Transported to the Golden Age of Baseball Cards
Let’s imagine that present day Peter Johnson, age 12,
has been captured by aliens and after 15 minutes of questioning,
the benevolent aliens return him to Earth. However, they
mistakenly transplant him to the North Side of the City of
Chicago in 1960. Pete finds himself walking down a typical
Chicago street in mid-summer. Bungalows with neatly mowed lawns
line the street. An old Hudson Hornet ogles the tailfins
of a new DeSoto, whose chrome grill gleams proudly in the midday
sun. Pete has no idea where he is when a voice shouts out
from a nearby house.
“Hey kid, what you doin’ here?” questioned Tim Lasko from his watch post
on his front porch. “Are you new in the neighborhood?”
“I – I don’t know,” answered Pete. “I think I’m lost.”
“Well, you look kinda lost. “Where’d you get those funny looking
clothes with all the words on them?"
Tim read the words on the front of Pete’s T-shirt to himself.
I am hot.
“You’re hot because of the shirt? Tim laughed heartily. “It’s summer. Of
course it’s hot. And look at those shoes. They’re
gigantic.”
“They’re… like… Nike.”
“They’re like ballistic missiles?” Tim says laughing heartily.
“No, Nike is a brand of shoe. What’s a ballistic missile?”
“Where have you been? We have Nike missile bases in the
city to shoot down incoming enemy aircraft, but we have bigger
problems with the Soviet ICBMs and Sputnik flying over us.
“Sputnik? I’ve heard of Sputnik in our history class.
Didn’t it go up in the 1950’s?"
“The first one went up in 1957, but right now the 4th one is
orbiting the Earth,” Tim responded emphasizing his
knowledge of the space age upon them.
“Right now? What do you mean right now? What’s today’s date?” Pete
asked with some hesitation.
“July 15th”
“What year?”
“1960.”
“Holy sh__! 1960?"
“You don’t know what year it is?”
“Sure I do. Well, maybe not. See, I’m from 2007.”
“Okay, I get it. You saw Twilight Zone last week. That’s funny.
You’re okay,” Tim remarked with a tone of approval.
“Yeah, okay.”
“So, where did you get your funny clothes?” Tim asked with sarcasm.
”I got them at Hollister.”
“Who’s Hollister. Does he live in your neighborhood?”
“No it’s a store at the mall.”
“A store at the what? What’s a mall?"
“A place with all kinds of stores. Don’t you know what a store is?"
“Sure, we have them all over the city.”
“You know, your clothes look pretty funny too,” Pete struck back trying
to stand his ground.
Tim was dressed in faded blue jeans, Converse hightop sneakers and a
white T-shirt.
“Okay, well at least I don’t have holes in my jeans. You should get
them patched.”
“I bought them this way,” asserted Pete.
“Oh, I’m sorry. You must be pretty poor,” Tim said apologetically.
“Look I’m just trying to find my way home.”
“Where do you live?”
“Cincinnati.”
“Sure, just make a right at Cleveland and you’ll be home in no time.”
Tim paused and put his hand on his chin reflecting on the current
situation.
“I know. You’re visiting relatives here,” Tim concluded, trying to make
sense of the situation.
“Yeah, that’s right,” Pete lied.
“Hey, do you want to see my baseball cards?” Tim asked almost as if
begging Pete to stop and look.
“Sure.”
“They’re in a box on my porch. C’mon over.”
The two of them ran up the six concrete steps and sat in the shade of the
red brick house on two old springy, metal chairs. A small
transistor radio blared, “She wore an Itsy Bitsy Teeny Weenie
Yellow Polka Dot Bikini…” Tim rotated a knob on the side of the
radio and turned it off.
“You keep them in a box?” Pete asked in utter astonishment.
“Yeah. They’re sorted by teams.”
“That’s cool. You sorted all the cards?”
Pete peered into the shoebox and saw 16 groups of cards held together
with rubber bands taking up about three quarters of the space
in the box. The box smelled like bubble gum.
“Can I see your Cincinnati Reds?”
“You mean Redlegs? Oh, yeah, they changed their name back to Reds this
year.”
“Yeah, right.”
Each bundle of cards had a team card on the front. Tim pushed the bundles
from side to side and pulled out one that had about 30 cards in
it.
“Here they are.”
Tim smiled as he tossed the bundle to Pete. Pete caught it with ease.
“You should be careful with these. They could be worth money
someday,” Pete said.
