The Globetrotter-Baseball link is well known. The team’s founder, Abe Saperstein, was extremely active in Negro League Baseball (SABR bio here). Bob Gibson played for the Globies in the ‘50’s
and Fergie Jenkins did the same a decade later.
Lou Brock also played and Mookie Betts was drafted by the Globetrotters in 2020, but in a head-scratching career move stayed a Dodger.
But the Globie-baseball card connection? I’ve got it covered.
It’s hard to overstate the cultural pervasiveness of the Trotters during the 1970’s. In the first half of the ‘70’s, the Globetrotters were an ABC Wide World of Sports highlight, not to be missed. There were books about them
they had their own Saturday morning cartoon show
they starred in a Scooby-Doo movie
and they had not one, but two, trading card sets.
The 1971 Fleer Globetrotter set was 84 glorious cards, a simple photo on the front and well-written prose on the backs. They must’ve come in packs of 8. I just finished the set but started with 56 cards I’d bought back then (8 cards per pack is the best math I can come up with). Each pack had a team logo sticker, which I both don’t remember and, shockingly, have none of. If I bought 7 packs back then, I should have at least 6 intact stickers around, I don’t.
The second set is a shorter version of the first, 28 cards, but with facsimile autographs on the front and the Cocoa Puffs logo added to the back.
So what’s this got to do with you? I’ve written before about finding baseball cards in non-sports sets. The Fleer and Cocoa Puffs sets both have two cards of the Globies “Baseball Play” skit.
Card #70 (#3 Cocoa Puffs) is a complete baseball card. It’s got Meadowlark Lemon sliding and the back referencing the act.
Card #71 (#7 Cocoa Puffs) is half a baseball card, but it’s a great photo. The back has 1970-71 Highlights, no baseball stuff.
There are scads of hysterical Meadowlark Lemon memories, but I’m pretty sure my favorite may have been part of the baseball act. Lemon would slide and start howling “My leg! My leg!” The trainer and concerned teammates would come out and minister some aid to the injured leg.
“It’s my other leg!” Lemon would wail. A great punchline. It might be from a different skit, but I like it my way.
The Globies are still doing there thing . Here’s the baseball play, with a special Yankee guest.
My introduction to card collecting began in the late summer of 1955, when my Uncle Joe—my godfather and a former catcher in Chicago’s high-level semipro baseball leagues—handed me a special gift: four packs of Topps baseball cards. I was seven years old, and my life has never been the same.
Of course I have no recollection of what specific cards I unwrapped on that warm summery night… Jackie Robinson, maybe, or Gil Hodges, or (in honor of Uncle Joe), the White Sox catcher, Sherm Lollar?
Unlikely; as most collectors will tell you, the odds are much more likely that we will unwrap the images of images of journeymen with names like “Corky” and “Bunky.”
No matter whose images were revealed in the packs, I was totally enchanted with their beauty, and quickly locked into the sheer fun that came from collecting these cards. Clever lad that I was, I even gave Veston Goff Stewart a nickname for his nickname… for me, then and now, he will always be known as “Bunk-Bed” Stewart. As for “Corky” Valentine, who got his nickname from a lovable comic-strip character, Hank Aaron would write about his season (1953) in the Class A Sally League, “There were some ornery pitchers in that league, but nobody was as nasty as Harold Lewis Valentine.” But Hank… Corky looked so nice on his Topps card!
I immediately began collecting as many of these beauties as possible. I even picked up a few packs of cards from Topps’s arch-rival, Bowman… but as I noted in my article about the final year of the Topps-Bowman war, the Bowman color-TV design, innovative as it was, didn’t appeal me like the Topps cards did. Even the Bowman card of my favorite player, Nellie Fox, didn’t grab me the way the Topps cards did.
Bowman would have one more arrow in its quiver, however. Uncle Joe did not present me with his gift of Topps cards until fairly late in the summer, and both the Topps and Bowman baseball cards disappeared from the stores long before I could attempt to put together a set. In their place were the companies’ football-card sets: a 100-card all-time greats college set from Topps and a 160-card NFL set from Bowman; that would turn out to be Bowman’s final card set before being bought out by Topps.
