Having spent much of my life near Cooperstown, New York, I'm skilled at smiling placidly in response to outsiders who express enthusiasm for two things: the Baseball Hall of Fame and the collected works of James Fenimore Cooper. One of those is a dull, puffy monument to one of America's most trivial obsessions; the other is a building filled with sports memorabilia.
The Hall of Fame is okay. I spent a few lunch hours there as a teenager—I had a summer job at the A&P that used to be across the street and down the…