Pete shuffled through the cards in amazement. Roy MacMillan, Cal MacLish,
Frank Herrara rookie card, and then his eyes popped as he
fingered the Frank Robinson card from 1958 and then the Ted
Kluszewski card from 1957.
“Wow. Look at this Frank Robinson card. This is fantastic…
and Ted Kluszewski.”
“You like them?”
“Wow, I sure do.”
“You can have them,” Tim said without hesitation. “I have a new card of
Robinson, and Kluszewski is on the White Sox now. I hate the
White Sox”
“I can really have these?” Pete said in disbelief.
“Sure, they’re old and I really don’t care about Cincinnati, I’m a Cubs
fan.”
“That’s too bad”
“Oh yeah. Well, the Reds aren’t doing that well this year either.
Next year the Cubs will win it all.”
“I’ll bet you the Reds win the pennant next year and that the Cubs don’t
win for at least 50 years.”
“Nobody goes for that long without winning.”
“You’ll see,” Pete said as he tried to hide the smile.
Pete slipped the two cards gingerly into his pocket, not wanting to bend
them.
“Can I see your Yankees?”
“Okay,” replied Tim. “Here they are.”
Tim banded the Reds team and watched as Pete shuffled through the Yankees
cards.
He stopped and stared and plopped the 1956 card of Mickey Mantle down on
the porch floor.
‘What do you want for this card?” Pete
“Oh, I don’t want to give you that card.”
“Why not. You’re a Cubs fan. I’ll pay you for it.” Pete haggled.
“I don’t know. I just like the card and I like Mickey Mantle. I
don’t know why.”
“I don’t blame you. Keep this one for as long as you can.
But, you’ve got to do better than to keep these cards in a
shoebox.”
“Why? I can carry them around anywhere in this box. They’ve
been in here for four years.”
“You really shouldn’t be handling them this much. The corners are
getting rounded.”
“So what?”
“Well it decreases their value.”
“I like my cards just as well with round corners as square. In
fact, I like some of my older cards better than the new ones.
Do you have any cards?”
“Yeah, I’ve got thousands, but they’re not worth much.”
“Why to you keep talking about worth and value. It sounds like
you’ve never played with your cards.”
“No. They sit in the boxes. Some are in Lucite, er, plastic containers."
“What good is that, if you never do anything with them,” Tim remarked
with no sense of understanding.
“How do you play with baseball cards? They’re just pieces of
cardboard.”
“So are most other games,” Tim replied. “Come inside and I’ll show
you.”
Tim led Pete through the front screen door. The house was warm and
a fan was blowing in the corner of the living room. Tim led Pete
to meet his mother and introduce him.
“Hello Pete, very nice to meet you. My, that shirt looks…
interesting,” Tim’s mother commented.
“We’ll be in the basement for a few minutes, Mom. Okay?”
“That’s fine, Tim. Just a few minutes though. Your father
will be home soon for dinner and he wants to see the Democratic
Convention on television tonight. I expect that John F. Kennedy
will get the nomination."
“Does that mean that 77 Sunset Strip won’t be on tonight?” asked Tim.
“That’s right.”
“Oh, mom,” Tim whined. “The convention has been on all channels all week
long.”
“All channels?” Pete questioned in bewilderment.”
“Yes, all four of them.”
“That’s a good thing, Tim,” his mother affirmed. “This is history and
you’ll remember it for your entire life. Would your friend Pete
like to stay for dinner? You can call your mother to ask her.
The phone is on the living room table.”
Tim walked to the table, looked at the phone for a few seconds and picked
up the heavy, black receiver.
“Where are the buttons?”
“Buttons?” Tim’s mother exclaimed.
“Never mind. I’ll just use my cell.”
Pete pulled his cell phone from his pocket and flipped it open. The
display indicated that there was no signal. He flipped it
closed and put it back in his pocket.
“Neat looking toy. What is it?” asked Tim.
“Oh, it’s nothing. It doesn’t work anyway.”
Pete picked up the big black receiver again. He remembered seeing a
phone like this in a museum once. He recognized the
pattern and began to clumsily dial a number. A busy signal
beeped in his ear before he could finish dialing home.
“I guess she’s on the phone. I’ll try later,” Pete promised.
“Okay, let’s go downstairs.”
Tim led Pete down a dark set of stairs to an unfinished basement.