Flushed with collecting mania by then, I bought cards from both sets, but with a strong bias toward Bowman, whose lovely design would be a fine tribute to the company’s glorious run. One of my early collecting memories involves walking proudly into the Nordica Store, our card-collecting headquarters, with 75 cents—three whole weeks’ allowance!—and buying a staggering 15 packs of Bowman football cards. I had to assure the owner of the store, a woman my friends and I knew only as “Mrs. Nordica,” that this purchase was OK with my parents… which it was, I guess, since they never told me it wasn’t. As for the cards, I have to admit that a major part of the appeal was those crazy football names.
Royce Womble? Dorne Dibble? Pudge Heffelfinger? Football must have been invented by Charles Dickens.
When winter set in, the football cards disappeared from the stores as well. By now my collecting urge had reached the point where the cards didn’t even need to be about sports. A short-term diversion for my older brother Phil and me was the 80-card Topps “Flags of the World” set, whose backs included tips on how to pronounce a few terms of the native language.
It was a fun and moderately educational card set, but I was a baseball guy even at the age of seven. And as spring arrived in Chicago, Flags of the World card No. 49, Poland—the Zminda family’s native land—would have been more useful had it taught us how to say, “Gdzie są nowe karty baseballowe?”… which is Polish for, “Where are the new baseball cards?”
Our home base, the Nordica Store at Nordica Avenue and Grace Street, was one of those tiny mom-and-pop operations that would later be driven out of business by the Seven Elevens and their like. In the 1950s, however, the store had plenty of customers—including my best friend Tom, my older brother Phil, and me. The candy counter where we bought our cards and treats was stocked by a man with a red truck named J.J. We would check the store for the arrival of the baseball cards on a daily basis once spring came. If the card racks were bare but J.J. was still on his way, we would sit outside and wait for his arrival. He knew what we were waiting for, and he’d stop before unloading his truck and say, “No boys, not today. But soon.”
Our agony continued for a couple of weeks, until the big day finally arrived: the first series of the 1956 Topps baseball set was here!
I have written about my love for this set—both the attractive fronts and the clever backs, with three cartoons about the player—in a previous article; I was blown away from the moment I opened my first pack, as were most of my friends. The first series included such greats as Ted Williams, Jackie Robinson, and Hank Aaron (and Ernie Banks and Roberto Clemente and Al Kaline and Warren Spahn), along with the usual Topps supply of Babe Birrers and Rudy Minarcins. We wanted them all. I was a five-pack man myself, blowing my whole allowance on all the cards (five cards for five cents) that my money would buy pretty much every week.
Completing the series within our limited budgets was a challenge, but that’s where our neighbor Dave (I’ve changed his name) came in handy. Dave, who lived across the street from Phil and me, had contracted the dreaded disease polio in the days before the Salk vaccine became available. While he still bore some scars, he fortunately was able to recover without suffering the crippling paralysis that affected many polio victims. Dave’s grateful parents were happy to comfort him in various ways—including giving him what appeared to be an unlimited budget for buying baseball cards. If you needed cards to complete a series, Dave was more than happy to trade… although there weren’t many cards that he needed. We’d hand Dave a stack of duplicates, and he would begin riffling through them…
This would continue for several minutes, until—if you were lucky—Dave would finally stop and say, “Need him,” and a trade would be made. Your best bet was to have some New York Yankee cards in the stack, as Dave was the neighborhood’s resident Yankee fan… not the most popular allegiance in Cubs/White Sox country, but Dave was a good guy, and besides, we needed his cards.
With Dave’s help we had at least a fighting chance to complete a series… and soon we would be sitting outside the Nordica Store, waiting for J.J.’s truck, and his announcement that he had the next series in hand. We quickly learned that J.J. wasn’t the most reliable source. One afternoon he got out of his truck and told us, “New pictures, boys, new pictures!” We eagerly bought several packs apiece—only to discover, as my friend Tom put it, “Yeah, new pictures. Old cards.” After that when J.J. announced, “new pictures,” one of us would go to the rack of one-cent cards—those were the days!—and invest a penny to see if he was correct.
When the second Topps baseball series finally arrived, it was Christmas in May (or was it June?) at Nordica Store. Series 2 mysteriously switch the card backs from white to gray (at least in our neighborhood) and included the likes of Roy Campanella and Willie Mays and Duke Snider and my hero, Nellie Fox, along with Mickey Mantle in his Triple Crown year. Even in 1956, we knew that card had some value.
