I’ve a confession to make: I’m queer for baseball cards. Got boxes and boxes of them stacked up like cordwood. They’re all dented and mucked-up and not worth a plugged nickel to “serious collectors,” but, man, when ever I open up a box — as I did last night while moving some shit from point A to point B — I can just get lost in ’em for hours. And as it’s Friday, the day on which talent takes a holiday from the good ship SG, I figgered I’d pull a few out and share them with you.
One of my prized possessions is my Mike Garman rookie card, which I’m man enough to admit I purchased at a sports card show at the Holiday Inn in Dedham. Good times, those. Also, check Fisk’s cap. Dude was kickin’ it C.C. Sabathia-style long before it became fashionable.
Shitty scan, awesome photo. It’s always cool when the photographers try something that breaks out of the “stand with your bat and think of naked chicks” pose. That’s what I like about this Clemens card. I was on a real Clemens kick a couple years ago, buying up a shitload of his cards — behavoir I later attributed to a misguided attempt to impress Debbie Clemens. To this day, his Topps rookie card still eludes me. As does Debbie.
Ain’t no half-steppin’ to the Yaz. Gotta have some Yaz.
The Paul Molitor rookie card is also the Alan Trammell rookie card. You’ll also find U.L. Washington, who used to be the scariest motherf–ker in baseball, before Dmitri Young inherited the title. And there’s Yankee great Mickey Klutts, looking suspiciously like your high school gym teacher.
Young Red, flipping through freshly-opened pack of baseball cards: Let’s see… Mark McGwire, Junior Griffey, Barry Larkin, Tony Gwynn’s ass…
The eTopps cards are my latest addiction. The recent Keith Foulke and Varitek autographed cards are sold out. But the 2005 series drops next week. Get there early.
er… nice hat. Also, what, exactly, was the “look” the Phillies were striving for with their late ’70s unis? A sort of leisure suit homage?
Perhaps the single most boring photo ever committed to cardboard. Why not just show him “at the bank” or “properly storing old paint cans in the garage” or “tending to a sick tree”? Is he a coach? A hanger-on? A deranged fan who’s stumbled onto the field in full uniform? The world may never know. But of this fact we can be assured: those sideburns controlled the tides.
