As I reach back to my beginnings to focus on my earliest memories of becoming, I have realized that the first place I felt belonging was baseball. There was family, of course. The immediate and the wild Greek relatives that would surround me when I was with my Grandmother, Annika, in Chicago. But with family I was assigned a part to play—with baseball I could chose my own. It was personal, this relationship, and the baseball cardboard I could hold in my hand—made it mine.
Imagine, having portable pieces of your passion, to carry around, show off, read, trade, memorize and play with. And all it took to gather more joy and excitement was a little ingenuity. A pack cost a nickel. That was two or three deposit bottles (depending if they were 2 or 3 cent bottles) Or you could take your chances and flip/lag for a few more. That kid across the street had seven Moe Drabowskys—how hard could it be to talk him out of one? And the number of things you could do with those cards once you got them...was limited only by your imagination. The time I would spent with that 1962 Koufax or reading the back of a ’57 Billy Loes...looking at those stats! I learned math off the backs of 1957 Topps cards.
But even beyond all the personal involvement and the intimate kind of power that these cardboard pieces provided—there was something else. Something special and intimate, that seemed to slip away once the cards were forgotten, only to return when that shoebox found its way back to me in 1989…
Next: is an edited version of a remembrance I sent to my OBC friends back in the 1990's when I was trying to find a way to express my thanks to them for bringing back the innocence, intimacy and passion that I had attached to my cardboard…
that feeling...
Scuffing over sidewalks to the Westward Ho Market the young boy marked his steps towards packaged treasure. No searching through ivy for 2 and 3 cent'er deposit bottles this week for in his hand he held two silver coins—fifty-cents! Corduroy cuffs punctuated heel scuffing sounds as the boy traveled towards a rendezvous with people who filled him up.
Moving into the market he passed an overflowing display of double Butterfinger bars, fought the urge to pick one up, continued and then stopped before his cathedral of cardboard. One hand was too small to hold the ten packs his half-dollar would buy, so he let the coins slide into a pocket and grabbed. He walked with purpose to the register, stacked packs, coins out, ring, drawer, clink, bag, receipt—and he was out the door.
Retracing his steps toward home, holding the less than lunch size bag in his left hand and a fresh pack in his right—he ripped with his teeth.
“Got 'em—got 'em—don't got 'em—got 'em”, his cadence sounded. The “got 'em's” were far ahead. Plopping down on an available lawn the boy pushed through the fifty-cards once more, pulling out every Dodger, while sliding gum into his mouth and shirt pocket.
Three more Lee Walls another Roseboro, another Wally Moon! Still no Snider, Koufax and no Maury Wills..! The bag bottomed out and the little one was feeling down. For good measure the boy turned the bag over and shook. His reward cascaded to the grass...
Don Drysdale! “All right!”
Holding the Drysdale close, feeling, reading, all his senses alive—a contented smile spread across his face—and he got that feeling...
Pushing through the front door, Monday, after work, the sagging man dropped keys, change and mail, on the dining room table, sat and sorted bills from junk. But a couple of envelopes he set aside. Bills opened and junk torn up, he attended to the ones he'd saved for last.
Gently tearing open each he sifted through the contents and spoke. “Don't got 'em—don't got 'em—don't got 'em—don't got 'em— DON'T GOT 'EM!” Card after card—Dodger after Dodger.
The man straightened as he looked, touched, read, smelled and even tasted. A contented smile changed his face—and he got that feeling...
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Imagine, having portable pieces of your passion, to carry around, show off, read, trade, memorize and play with. And all it took to gather more joy and excitement was a little ingenuity. A pack cost a nickel. That was two or three deposit bottles (depending if they were 2 or 3 cent bottles) Or you could take your chances and flip/lag for a few more. That kid across the street had seven Moe Drabowskys—how hard could it be to talk him out of one? And the number of things you could do with those cards once you got them...was limited only by your imagination. The time I would spent with that 1962 Koufax or reading the back of a ’57 Billy Loes...looking at those stats! I learned math off the backs of 1957 Topps cards.
But even beyond all the personal involvement and the intimate kind of power that these cardboard pieces provided—there was something else. Something special and intimate, that seemed to slip away once the cards were forgotten, only to return when that shoebox found its way back to me in 1989…
Next: is an edited version of a remembrance I sent to my OBC friends back in the 1990's when I was trying to find a way to express my thanks to them for bringing back the innocence, intimacy and passion that I had attached to my cardboard…
that feeling...
Scuffing over sidewalks to the Westward Ho Market the young boy marked his steps towards packaged treasure. No searching through ivy for 2 and 3 cent'er deposit bottles this week for in his hand he held two silver coins—fifty-cents! Corduroy cuffs punctuated heel scuffing sounds as the boy traveled towards a rendezvous with people who filled him up.
Moving into the market he passed an overflowing display of double Butterfinger bars, fought the urge to pick one up, continued and then stopped before his cathedral of cardboard. One hand was too small to hold the ten packs his half-dollar would buy, so he let the coins slide into a pocket and grabbed. He walked with purpose to the register, stacked packs, coins out, ring, drawer, clink, bag, receipt—and he was out the door.
Retracing his steps toward home, holding the less than lunch size bag in his left hand and a fresh pack in his right—he ripped with his teeth.
“Got 'em—got 'em—don't got 'em—got 'em”, his cadence sounded. The “got 'em's” were far ahead. Plopping down on an available lawn the boy pushed through the fifty-cards once more, pulling out every Dodger, while sliding gum into his mouth and shirt pocket.
Three more Lee Walls another Roseboro, another Wally Moon! Still no Snider, Koufax and no Maury Wills..! The bag bottomed out and the little one was feeling down. For good measure the boy turned the bag over and shook. His reward cascaded to the grass...
Don Drysdale! “All right!”
Holding the Drysdale close, feeling, reading, all his senses alive—a contented smile spread across his face—and he got that feeling...
Pushing through the front door, Monday, after work, the sagging man dropped keys, change and mail, on the dining room table, sat and sorted bills from junk. But a couple of envelopes he set aside. Bills opened and junk torn up, he attended to the ones he'd saved for last.
Gently tearing open each he sifted through the contents and spoke. “Don't got 'em—don't got 'em—don't got 'em—don't got 'em— DON'T GOT 'EM!” Card after card—Dodger after Dodger.
The man straightened as he looked, touched, read, smelled and even tasted. A contented smile changed his face—and he got that feeling...
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