But then it was back to sitting outside the store, waiting for the third series to arrive. Wily devil that he was, J.J. had something to tempt us with in the interim: Davy Crockett cards. The Disneyland TV show had begun broadcasting episodes based on the “King of the Wild Frontier” in late 1954, and they were a sensation from coast to coast… by the summer of 1956, there was as many of us wearing Davy Crockett coonskin caps as there were sporting baseball caps. (Not to mention the legion of Davy Crockett lunch boxes.) Trading cards were a logical next step to cash in on Crockett mania, and when my friends weren’t lining up to buy baseball cards, Davy filled the bill pretty nicely. So who was a bigger hero in the kid world of 1956… Mickey Mantle or Davy Crockett? Let’s say it was close.
We were baseball guys at heart, however, and Topps still had two more series coming out. To be honest, the third and fourth Topps baseball card series weren’t nearly as spectacular as Series 1 and 2. Bob Feller, who would retire after the 1956 season, was probably the biggest name in Series 3. The fourth and final series was definitely rather humdrum—even the quality of cartooning on the backs of the cards was pretty second-rate—but my friends and I still wanted every last card—down to the final card in the set, No. 340, Mickey McDermott.
While I came fairly close, I did not quite complete the 1956 set by the end of the baseball season—even with Dave’s help. It was a little frustrating, but there was always a new card set to collect (including football cards, to be honest). Then in 1959, my family moved to the suburbs, and a lot of things got tossed out… including most if not all of those wonderful ‘56s. “You don’t need all those old cards, do ya, Donnie?” “Um, er… well, I guess not.” Such is life. In the new neighborhood there was no Nordica store, there was no one like Dave to trade with, and after a year or so I stopped trying to collect the new baseball card sets… much less trying to recover the sets I had had lost.
But I hadn’t forgotten those ‘56s. One day in the early 1970s—by which time I was out of college and working fulltime—I got a call from a friend whom I had lost track of after we moved to the ‘burbs. It was good old Dave; he had somehow tracked down Phil, and now me. When we got together, I was not surprised that Dave was still collecting, but he had a new passion: collecting 45 RPM records. Was I shocked that Dave had a room with a copy of pretty much every top 40 hit since 1960? I was not. But what about his old baseball cards, I asked, my voice trembling.
“Yeah, still got ‘em,” he said. “You interested in anything?”
A couple of hours later, I was driving home with a big box full of ‘56s, most of them in near-mint condition… I think he charged me some ridiculously low price like fifty bucks. There were a few Yankees missing including Mantle (no surprise), but I could—and did—get those later. I was back into card collecting, for good.
As a child of the junk wax generation, sports cards were just part of the air I grew up breathing. Boxes in every store. Inserted in any product you could think of. Printed in the newspaper. You couldn’t avoid them if you wanted to. Even my baseball-averse sister had a small album of cards that she’d just accumulated.
In many ways though, the thing that most exemplifies this era is the fact that my Junior High had a baseball card club. Yup. Looking through my yearbooks I find pages dedicated to the usual clubs—leadership, student council, journalism, yearbook, band, orchestra, drama, etc.—and nestled in there in the same spread as the chess club is the baseball card club.
The sponsoring teacher was a card dealer. He didn’t have a shop but you could run into him at local card shows (he’d give you a deal if you were a student) and two days a week he’d open up his science classroom during lunch and a couple dozen of us would hang out.
He’d always have a couple dozen singles for sale. Nothing crazy expensive but I still can’t recall anyone buying them. I do however remember him having a box of cards available as well (typically Upper Deck) and there was always someone ripping a pack to two over lunch.
I obviously don’t remember every card that went through that room but these three are all hits that commanded the whole room’s attention. There were certainly other cards that we wanted—we all dreamed of finding that Reggie autograph—but these were the ones kids actually hit.
I kind of like that these cards are as dated as everything else. Yes the Jordan is hot right now but the other two have kind of been forgotten by anyone who wasn’t there at the time. I’m pretty sure it’s impossible to explain how big a deal the Ben McDonald error was.
