Dusty Old Cardoard Memories

When I was growing up, my parents never had cable. We had a ton of movies, but no worth-watching television channels (which is why I can still recite lines from Honey I Shrunk the Kids and couldn’t stage the argument for how much MTV has changed since the early 90’s. Hasn’t it always been a provocative, script-based, sexual reality television network? Damned if I know.) Most of my friends had cable, so I knew what was out there; although that almost made it worse. Just getting that little taste every now and again of things like Nickelodeon and the Disney channel was like one of your friends giving you a taste-tester spoon full of his Ben and Jerry’s Oatmeal Cookie ice cream…then just walking back home with the rest of the pint and leaving you with a steaming pile of broccoli.


There’s no doubt it sucked, and at the time I would have given my left thumb for cable and maybe a pair of Nikes (that’s another story for another day). For me, missing the kids shows like Catdog and Rugrats were one thing, but the Sox games were another.


Believe it or not, those massive retractable rabbit-ears didn’t pick up NESN or ESPN. I could have wrapped the antennas in 15 roles of tin foil and shoved them up the damn chimney, and I still wouldn’t have seen a lick of good sports. Therefore, every morning while my friends were munching down on a bowl of Count Chocula and listening to Craig Kilborn on Sportscenter, I was sitting on a chair in my basement choking down Chex and getting the Boston sports skivvy from my mom, who would regurgitate what she understood from the bumbling Bob Lobel Sox coverage she saw on WBZ news. Besides that, I was on my own. I would catch a game or two at friends and family’s houses, but the only time I saw the Red Sox play on my own couch was during the playoffs…when they got there.


My best friend Nate was in the same boat as me, only you could argue his situation was worse. I’m not sure if he got morning mom updates, and I’m positive he didn’t have the privilege of wearing Nikes or even eating Chex (Rice Krispies and skim milk…it made breakfast the worst part of sleepovers). I don’t even think they had a good movie selection, which is why I can remember watching movies like Andre.


What’s funny though, is that when it came to sports, we were never really too phased by our isolation. Sure, we would have loved the chance to watch every game, but because our only regular season home baseball watching was limited to the occasional fuzzy Fox game at his house, it made other things a lot more fun and forced us into filling our baseball fix using other outlets.


I understand that collecting baseball cards isn’t a novel hobby. Nate and I were avid collectors, but we knew we weren’t the only ones. In fact, we took it upon ourselves to seek out other card connoisseurs so that we could rip them off and take their good ones. I wish I was kidding, but it got so bad that one of our younger friend’s dad got him a Grand Slam pack for his birthday (the granddaddy of all baseball card packages) and specifically told us at the party that we weren’t allowed to trade with him. We spent the rest of the ride home from Chuck E Cheese sulking in disappointment while Birthday Boy Kyle sifted through his glossy Ken Griffey Jr. cards that we had been banking on being ours. I can’t speak for Nate, but I still hold a deep internal grudge towards Kyle’s dad to this day, even though he’s probably one of the nicest guys you’d ever meet.


The point is we loved baseball cards. And not just for the trading and value, although that was a big part of it. I can remember buying every new Beckett issue to find out what my Gold Crown Juan Gonzalez card was worth. It was close to $35 bucks back then…right now I might be better off sticking it in my bike spokes. We’d have stacks of cards we deemed nearly worthless, stacks of all Red Sox cards, stacks of cards in thick plastic covers, then some in the thin plastic card condoms. We knew which ones the other wouldn’t dare trade, which ones we wish they would trade, and which ones the other wanted so bad, but you’d never trade. I wanted Nate’s Roger Clemens and Frank Viola card almost as bad as he wanted my Nomar Garciaparra top prospects card (when he played for the Trenton Thunder minor league team).


I still have Nomar. He still has Roger and Frank.


Two more for the spokes? Never.


Baseball cards are such a rich, dusty old pastime that should be past down from generation to generation. They meant so much more to Nate and I because we didn’t have ESPN or the Internet, so they were the way we put faces to the names of our heroes. They gave us stats and quick bios, great photos, and a hands-on way of following our favorite players.


Just recently I came home to get ready for a job interview, and while rummaging through my closet to find dress socks, I found two old shoe boxes filled with my baseball cards. Once I took the cover off and began fanning through some of the old worn out pieces of cardboard, the memories began flooding back. I laughed to myself when I saw all the Tim Nearing cards I had in plastic cases, and I kicked myself for all the Alex Rodriguez cards I let float around and get nicked. I couldn’t help but crack up seeing a cut out MVP candidate card of Cecil Fielder, and a Jack Clark card I remember intentionally bending in half. They’re definitely more than just pictures and value to me. They represent my childhood baseball knowledge, and no ESPN.com video or NESN Red Sox recap could have held a candle to the fun and excitement I had collecting these cardboard memories.