Live Like a Hall of Famer at This Cooperstown Resort Where All the Legends Stay

The last time I went to Cooperstown was in 2003, for a father-son baseball camp called Cooperstown Diamonds. The camp was rooted in a sentiment popularized by Field of Dreams, but evident since the sport’s inception: Baseball isn’t just about athletic prowess, flashy plays, big contracts, and hoisting trophies. It’s about playing a child’s game surrounded by family and friends. And that’s true whether you’re still hitting balls off a tee, or if your old bones have already forced you into a slow-pitch softball league.

En route to the camp, my dad pointed out a grand old building just off the main road.

“See that big hotel? That’s where all the Hall of Famers stay when they come to town. Babe Ruth, Ted Williams, Willie Mays, Bob Feller…”

Something didn’t compute. Those legendary baseball names were like Paul Bunyan or Robin Hood – mythical figures that existed on a rarified plane of existence, invisible to regular people like me. They didn’t just stay in hotels like the rest of us.

“What do you mean they stayed there?” I asked, suspecting it was a joke.

“Whenever new players are inducted into the Hall of Fame, this is where they stay. Every Hall of Famer since the 1930s.”

To my 13-year-old brain, “hotel” was synonymous with Holiday Inn. This place, The Otesage Resort Hotel, sounded more like Mt. Olympus. Though the hotel faded in our rearview mirror, the image of the stately turn-of-the-century building lingered vividly in my memory, and I vowed to come back one day and visit this Mt. The Olympus of baseball.

22 years later, I finally got the chance to stay there. And of course, I brought my dad.

Hall of Fame-level relaxation at The Otesaga Resort Hotel

Photo courtesy The Otesaga Resort Hotel

When we pulled up the long driveway to the massive columns marking the entrance, I worried I wouldn’t feel comfortable here – as though the grandeur and heavy tradition were reserved only for those who swung their way into the Hall of Fame. But while old-world luxury certainly permeates the lobby, the serene lakeside views and eminently hospitable staff instantly put me at ease.

The Otesaga Resort Hotel was built in 1909 on the shores of Otsego Lake, just a two-minute walk from the center of town. Since 1939, when the Hall of Fame opened, it’s been the home base (pun intended) of players being inducted into the Hall, and legends of the game who have been inducted previously.

Photo: Eben Diskin

“So is this the Babe Ruth room or the Ricky Henderson room?” my dad joked when we were given our keys.

“You never know,” said the front desk worker, impishly. “It’s a secret which players stayed where.”

I actually appreciated this discretion. It prevents the Otesaga from feeling like a baseball-themed Disney hotel, and allows Joe Schmoes like us to enjoy the room’s subtle historic touches without the ghosts of Murderer’s Row haunting our post-dinner TV time.

As you make your way through the lobby – which looks like the drawing room from Downtown Abbey – the first thing you notice is the giant back veranda, full of rocking chairs overlooking the lake and golf course. When you’re young and imagining what the idyllic days of retirement might look like, chances are it’s something like this: Quiet mornings on the veranda, rocking back and forth, reading a book, and watching golfers overshoot the tricky 18th hole into the lake.

Photo courtesy The Otesaga Resort Hotel

Speaking of golf, I nervously signed up for a round at the property’s famous Leatherstocking Golf Course. Tons of golfers humbly claim to be “not that great,” but I swear I’m not being humble when I say I put the “amateur” in amateur golfer – so much so that Tyler, the assistant pro, reinvented my entire swing during the 18 holes we played together.

“Johnny Bench set the record for the longest drive on this hole,” he told me as we approached the 7th hole’s tee box. “346 yards. Ready to break it?”

With a laugh and some faux-swagger, I took a few practice swings and promptly topped the ball with an ungraceful thwack, causing it to roll six whole feet. Tyler’s saintlike patience made a challenging course feel accessible even to a newbie like me. A local kid who grew up in Cooperstown, he also had the best recommendations for pizza (which, if you know me, you know is more of a delicacy than New York Strip).

To celebrate my round – if not well played, at least well attempted – I treated myself to a drink at Fire Bar, a circular fire pit just below the porch, with views of the lake and adjacent swimming pool. I don’t think I’ve ever been that sweaty in a public space that swanky before, but stuffy rules of decorum don’t really apply here. Just as you don’t have to be a baseball legend to run the hallowed basepaths of a ballfield, you don’t need lapels to feel at home in the Otesaga.

Eating at Otesaga

Photo courtesy The Otesaga Resort Hotel

The one place at the Otesaga where a little finery is encouraged is the 1909 steakhouse. Their resort casual dress code doesn’t require a jacket and tie, but does (ironically enough) prohibit baseball caps, with the aim of creating an elegant dining experience. The atmosphere here is everything you’ve come to expect from an upscale steakhouse – dim, cozy, and of course, curious paintings of turn-of-the-century characters that provide fodder for endless mid-meal speculation. For those who prefer an al fresco dining experience in the warmer months, tables are set up on the patio abutting the hotel’s porch, so you can eat with a view of the lake and the infamous 18th hole.