The Joe Montana brings up the fact that since the school year doesn’t overlap much with baseball season, a lot of the club actually functioned more as football card club in terms of the cards that we saw. But Beckett doesn’t stop publishing over the winter and when we weren’t ripping or watching rips we were reading the latest Becketts and staying in touch with the hobby zeitgeist.
My most-enduring memory of the club though isn’t actually something that occurred during school hours. One of my local card shops* got burgled and for whatever reason the police thought that the perpetrator was a member of the card club.
*In those halcyon days there were more local shops than I had time to visit.
The result, everyone on the club roster received a visit from a police detective and got fingerprinted. Good times. As interesting as it was seeing how the fingerprinting process worked (I was surprised to learn that it didn’t involve ink) the visit was not done with any sensitivity toward the fact that they were dealing with kids. Questioning was very brusque and when he left it was with the vague threat of “hopefully I don’t have to come back.”
We didn’t talk about the police stuff in school but I can only imagine how much worse the experience must have been for a lot of the kids who came from rougher parts of town.
Which brings up one of the things that stands out to me now as I look back on the club. It was one of the few academic clubs which cut across the usual school cliques. The other clubs had certain kinds of achievement-oriented kids from “good” neighborhoods in them.* Baseball cards though were for all of us.
*Or in the case of things like chess or computer club, geeks who wanted to avoid the lunch crowd.
I’ve mentioned the card club a couple times on Twitter. It’s been met with surprise by guys who are older than me but it’s also turned up a couple other instances across the country from collectors my age. Their experiences seem to be similar to mine. Some ripping. Lots of Becketts. But no fingerprinting.
Before I joined SABR I had a post on my own blog which looked at baseball cards and the role they played in developing my visual literacy. Over the past year of watching various Zoom presentations with my kids about the history of cards I’ve found myself realizing that I need to write a similar post about the way baseball cards also track the way that we, as humans developed visual literacy.
Baseball and baseball cards sort of eerily parallel the development and evolution of photography with a number of rough steps starting around the Civil War before finally coalescing in the late 19th Century around something that’s not changed much over the last 125 years. The thing though is that baseball cards are but a thin sliver of this development.
The hobby has a tendency to talk about cards and collecting as if they evolved as part of baseball history. I get it; we collect cards and aren’t photo historians. But I think it’s important to understand how, if anything, cards basically came along for the ride and that their history is less a history of baseball but a lesson on how we learned to use photographs and changed our relationship with celebrity.
A couple years ago I read Darcy Grimaldo Grigsby’s Enduring Truths. It’s a great book about Sojourner Truth and how she supported herself in part by selling cartes de visite. I went into the book expecting history about photographs and what they depict, and how they interact with issues of race, power, and privilege. Instead I came out with an appreciation of how printed images function within our society.
For most of human history, portraits were only accessible to the wealthy. You had to pay an extremely skilled artist to paint you and you only got one piece out of it. With the advent of photography in the mid-19th century things got a lot more accessible. Tintypes and ambrotypes were affordable* to a much wider range of people. However they are still one-off pieces. The negative itself is treated in such a way that it becomes a positive** and there is no way to make prints.
*In this case albumen prints from glass negatives.
Coming back to Sojourner Truth, not only were people collecting cards, notable people like Truth were producing them for sale as well, modifying them to not only be photographs but to include messages.* Card making and collecting is not only a hobby but a business that can support people whose images are in demand.
*In Truth’s case “I sell the shadow to support the substance”
Cartes de visite, stamps, autographs, etc all ended up being stored in albums and shown to visitors in ways that are shockingly familiar to any of us card collectors today. We have pages that are frequently better for preservation but both the concept and practice of the card binder emerged hand in hand with the cards themselves.
It’s impossible for me to look at sets like Old Judge or Goodwin & Company outside the collecting world which existed in this era. When images are currency and the idea of celebrity culture and “set” collection has taken such a strong hold, it’s no surprise that companies started to create cards of their own.
These are photos—cabinet cards actually—which were printed for commercial instead of personal reasons. They depict all kinds of athletes as well as actors, actresses, and other famous people. Yes they’re promotional items. But they clearly were intended to be collected and traded in the same way as the individually-produced cards were.