The cool air was damp, but very refreshing. The
temperature dropped with each downward step. They walked
past an old furnace and water heater, toward a large wooden
table. On the table was a makeshift baseball stadium made
of cardboard. The playing field was hand-colored with a
dull green crayon and the outfield walls were streaks of green
also. By the indentations in the left and right field walls even
Pete could recognize that it was Wrigley Field.
“How do you like it?” Tim asked, his eyes gleaming with pride.
“Cool,” remarked Pete, not wanting to insult Tim, even though the stadium
looked very crude.
Tim explained the rules of his game and Pete listened carefully.
He wanted to tell Tim about his video games, but he knew he
wouldn’t believe him. The game began, after placing cards
around the field and listening to the Star Spangled Banner
played on a small player with a scratchy record that sounded as
if it had been played a million times before. At first Pete was
skeptical as to whether he would enjoy this experience, but
after a while he was yelling and screaming with Tim as they
battled away. Pete led the game until the final couple of
innings when Tim’s experience took over and he came from behind
to beat his new friend. Pete then knew he was being
manipulated, just like he had manipulated his friends when they
played video games that he had mastered, but he did have fun.
He really had fun. It didn’t make him want to give up his
Xbox, but it was a different experience. For awhile, he
had forgotten that he was in a strange place and time.
Pete started to become afraid. He didn’t know where he could go in this
strange, but comfortable, old place, so he convinced Mrs. Lasko
that he had spoken to his mother and that it was not only
alright for him to stay for dinner, but that he could stay
overnight, since Tim had invited him, with his mother’s
permission, of course.
Mr. Lasko had arrived home and dinner was served at the kitchen table.
Mr. Lasko talked about work and politics and Mrs. Lasko talked
about her day around the house and their plans for the weekend.
Pete was happy that he didn’t have to say much. After dinner
Pete and Tim played again with the baseball cards and talked
more about baseball. Mrs. Lasko threatened to throw away
Pete’s cards if he didn’t listen to her better. Pete
indicated he would never talk to her again if she actually threw
them away.
After playing, the boys joined Mr. and Mrs. Lasko in the living room in
front of their black and white 23” Zenith console, which they
seemed very proud of. They watched the Democratic National
Convention. They watched intently as Kennedy spoke of the
plight of unemployed American people, of those without medical
care, of children without decent schools, of a world that was
close to nuclear war and of whether our country, organized and
governed as such, could endure. But Kennedy said these things,
not by putting fear into the hearts of the American people, but
by uniting them to face the New Frontier. Tears welled in the
eyes of Mr. and Mrs. Lasko as Kennedy gave his speech. A
tear fell from Pete’s eye listening to Kennedy, wishing he had
the chance to live though these exciting times, but knowing that
Kennedy would be killed. The convention ran late into the night
and the boys went to bed, Tim on the floor and Pete in his bed.
Now, so we don’t leave poor Pete hanging around in 1960, let’s presume
that the aliens realized their mistake, find him and transport
him back to the present. Mr. and Mrs. Lasko worry for months
that Pete disappeared from Tim’s bed in the middle of the night
and that he was never heard from again. When he gets back
he realizes he still has the Robinson and Kluszewski cards in
his pants pocket. Pete, through diligent effort, tracks
down the current address of Tim Lasko and mails the cards back
to him.
The true value of baseball cards has a different meaning to
Pete.
Back to the top.
It’s Back, Back,
It’s Over the Couch
Like many young boys who grew up in the fifties, before
electronic games and computers, I needed to find a way to occupy
myself when there was no one to play with. This time alone
was never a problem for me. I would devise all sorts of
games to play with cars, toy soldiers or whatever else I could
find around the house. But nothing gave me more pleasure
than having a game of baseball with my baseball cards. I
played with baseball cards for more years than I would like to
admit and the game I invented was refined over the years.
I would play with friends who set up stadiums in their houses.
They would pitch to another player by rolling a marble and the
batter would swing a pencil, or something resembling a bat, and
the ball would roll along the ground, and if it managed to not
roll over a players’ card, then it would be deemed hit.
The number of bases was determined by where then marble rolled
or hit the outfield wall. Their game was not very exiting
to me.
Friends would laugh when I would tell them of my game.
They never quite understood that you didn’t need to use a round
ball or something round like a marble to get the effect that
made the game truly extraordinary. I would love to set up my
field in the living room of our house. The field was
definitely geared toward right handed hitters, so I always
batted right handed no matter how the particular hitter batted,
but I did give consideration to the handedness of the pitcher.
