

Thousands of visitors trek through Cooperstown during the summer months, but in the end of March it’s more like hundreds — or even less. The ones who are there are the diehards, the natives and those like myself, who find themselves swept into the excitement.

Emily can be reached at [email protected] and @emilybayci. But she gave up Twitter for Lent, so email her.