The Demise of a Spring Tradition

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A sudden giddiness swept through my body as we approached the card shop. It might have been the spring weather or the new baseball season that left me weak. More likely it was the feeling of being a kid again. I was going to buy some baseball cards with my boys.

My euphoria quickly gave way to fear. I steadied myself in the doorway, knowing that if I entered this store a part of my childhood would disappear.

Anxiously I looked on through the window as my kids made their purchases. Sadly realizing that a once innocent pastime, a rite of spring, had been lost forever.

The mom-and-pop variety stores of my youth had been replaced by specialty shops, brokers in sports heroes. You could drool over the zillions of cards behind the glass displays, but you couldn't handle the merchandise. All movements were closely monitored.

Deciding what to buy wasn't any easier. The baseball cards that once crowded my shoe box no longer dominate the market. Today the store shelves are littered with every card imaginable: hockey cards, basketball cards, football cards, Mother of All War cards, soap stars, rock stars, comic book heroes, Royal Family cards, some tasteless cards on serial killers, and, of course, baseball cards.

God only knew what my kids were buying. I wasn't going to ask; it would only depress me more.

They left the store all smiles and headed for home. Something was missing. Wasn't there some wax paper to unwrap, some gum to chew? Why don't we sit on the curb and scoff a few black balls, check out the stats on the back of the cards?

Ahead of me they talked in hushed tones. Their treasures head for plastic holders to be admired in private. Public viewing was by appointment only and required security clearance. What fun.

No longer do you bide your time, waiting patiently for that favorite player to turn up in the next pack. This is the Now Generation: with the right scratch you can own any card. Heck, you can buy the whole league for that matter.

Word is that if a junior player makes it big in the National Hockey League, for instance, his card will jump in value like a hot stock. But it's not like an original work of art – there are several cards for each player and you need them all to see the fruits of your investment.

Factor in the different card manufacturers and the number of cards per player seems endless. Maybe it's a good investment but I can't help but think of those Batemen prints collecting dust in the classifieds.

At the house the kids ran to their rooms. I loped behind, grabbing a beer on my way to the car seat at the end of the yard. Settling in, I surveyed my audience of discarded cans, thinking again of my youth.....

The nickel rolled across the counter, coming to rest against the sponge taffy. I grabbed a pack of cards and left.

It was simple, life was simple.

There were no drugs – just the odd cigarette.

Bullies, we had our share, but no 8-year-old carried a piece.

The only vice was collecting cards, baseball cards, that is, a darn good reason to get up in the morning.

There was no specific starting date, but the kids new. The weather would heat up and the next thing you saw were those bulging pockets stuffed full of cards.

Recesses were spent comparing collections: "Got it. Got it. Need it. Got it. Trade ya."

There were cherished cards then just as there are now, but no player had a price on his head. A card's worth was measured by what it could fetch in a trade, like a Mantle for a Koufax or a Mays.

Trades were not made in private at some clandestine location. Deals were cut in the middle of the school yard for all to witness.

Once they were completed, we'd discuss the merits of the transactions, all the while rubbing the new meat between our sweaty fingers. We were just working the card in, getting to know it, like oiling a new mitt.

Then we'd break up, some of us drifting away, silently slipping the elastic over our stacks, others retiring for a quick game.

Flicking cards was just as important to me as collecting them. Games of leanies, closies and kissies filled our school yard from before the first bell to after school ended.

I can still remember the gentle breeze teasing the back of our necks as we neared a smooth surface, sheltered from the wind.

We felt good, having dined earlier on a light lunch of Twinkies, popcorn, some jubes, all washed down with cherry lolas.

A few practice shots were always in order and then we'd settle to the task at hand.

The game was leanies. The target, a sacrificial card, was centered along the bottom of the wall, one inch out, with its top leaning back against the wall, the idea being that the first person to knock the leaning target flat with one of his cards, took the pot.

Now, there are a variety of ways to flick a card, some conventional, some unorthodox, some stupid.

The best way for me was to hold the card face up with the top right corner between the first knuckles of the index and second fingers of the right hand. The hand was then curled so that the bottom right corner of the card touched the inside of the wrist. In a semi-crouch I extended my arm and with a flick of my wrist sent the card towards the target.

Within no time we were down to the bona fides – the Mantles, Mays and Berras. There was no hesitation. We calmly went about our business while the crowd moaned at each strikeout.

Suddenly the air was thick around us. We heard thunder nearby. A teacher, affectionately known as Scarface, appeared. The scar, a deep crease curving up from the corner of his mouth to just under his right ear, grinned approval.

He reminded us of the impending bell, which rang on cue. No one moved. Scarface motioned us to play on.

At first it was a slow, light drizzle. I thought we could ride out the storm, but the crowd was breaking up. It wasn't meant to be.

We ran to the wall, gathering up the cards to be divided up later. We followed Scarface into the school, holding stacks in each hand.

The rain came down harder as I opened my beer.

By Joel S. Harris

Originally published in The Montreal Gazette, May 16, 1993.