Cards and photography usage only begins to diverge a bit in the late 19th century when cabinet cards began to die out due to the emergence of amateur photography. At this point other forms of printed images took up the torch since cards and card collecting were firmly entrenched. Manufacturers like Allen & Ginter in the US (and many others abroad) created sports sets including baseball players, billiards shooters, boxers, and pedestrians and non-sports sets depicting animals, flowers, flags, etc. There was plenty of stuff to choose from; if you could imagine a collection there’s a decent chance there’s a set of it out there.*
*Up until World War 2 the world of trading cards was massive and wonderfully varied. This represents over eight decades of card collecting. I’ve been grabbing “pre-war”sets which cover whatever subject matter strikes my interest—from Hollywood to science to travel because they represent how cards became an affordable way to create your own wunderkammer.
One of the things I love most in this hobby is how it remains a direct connection to the way we originally used photographs. Yes I love baseball. But I also love photography and being able to experience how the the world of cartomania still survives today is fantastic.
It’s why I love the non-sport elements of the modern Ginter sets. It’s why things like exhibit cards fascinate me. It’s why I enjoy Jay Publishing, team-issued postcards, and other card-related photopacks which are aren’t necessarily cards. I can see all these different directions that the hobby could have gone in. Different ways of designing sets and releasing cards. Different concepts of who is worth depicting.
It all reaches back to the 19th century when we realized how images are currency. Something people are willing to purchase and save and trade. The history of card collecting depicts baseball. But it embodies how we learned to see and how we learned to use images.
We don’t talk a lot about value and sales prices on this blog. This is by design. Neither Jason nor I (nor Mark nor Chris) are interested in that stuff too much and we all agree that the primary interest of this committee is in card usage. Yes value maters when it comes to putting together a collection or knowing what to expect to pay. But none of us are in this committee to talk about how we’ve made (or lost) money on cards.
At the same time, when the market goes up and new money comes in, the results affect all of us. The past year in the hobby has been wild enough to result in numerous articles over the past year about the exploding market for sports cards. Most of these are nothing new to anyone who’s been collecting for more than a couple years. At their best they serve as decent primers to anyone who hasn’t thought about cards in decades. At their worst they end up being lazy analogies comparing card prices to index funds. Almost all of them mess up some key facts, such as calling the 1952 Topps Mantle his rookie card.
I read them because sometimes there’s something interesting. Usually I’m disappointed or frustrated but a recent article in the New York Times caught my eye because it made an explicit connection to the art market.
“This is the art of the future for sports enthusiasts who have money and don’t want to buy art,” Davis said. “Pretty much everything I collect now is because I think it is a good investment and because I like the player. The common thread is, I think it will be a good investment. It’s part of the fun.”
I’ve been making this point on Twitter for a while. While many people like to think of sports cards as analogous to stocks, it’s been clear to me that the better analogy is to the art market. From the way serial-numbered cards are basically art editioning to restoration issues and catalogue raisonné issues, the hobby has been moving in a direction which takes it out of the realm that most of us grew up in.
Becoming more like the art market means that extremely rich people are buying things as part of a portfolio. Some of them might be fans. Many of them though just like the idea. But the products they’re buying and selling are going to be products that the rest of us never see in person.
Most worrisome is the likelihood that the market will be manipulated as these investors seek to prop up the values of their cards. This kind of stuff is pretty common in the art world and, despite being a Potemkin Village, seems to skirt right by the press coverage which focuses just on the latest record-setting auction price.*
What the two dealers were apparently attempting to do was thread the needle on the two lesser Warhols. To bid high—as much as the consignor was hoping to get—might serve to prop up values for the Warhol market at large, but would be expensive and make the paintings that much more difficult to sell down the road.
Sure this might be fun for some people. But the fun is in the making money, not the medium which enables these flips.
The thing about the art market is that many museums have let the art investor/collectors drive the business. Some museums make a big deal showing one person’s collection. Often these feature a piece from all the prescribed big names and do nothing but allow for the owner to enhance the prestige of their collection. Other museums are basically showcases for a specific collection.
I don’t inherently dislike this but it’s important to realize that the immense platform we give the expensive stuff is only a sliver of the whole picture. As baseball cards move toward this territory it’s important for us all to remember that the art market side of things has pretty much nothing to do with the way we collect and that the focus on the expensive stuff tends to remove the hand of the curator.
