SubSonic or not, that’s a snazzy card.
Pink Power Ranger 4Ever!
“And once again, ladies and gentlemen, Danny Ainge has … gone bananas.”
I used to collect baseball cards.
Well, everyone USED to collect cards, but most are like me and fall by the wayside at some point, which is why those who hang on to their collections are more likely to find money in them down the road, cause the rest of us gave away, threw away, lost or destroyed our cards.
I collected in the ’80s, when baseball was pure (they snorted cocaine instead of injecting steroids, and we didn’t know about it pre-CNN, so it was all good…), many a tooth was ruined on the “gum” that came with the packs and everyone knew that Goose Gossage was THE MAN.
One summer Mountain Dew (or one of its rip-offs) had a promotion where you got free baseball cards every time you bought their pop.
We had a quickie-mart at the end of our street in Kelso and I rode a rut in the road going back-and-forth all summer in pursuit of George Brett and Robin Yount, fueled by the world’s foulest mix of carbonated caffeine and artificial colors.
Drink enough of that stuff and you can smell colors and talk to the squirrels.
But now, several years down the road and saddled with a crippling fear of Mountain Dew, my collection is long gone.
So, if I want to annoy myself, it’s a good time to look up baseball card values on the internet and realize, that yes, I did once own that Ken Griffey, Jr. rookie card and a nice selection of ’50s and ’60s cards that someone else is now making money off of, while I abuse my typing fingers in the dish pits.
Once more into the time machine, and we can go back and slap the ever-lovin’ crud out of 12-year-old David.
Most days I don’t think about my mint condition Cal Ripken cards, but recently I stumbled onto a ton of free cards from someone who was looking to clear some space.
Cards had been left behind by someone. Boxes never opened. Cards in near-perfect condition.
At this point, we pause while I hyperventilate at the possibilities.
And then we come back down to Earth.
Turns out the collector specialized in early-80s football cards (which NO ONE wants) and early-90s baseball cards. And there’s the rub.
The baseball card market exploded in the early ’90s — just like the biceps on the players — and tons (mega-tons) of each set were printed. Therefore, even in their pristine condition, having 17 copies of a Marquis Grissom card doesn’t mean much.
Except … one of the sets he had, the 1993 Upper Deck SP, features one of the few truly valuable cards from the time period. Derek Jeter. Has sold for four figures.
I had the vapors.
Two billion cards later, I had come to the rock-solid reality the ONLY card this guy didn’t have from the set was Jeter.
He had 41 copies of Todd Steverson (Spoiler Alert: Regardless of what the card says, he was NOT a Premier Prospect), but the bastard had lost, sold or never had the one true gem in the set.
Having exhausted my good will, the cards were on the way back out the door when I idly started pulling basketball cards out of the piles.
A lifelong Portland Trailblazer fanatic (who was six when they won their championship, and nine when I started following their “exploits”), I was drawn to them for reasons which had nothing to do with value.
The cards were from the 1993-1994 Fleer set, all untouched, and, even though a quick check of ye olde internet revealed the set was worth diddly and squat, they’re snazzy-looking cards.
And this was from my greatest stretch of NBA love. Clyde the Glide. Thunder Dan. Hakeem the Dream. The Mailman. Sir Charles. The Glove. Uncle Cliffy. Never Nervous Pervis. Mercy, Mercy Jerome Kersey.
As I began to assemble the set, card by card, my excitement grew.
Not the giddy insanity of finding Jeter, but a time machine, in glossy colors, to go back to when Shaq was a rookie, Kevin Duckworth and Reggie Lewis were still alive and Chris Mullin and Detlef Schrempf rocked the flat tops.
And they all fell into place — Jordan, Pippen, Ewing, The Admiral — until I was missing three cards out of 240.
That year’s MVP, Charles Barkley. Harold Miner (the next Jordan, until he wasn’t). And the well-traveled Jim Jackson, who once had a cup of coffee with the Blazers.
I was peeved, and then I saw Barkley’s bald head, hiding under a pile of football cards, and hope soared.
Miner was the next to surface, mixed in with some Mighty Morphin Power Ranger cards, which meant I had him and the Pink Power Ranger herself, Amy Jo Johnson. Nice.
One freakin’ card. This would drive me insane.
Unless. In the pile of Aladdin movie cards (a great film, but who collects Aladdin cards?!?!) Two to the bottom and … JIM FRICKIN’ JACKSON!!!!!!!
From my scream you would have thought I found a $5,000 Jeter card, not a 20-cent Jackson, but so be it.
My magnificent, virtually flawless, pretty much worthless collection was complete. From the Human Highlight Film, Reign Man, Chief and X-Man to Sleepy Sam, Hot Rod, the Hawk, Mad Max and Billy O, I was complete.
I have very low standards.
Coupeville Sports 