A right handed pitcher who pitched to a right handed batter
would throw to the inside corner and vice versa.
The key to my game was that the ball wasn’t round. It was
an off-centered rectangle, probably better described as a
trapezoid. It was also flat, like a coin. It was made of a piece
of cardboard, wrapped with shiny slick white tape. It was
soft and would give slightly when struck with a bat that was
about 8 inches long. The effect was very unpredictable
when played on a carpet. If the disc were hit on the flat
side into the air, it would have the effect of a lazy fly ball
or pop up. If struck on the edge, it would jump off the
bat and travel great distances, sometimes as much as 8 feet,
which was enough to fly over the center field wall. If the
disc were hit into the carpet it would roll for awhile, but
would quickly slow down because the edges were uneven. This
would give the effect of a ground ball traveling through the
infield and stopping in the outfield. A catch was made if
the ball hit a fielders’ card on the fly. Since the
fielders’ cards can’t run on their own I needed a way for them
to move. One card length was a running unit and the
distance for the fielder to get to the ball was measured in the
number of card lengths to retrieve it. The batter would be
allowed to run this distance around the bases. The
distances seemed magically proportional, just like real
baseball.
If a ball stopped near a fielder in the infield, the fielder
generally could get to the ball within four card lengths.
It was 5 card lengths between bases, so if the fielder could
throw the ball, which traveled somewhat like a miniature
Frisbee, to the first baseman, who was also allowed to move
respective card lengths to cover first base, and either hit the
first baseman on the fly or land on the first baseman, then the
batter was out. This also allowed for double plays,
and rarely, if the ball happened to roll and land on a fielder,
was it possible, with perfect throws, to get a triple play.
It was truly exciting when a ball would fly in the air and hit
an outfielder on the fly. If the ball happened to roll and
land on an outfielder, it was possible for the outfielder to
throw to first base, but it was highly unlikely that it would be
successful, and could result in an errant throw and most likely
allow the runner to make second base. So, this was only
attempted in desperate circumstances, like trying to preserve a
no-hitter.
Since moving the players on and off of the field every three
outs was very burdensome, an inning was deemed to be a full
rotation of the batting order, with the cards shuffled to make
the lineup unpredictable. A game was composed of 3
innings. Naturally, if one team was ahead by more than
nine runs going into the last half of the last inning, then the
game was over. This event was very rare since seldom were
more than 9 runs scored in a game. No hitters were also
rare.
I kept statistics for the home team for the entire season.
The entire baseball league was under my control. My father
once brought home a large color cardboard scoreboard from the
tavern he frequented, which they used to inform customers of the
score of the game on the TV at the time. The addition of
the scoreboard to the playing field made my ballpark modern and
up to date.
The calculation of batting averages and earned run averages
helped my math skills. I also think that managing the
players helped in later life, but it was rare to get arguments
from pieces of cardboard, so I was not only an owner and
manager, but also a king.
Back to the top.
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Baseball Quotes
"The strongest thing baseball has going for it today is
yesterdays."
Lawrence Ritter The Glory of Their Times
"It is the sport that a foreigner is least likely to take
to. You have to grow up playing it, you have to accept the lore
of the bubblegum card, and believe that if the answer to the
Mays-Mantle-Snider question is found, then the universe will be
a simpler and more ordered place."
David Halberstrom
"When I was a small boy in Kansas, a friend of mine and I
went fishing... I told him I wanted to be a real major league
baseball player... My friend told me that he'd like to be
President of the United States. Neither of us got our wish."
Dwight D. Eisenhower, 34th President of the United States
"Whoever wants to know the heart and mind
of America had better learn baseball"
Jaques Barzun
"Game Called"
Poem on the Death of Babe Ruth
Game Called by darkness — let the
curtain fall.
No more remembered thunder sweeps the
field.
No more the ancient echoes hear the call
To one who wore so well both sword and shield:
The Big Guy’s left us with the night to face
And there is no one who can take his place.
Game Called — and silence settles on the plain.
Where is the crash of ash against the sphere?
Where is the mighty music, the refrain
That once brought joy to every waiting ear?
The Big Guy’s left us lonely in the dark
Forever waiting for the flaming spark.
Game Called — what more is there for us to say?
How dull and drab the field looks to the eye
For one who ruled it in a golden day
Has waved his cap to bid us all good-bye.
The Big Guy’s gone — by land or sea or foam
May the Great Umpire call him “safe at home.”
Grantland Rice ©1948
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