In art, the museum curators are in charge of what museums display, illuminating why they’re on display, and considering how they interact with other items in the same gallery. There’s no similar position in trading card world. Instead, each of us is wears that hat and our collections are our personal curatorial projects.
The expensive 1:1 stuff is not only unattainable, it’s a distraction. It makes the focus just about value and turns a lot of heads. A collection of “these are expensive cards” is ultimately as boring as an art museum which only talks about how much the paintings are worth. There’s so much more interesting stuff to do with cards. There are so many more interesting ways to collect.
Pick themes. Tell stories. Run down a rabbit hole of weird stuff that interests only you.
Use your cards. Look at them. Share them. Display them. Talk about them.
Author’s note: This is the third post in a series highlighting “common players” with stories far richer than the value of their trading cards. The first post in the series profiled Dave Hoskins and can be found here.The second post in the series profiled Ernie Barnes and can be found here.
The 1933 Goudey set is well known for its wealth of superstars, including four cards of the Bambino, two cards of the Iron Horse, and a litany of top-shelf Hall of Famers such as Ott, Speaker, Foxx, Hornsby, Grove, and (if you count him) Lajoie.
Collectors can therefore be forgiven if they aren’t impressed when stumbling upon card 184 in the set, that of Chicago White Sox catcher Charlie Berry.
The card was issued as part of Goudey’s seventh series (of ten in all), which I estimate as having come out in late August or early September 1933. The green Ruth #181 card would have likely been the prize for most kids, the other main highlight of the series being (generously) Hornsby’s crosstown update from Cards infielder to Browns skipper.
The card front was about as generic 1933 Goudey as could be (not that this is a bad thing!), featuring a solid yellow background reminiscent of Ruth’s card 53 and a waist up batter’s follow-through common to the set.
It would require some serious pre-internet knowledge of sports history, close proximity to Pottsville, Pennsylvania, or reading the back to know there was more to Berry than batting and backstopping.
Yes, Berry was one of the “mythical eleven” in 1924, a football All American at Lafayette College in Easton, Pennsylvania, and (if I’m understanding how all this works) a Walter Camp first-teamer, an honor shared with gridiron legend Red Grange and among others.
Berry starred the next two seasons for the Pottsville Maroons of the fledgling National Football League, leading the league in scoring in 1925 and captaining an upset of the presumed top team in the country, an all-star team from Notre Dame that included its famed “Four Horsemen.”
Remarkably, the Pottsville squad included a second member of the 1933 Goudey set, Walter French.
Now mind you I’m by no means a football historian, but my sources (okay, source singular: Wikipedia!) tell me this was the game that put the NFL on the map. While the game catapulted the league to greater heights, Pottsville received anything but a thank you from the commissioner’s office.
On the contrary, the exhibition game was deemed a serious enough violation of league rules that Pottsville was stripped of its 1925 NFL championship and the Chicago Cardinals squad led by another 1933 Goudey alum took top honors.
Down the pecking order of consolation prizes a bit, the team did however earn a trading card set, maroon tint and all! The back of the set’s second card, “The Symbolic Shoe,” provides as strong evidence as you’ll find anywhere that Pottsvillians want that TITLE RESTORED!
This same set includes a card of Berry himself, and again the Zacko family is just not having that whole stripped title thing!
Berry collectors can also delight in knowing there was surprisingly (to me anyway!) a set produced in 1924 of the Lafayette Leopards college football team.
Sadly the set did not include Berry’s Lafayette (and future White Sox!) teammate Frank Grube, who would have to wait until 1935 to appear in the same set with Berry.
But enough about Charlie Berry the player. Let’s move on to what he did even better! For that, we’ll fast forward two decades to the 1955 Bowman set and the subset collectors love to hate.
Same guy? Yep, same guy!
In fact, if you were lucky enough to be at the Polo Grounds for “The Catch,” that first base umpire you might have booed was none other than the Pottsville Maroon legend.
Coincidentally, Berry was not the only umpire that day with cards in both the 1955 Bowman and 1933 Goudey sets. The Arkansas Hummingbird had an even better view of the catch as left field umpire that day.
