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BOYHOOD DREAMS
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A very peculiar collection
of rare baseball cards
of TheColumnists.com
The main reason
Richard and I have stayed such close friends is because we share
boyhood memories—memories that have lasted over three-quarters
of a century.
You should know that Richard and I are cousins. We both came
into the world in 1930 in New York City. We were born only a
week apart. Our mothers, who were sisters, liked to call us "twin"
cousins.
Richard and I were on the same third grade class at P.S. 166
on Manhattan's upper West Side until Richard moved away to live
in Queens.
He went on to become a successful Madison Avenue ad executive.
But in our salad days, it was baseball that really bonded us.
We were consumed with the national pastime.
As kids, we played on the same sandlot team. On Sundays, we rode
the subway to see the Giants play double-headers in the old Polo
Grounds where Mel Ott pulled most of his 511 career home runs
down the short 257-foot right field foul line.
But most of our interest in the game centered around baseball
cards. Those 2½ by 3 ½-inch sets of cards had colorful
names like Play Ball--America, Big League, and Diamond Stars.
The other day, Richard told me a story about his long lost card
collection—a tale that made me chuckle. And yet it had a
sad edge to it. But I'm getting ahead of myself. You be the judge
as to whether it's a funny or sad tale.
The stiffback cards that were popular in our day had a photo
of the player. His vital statistics were on the back side.
The stax told you everything. They gave you the player's birthplace
and his height, weight, and age. They told the way he hit and
threw, and, most importantly, his batting average and career
highlights.
After memorizing all that data, you almost felt like you were
his teammate.
Best of all, the cards were a bargain. They cost only a penny
a piece at the neighborhood candy store. Each came in a waxed
wrapper with a paper-thin stick of bubble gum. The gum was usually
old and rock-hard. No matter how carefully you opened the wrapper,
it usually broke into a hundred pieces.
Even so, every kid had his own collection. The cards were numbered
and printed in sets of maybe 200 or 300 or more.
You never knew the exact number. In fact, no one I know ever
collected a complete set. Later, I found out even the manufacturer
was not always sure of the number of cards he made.
One year, an ad by Gum, Inc., the firm that put out the Play
Ball set, urged kids to get "all 250 pictures" of the
leading players. I found out later that Gum issued only 162 cards.
And it left out number 126.
Nevertheless, some of those penny cards—like the rookie
cards of Joe DiMaggio, Ted Williams, and Mickey Mantle—now
sell for hundreds of dollars.
Anyway, Richard and I met at a restaurant for lunch recently,
and he told me about his cards and a day he has never forgotten.
One day, Richard said, he got sick and had to lie in bed and
stay home from school. Like me, he was an only child.
His mother, my Aunt Helen, saw how lonely he was. To cheer him
up, she went to the neighborhood candy store to get him some
cards. Kids usually came in with a few pennies and got one or
two cards at a time.
But Richard's mother did something unheard of. She bought an
entire box. A box held 100 cards. So Aunt Helen had to shell
out a whole dollar.
When she brought the box home, Richard was beside himself. "It
was the happiest day of my life (up to then)," he said.
He had only about two dozen or so cards in his collection. Now,
he would have over 100, cards of players from all the teams in
the Major Leagues, pitchers and catchers, outfielders, and infielders.
He would almost certainly have the biggest collection of any
kid on the block, maybe in the whole neighborhood. He figured
he would be king of the baseball card collectors.
Richard carefully opened the first wrapper. His eyes popped open.
There was "Indian" Bob Johnson of the last place Philadelphia
Athletics. It showed Johnson, who was one-quarter Cherokee, posing
in the act of making a one-hand catch of a fly ball.
Johnson wasn't as famous as sluggers like ole "double X"
Jimmy Foxx of the Red Sox or Hank Greenberg of the Tigers. But
he was no pushover either.
He played in the Majors from 1933 -1946 and belted 288 home runs.
He was the fifth player to have nine straight seasons hitting
20 or more homers. One of those clouts
spoiled a no-hit game by Yankee ace Lefty Gomez in 1937.
Johnson never had a super year. But he had a lifetime batting
average of .296 and put in one dependable season after another
like a guy punching a time clock.
So Richard was thrilled to add "Indian Bob" to his
collection.
Now, he opened a second wrapper, wondering what other colorful
player he would find. It was the same card. It showed Johnson
going through the motions of leaping for a phantom fly ball.
Richard was a little disappointed. He wanted to see his meager
collection grow.
But that's okay, he figured. He would have a duplicate. Maybe,
he could trade Johnson for a card he didn't have.
He unwrapped a third card. It was Johnson again. He opened a
fourth and a fifth wrapper. Johnson again and again. Now, the
awful truth emerged. Every card in the box was Johnson's card.
That meant that even though he had gotten 100 baseball cards,
his collection had grown by only one player. Suddenly. his dream
of becoming monarch of the baseball card collectors vanished.
Instead of cheering him up, Aunt Helen's gift had boomeranged.
"That's the story," Richard said.
"It was one of life's darkest moments."
"What did you do?" I asked.
"I think had a relapse," he said. There was a silence.
Then, he laughed and so did I.
As we were getting ready to leave the restaurant, he started
shaking his head.
"You know it's funny," Richard said. "Thinking
about those cards again, I might be having another relapse right
now."
I looked at him, wondering if he were serious. There was a another
silence. Then, he winked.
As the man says, time heals all wounds.
©2008 by David Zinman. The Zinman caricature is ©2001 by Jim Hummel. This column first posted Dec. 22, 2008.
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