Once the best fun, we collected baseball cards, sacred for poor, working-class boys before we could afford to go to a real game, before TV. Collected all the cards, a big deal and cheap. We could stuff boxes full: all the stars, along with the bench jockeys, shuffle fantasies before our eyes, each face our own miracle catch or towering home run.
In the winter, when snow and ice pinned us inside, we made a game with them. Placed the cards on the floor, each player in his right position, even a catcher. We had our own All-Star team, changed line-ups at whim. We were the managers! Teams took turns. With our index finger, we flicked the batter card across the wooden bedroom floor, a dirt field in our minds.
Where it landed determined the play. Hit another card—out! Land clean, a hit, depends how far it flew. A home run was atop the heating vent. Rooted for our favorite team: Pirates, Reds, Cubbies! Charted the league standings. Nine innings, whiling away winter. Played for hours until our cuticles bled from snapping floating heroes into the air. Heal in a few days—Batter up!
We had no idea of value—Cokes were a nickel. We did not know American greed
would soon make some cards—Williams, DiMaggio, Mantle—if we did not bend or crinkle them, worth enough to pay for college fees.
Comic books, then girls, took over. The cards sat in a box in the attic buried in an Easter basket with fake green grass. It looked more like a field than the old, brown floor. But a small, attic fire incinerated them. Childhood dreams went up in smoke.
Years later, our own children collected cards: “Mom, Dad, buy sets and keep them;
they’ll be worth a ton!” As good parents we stored them safely, not in an attic, but cellophane-intact, like rare books with perfect spines.
Years later, a surfeit of cards—America knew her business. Everyone collected and saved everything. The market crashed. Like a player who slid past second base—Yer Out!
Originally Published in Euphemism Magazine