This column needs to be prefaced with the simple fact that my girlfriend and I are not normal people. Though we do enjoy your typical couple things, we’re completely baseball-obsessed, and our favorite dates are always to the ballpark. Since we’ve been together we’ve been to a total of eight games in seven different stadiums. So, needless to say I was thrilled — but not necessarily surprised — when for our second Valentine’s Day together she suggested we get out of town for the weekend and head to Cooperstown, N.Y.

Neither of us had been to this heaven on earth for baseball fans since we were in elementary school and didn’t remember too much about what we saw the first time around. But after spending the past weekend in this baseball mecca, a few things became apparent to me.

A walk through the National Baseball Hall of Fame and Museum is just as educational as any United States history course. The history of the game is a snapshot of America since the mid-1800s. Baseball is always the one constant in American society and the Hall of Fame has done an incredible job of depicting that.

There are bats from the 1800s, children’s catchers’ equipment from the ’20s and just about any artifact from every other era of the game. To me this was far more interesting than any of the plaques with famous players’ faces. It’s just a testament to how deeply entrenched in our lives this game is, and it’s fascinating to see the same equipment my grandfather used in his youth baseball games of the 1930s.

But it’s not all positive history in Cooperstown, because just as American history has its share of unfortunate moments, baseball does too. There is a sadness when walking through the new Hank Aaron exhibit. Aaron is one of the greatest players and people in the history of baseball, but even a legend of his status was not exempt from ignorance and bigotry. It’s clear that he persevered through that after reading a letter sent to him filled with messages of racial hatred as he tried to break Babe Ruth’s record.

But negativity aside, it’s absolutely incredible to have a town in America that is just about entirely devoted to baseball. Where else in America can you go into one store and get your name engraved on a bat, walk across the street and buy a ball signed by just about any player you could imagine, and then go eat at DiMaggio’s Grill?

It was a magical place as a 10-year-old little leaguer, and it gave me the same goose bumps 11 years later. So even though we all know Abner Doubleday didn’t invent baseball on a farm in upstate New York, sometimes it’s nice to get lost in a good story and suspend your disbelief.