When I was in my early 30s and first started thinking about becoming a dad, I didn’t have a clue what to expect. Well, except for one thing: I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that if I had a son, we’d spend hours in the living room sorting, talking about and checking out our baseball card collection.
He would marvel in awe of my Rickey Henderson rookie card and my 1981 Dodgers collection. He’d laugh when I shared my Oscar Gamble Topps card, the one in which his massive afro mushrooms from beneath his Yankees cap. And he’d beg to stay up past his bedtime so he could read the backs of my 1989 Upper Deck collection, especially Ken Griffey Jr.’s first baseball card — one of the most important pieces of cardboard in the modern era.
Yeah, not so much. Of course, I also thought he would be impressed with my Planet of the Apes action figures and my Steve Austin doll with the bionic arm, legs and eye. Hey, don’t judge me. Those guys are in near mint condition and may pay for his college tuition someday.
Like any self-respecting dad, I’ve tried to force baseball cards on the little guy. I’ve used them as prizes for his T-ball team and stocking stuffers at Christmas. I always drag him into a Field of Dreams store, although the framed LeBron jersey seems to steal his attention.
“But Dad, baseball cards just don't do anything,” he observed.
Thanks for piercing my heart with a bayonet, son.
I get it. These days baseball cards aren’t nearly as entertaining to a 10-year-old as the Xbox One baseball game or "Clash of Clans" on the iPad. They don't speak to you, spin Pitbull songs and they never give you the ability to use Google or Snapchat. Wait, why would anyone want to spin Pitbull songs?
We need to stage a baseball card revival. We need to get their heads out of their smartphones and iPads and onto those wonderful 2.5 x 3.5-inch jewels of wisdom. If Kenny Loggins can still figure out a way to get paid for singing “Danger Zone,” baseball cards can become popular again.
For instance, baseball cards taught me to truly enjoy reading. Sure it was two sentences at a time, but discovering that Steve Garvey came up in the Dodgers’ organization as a third baseman instead of a first baseman was information I could immediately put to use at the playground.
But reading is just one of the many life lessons to be learned with baseball cards.
Baseball cards also taught me how to negotiate. How else would I have snagged the final card for my Dodgers collection — Reggie Smith — by giving up a stupid Cesar Geronimo card? I mean, a fantastic switch-hitting right fielder is much better than a so-so hitting Cincinnati Reds center fielder — even if he played on multiple World Series teams.
Baseball cards taught me about money: saving it, spending it and figuring out how much cash my cards were worth. (Full disclosure alert: My second job out of college was as an editor for Beckett Baseball Card Monthly, the so-called bible of price guides in the trading world. So to say that I was invested would be an understatement. My first two houses, a sweet Nissan 300Z and a set of Callaway golf clubs were all thanks to baseball cards.)
Baseball cards taught me how greed robs the innocence from any business. Baseball card manufacturers made too many cards, priced them ridiculously high and made them all about the Benjamins for 45-year-old men with ponytails and bad breath instead of 10-year-old boys wearing Jeter jerseys.
Baseball cards taught me how to develop my imagination. As I wrote this column, my son yelled down to me that he’s demanding a trade to another team on his basketball video game. Demanding a trade? My son is turning into Carmelo Anthony?!? It’s cool, I guess, that you can demand a trade on a video game. I’m glad he’s learning to fight management at an early age. But what’s wrong with organizing your baseball cards by teams or by card-back numbers or jersey numbers or . . . OK, I’m a geek.
Do I have a serious case of the good old days syndrome? Yes. I also walked uphill to and from school in the snow while mushing angry, hungry and rabid dogs. Deal with it people. Doesn’t mean I’m wrong. Go buy some baseball cards and send a boy to college. Fast.
Rudy lives in Flower Mound, sells stuff to make the house payment, spends weekends on dusty ball fields and recently had a GPS chip attached to his daughter. Follow him on Twitter: Manifesto10.