Ask the waiter, and they’ll probably recommend the dry-aged New York Strip or Porterhouse – both of which are excellent – but make sure you also try the Bento Box appetizer. It’s a chef’s selection of four small plates, creatively presented in a wooden box with four compartments.

Photo courtesy The Otesaga Resort Hotel

Otesaga’s other signature restaurant is the Hawkeye Bar & Grill, a more casual indoor-outdoor eatery on the hotel’s lower level. The Hawkeye feels like an old elegant clubhouse, which is fitting, since that’s basically what it turns into on Hall of Fame weekend, when all the players famously go there to drink the night away.

It’s a tradition for newly-inducted Hall of Famers to take the stage for karaoke. So while you’re enjoying your dinner or drinks, you can imagine Wade Boggs and Mike Piazza singing a duet (which allegedly did happen), or Ken Griffey Jr. taking a bathroom break to avoid the stagefright (which also allegedly happened).

Photo: Eben Diskin

When you’re stumbling back to your room for the night, make sure to look at the display of wine glasses just outside the restaurant. Each Hall of Famer gets their own wine glass, which they use year after year when they visit the Otesaga. When that player passes away, a white flower is placed in the glass. Eventually, the glass is mailed to the player’s family. I was unexpectedly moved by the sight of a lone white flower in the case, in the glass of Willie Mays. His was the first autographed baseball I ever bought, the last time I came to Cooperstown, way back in 2003.

Cooperstown is baseball

Photo: Denise McLane /Shutterstock

“Are you a baseball fan?” people asked me throughout my weekend.

“I’m more of a baseball history fan,” I always replied, to understandably confused looks.

I grew up with the early 2000s Red Sox, but my real loyalty is to the sport itself. I don’t watch many games these days. I couldn’t tell you the AL East standings, or name more than four players on the 2025 Red Sox. What I love about baseball are its moments, which capture an intensely human experience. To me, baseball is Lou Gherig’s retirement speech, which I challenge even non-baseball fans to watch with a dry eye. It’s Jackie Robinson’s historic debut (seven years before schools were integrated in the US), and Pee Wee Reese’s inspiring embrace of him. It’s an injured Kirk Gibson hitting a home run, against all odds, in the 1988 World Series, and Ken Griffey Jr. taking the outfield alongside his father. The Hall of Fame is a treasure trove of these moments and memories, and a testament to the sport’s inextricable relationship with the evolution of our country itself. That’s meaningful even if you’re not a “baseball fan.”

Unlike other “hall of fame towns,” like Springfield and Canton, Cooperstown is synonymous with its sport. Cooperstown is baseball. That’s obvious when you walk the streets and notice all the baseball card and memorabilia shops, with names like Mickey’s Place and Yazstremski’s. If you’re a collector, like I was as a kid, you’ll find all manner of autographed bats, balls, photographs, mint condition rookie cards, obscure mid-century baseball magazines, and more. There’s even a ballfield right in the heart of town, where you’re likely to catch a high school game on any given day (or an exhibition game between MLB pros, on Hall of Fame weekend).

Photo courtesy Cooperstown

For a sport with pastoral roots, it’s fitting that Cooperstown is located in the middle of nowhere. But “nowhere” doesn’t mean “nothing to do.” My dad and I spent an afternoon exploring the beautiful countryside by rail. No, we weren’t idle passengers on a train. Rail Explorers operates tours along old railroad tracks, which is a perfect way of seeing the countryside from a unique perspective. Each duo, or group of four, gets their own pedal-powered rail cart, which you pedal as you would a bike. We followed the railway through green fields and farms, past eerily picturesque abandoned houses, and into a serene forest. Even though it rained during our tour, it still managed to be one of the most relaxing and memorable parts of the weekend.

Back in town for one final evening, I decided to scratch a childhood itch, and wandered into a baseball card shop. I haven’t bought baseball cards in 20 years. But when a pack of Topps cards from 1988 caught my eye, I couldn’t resist the chance to pull the rookie card of my favorite player – Ken Griffey Jr. I opened them on a bench on the sidewalk. Savoring every second, I flipped through the pack hoping for a Griffey card, just as I had done when I was 13 years old. Bells jingled as a group of middle school boys in baseball uniforms exited the same shop. They’d bought some packs of their own, and speculated giddily about what they might find. Do kids still collect baseball cards? Do kids still get excited about the little things? In Cooperstown they do.

Photo: Eben Diskin

I didn’t get the Griffey rookie card, but I didn’t care. It just felt good to tear the wrapping again. That’s what Cooperstown, and the Otesaga, does to you. 22 years later, the Cooperstown Diamonds camp is a forgotten field with overgrown hedges and faded basepaths. But whether you’re sitting on the veranda wondering which ballplayers sat in those chairs before you, or walking through the fabled plaque gallery at the Hall of Fame, visiting Cooperstown is like tearing the wrapping on a pack of old cards. And for that moment – or if you’re lucky, a whole weekend – you feel the warm thrill of the child’s game.