To an outsider, it's absurd. The vintage players look like dehydrated clowns: sweaty ovals have formed behind their knees, thanks to their heavy historically accurate pants; worse are the jerseys, which have thick breast folds, trapping heat against the chests, roasting their lungs like Thanksgiving turkeys. "Oh God," I think, "they're going to kill themselves." I'm trapped in the beginning of a Law & Order episode.

A panting outfielder directs me to Brad "Brooklyn" Shaw, a sort of mouthpiece for the league.

I find Shaw in the Neshanock batter's box, a rectangle of dirt temptingly close to the coolers. Like a consiglieri, the tall, grey-haired man is surrounded by younger, stronger players who prefer to be identified solely by nicknames like "El Presidente." It's intimidating to interrupt their conversation.

I learn Shaw is a software manager for JPMorgan Chase, but on summer weekends and weeknights, he circuits the libraries and ballparks of the Northeast teaching Americans about the origins of their national pastime — often by recreating it with the help of the 1873 Neshanocks, a vintage team he formed in 2001.

Authentic shoes, El Presidente tells me, would be too dangerous. "We all gotta go to work on Monday."

Today, the Neshanocks are playing the 1864 Gothams. Before I can ask Shaw for any profound insight, he's mosied towards home plate, egging on the Gotham's pitcher. Shaw's at-bats are miniature performances. His gut lifts up and down, calculating a central point of gravity, while his hands twirl a bat, as if it were whipping the air above his head to a thick cream.

I notice Shaw's feet look hooven. His modern cleats have been blacked-out by layers of shoe polish. Authentic shoes, El Presidente tells me, would be too dangerous. "We all gotta go to work on Monday," he says.

What's historical recreation but people in goofy, uncomfortable clothes saying anachronistic swear words? Isn't this sort of cheating?