COLLECTING MEMORIES

by Dave Friant

They were the dominant non-snack purchases made by most every sports nut kid when being hauled off to the Acme grocery store. Typically twice monthly within the Friant household in South Jersey and similarly for buddies involved in accumulation efforts. As kiddos having reached those double-digit ages in the early 1960’s, we were still “get in the backseat cuz we told you so” captives on Friday night excursions to big city shopping.

Baseball cards. The 2” x 3” bubblegum packs we purchased for a nickel included five professional baseball player cards and a flat (and generally stale) piece of pink Bazooka gum. On selected occasions when around the house and in school behavior allowed it, I’d toss a quarter to the clerk and spring for five packs.

Way too frequently were the opening up of packs which contained unremarkable players. Just a shade north of utility-type competitors. Such a finding(s) was a bummer. Kinda like being thrown out at home and ripping the back pocket out of my makeshift baseball pants. The impact of the slide when these baserunning screwups occurred would sometimes result in a bloody mess on a sizable section of my hind parts. I’d get the overreactive lecture on the dangers of the game by mom before being cleaned up with a knockoff brand of peroxide.

I digress.

Prayers for an unexpected finding of potential stardom were often carefully crafted. Surely the powers He possessed included a surprise now and then. Might this unproven rookie Pirate or Cardinal defy the odds? Have a few breakout seasons and become a household name amongst pro baseball devotees? Or what about slipping into the bundle a Hammerin’ Hank Aaron? Possibly Ted Williams or The Mick? Maybe a Phillies superstar hurler?

For the majority of the time, a big fat N-O-P-E. Unpackaged findings that might have hoisted me into the rarified air of sittin’ pretty amongst collectors rarely took place. At least during the 8-10 years that I was devout with card acquisitions. We were usually bombarded with likable players having jumped into the big leagues after having put together exceptional AAA stats. The only deviations for me occurred well after my cravings had ceased. They took the form of two Topps Yogi Berra cards; the most valued being his rookie year and the second one highlighting 10 years of a stellar career. Both were gifts from a former employer of my spouse going back to the early 1990’s. Some felt an extra paycheck upon departure would have sufficiently rung the loyalty bell. Her boss and I were baseball fanatics and gifting yours truly with investment items was an incredibly generous act of kindness.

Seemed to me and other brains at the time not yet fully percolating that Topps and other similar pumping out card companies toyed with our addictions. Flood these youngsters with player cards that for the most part were worthless in terms of financial value. Not tradable. Either tossed into one of the medium-sized boxes dad would bring home from work, or used as “spoke music” on my bicycle.

The Philadelphia Phillies were the team we as kids supported in terms of hearing radio play-by play broadcasts or watching them on our 21-inch RCA television. They were also the baseball cards we mostly sought out in an attempt to field a collector squad. Buying, trading, begging for, and stealing were the primary avenues of acquisition.

Using cards to “Harley-up” our bikes was popular in the late 50’s. I had a blue Murray that was a Christmas gift. It was not as expensive as a Schwinn and did not have the fancy seat or striped fenders. Mine was stripped down to the basics for coolness sake. Had tons of duplicate cards for use with clothes pins on the front fork to make the imaginary Harley motorcycle sounds when they intermingled with the spokes. Imaginary was the key word. Sounded more like the outbursts of old lady McCain’s elderly Calico when she was caught between the radiator and engine block of the widow’s ’47 Impala.

Such were the days of my reasonably tame adolescence. Entertainment was inexpensive, grass-stained jeans common, and miscues beyond the standards set by parents dealt with swiftly.