Berry’s presence at the 1954 World Series was no fluke. He also worked the World Series in 1946, 1950, 1958, and 1962 for a total of 29 World Series games in all. Though I’m not exactly picketing Cooperstown or holding any bronze shoes hostage pending his enshrinement, I do think a strong Hall of Fame case could be made for Berry as an umpire.
However, Berry’s story doesn’t end there. Charlie Berry was also the Bo Jackson of officiating, racking up a borderline Hall of Fame resume working NFL games as well. His NFL head linesman resume included twelve (!) championships, highlighted by a critical call in the “Greatest Game Ever Played.”
Is it possible then that this “common player” from the 1933 Goudey set, whose card is readily found in decent shape for about $25, was perhaps the greatest sports official of all time as well as the player that put the NFL on the map? Might he even have two cases for induction, one for Cooperstown and one for Canton? And, as importantly, will the Zacko family finally donate that bronze shoe?
I’ve posted sporadically the last few months because my collecting focus has been almost exclusively on football. I’ve been juggling multiple sets – 1964, 1966 and 1967 Topps, and 1967 Philadelphia. With 1967 Topps done (thanks Big Ben Davidson!), I’ve been thinking hard about tackling a big baseball set.
(We all know that in our card community we’re often spurred on to pursue cards that our friends show us and talk about. I’d be remiss if I didn’t give a nod to Mark Armour’s recent relentless assault on completing Topps sets he was reasonably close to finishing. Mark has thanked me for honing his thoughts on that, so thanks are due right back at him).
After much deliberation, I made my decision – 1964 Topps. Why? A few reasons:
1 – I’ve got a relatively solid start, with 157 cards (although 17 will need to be upgraded to set-building condition). Not a big base, but 27% is 27% percent. Though 1964 is a bit before my collecting time (I was almost two years old), these cards came from a friend almost 50 years ago. They were his brother’s cards, supplemented by star purchases I made in the ‘70’s. I’ve always loved the look of the 1964s.
2 – I think I can get from 157 to 400 pretty fast. I won, bought, traded, for 60 yesterday, with, hopefully, another 50-60 on the horizon in coming auctions. Checking Beckett Marketplace, I’m sure I can add another 100-150 at my price point. (COMC is usually my go-to on set builds, but with at least 3 month delivery times, I’ll have to hold off for now. It would be mentally debilitating to have 150 cards bought, but undeliverable, until early 2021).
3 – High numbers are very reasonable. In EX, they seem easy to grab for $2-3, and, in lots, even less. That’s important and pricey highs keep me from going after 1966.
4 – Mantle. Need him, but he’s not too expensive. I think, with patience, I can get a nice one for $150ish. Rose is the second biggest on my list, but $75 seems to be attainable. (I once had this card, or my pal’s brother once did. It was a nice card, BUT, on the back, in bold caps, was written “STAY OUT TIM!” I was so upset about that that I ripped it in half and threw it away.)
So my strategy is in place – quick lots to get to a reasonable place, hit the local Cooperstown card shops (Yastrzemski Sports and Baseball Nostalgia) to fill some holes, peck around for stars, and, in time, go to card shows once the coast is clear. Of course, if any of you out there have EX or better cards that you’d like to sell or trade, I’m open to talk. For now, sheets have been bought, an album attained, and starting cards placed.
There’s something sad about 587 card slots, mostly unfilled. It seems lonely and daunting, a few cards surrounded by ghosts.
It’s also hopeful. As pages get filled and the set fleshes out, there’s that wonderful sense of a goal gradually attained.
It’s been three months since my last post, or 25 years in pandemic time. There are multiple reasons for that – general ennui, lack of ideas, absence of baseball itself. The truth of it is that my collecting interest is very much alive, but focused on mid-‘60’s football sets.
Sacrilege! Yes, I know, but those sets have short checklists and no real high dollar cards, so they’re easy to complete. Sort of easy. The absence of card shows is a problem right now. I need to go through tables full of commons to get to the finish line.
But all of this interest in getting nice Bobby Bell cards doesn’t mean I’ve avoided baseball cards. It only means I’m still working on sets I’ve already written about.
Here’s my progress report:
I finished my 1963 Bazooka All-Time Greats with a graded Nap Lajoie, eventually to finds its way from COMC to Cooperstown. He will be freed from his plastic prison upon arrival.
I also finished my hand cut 1975 Hostess by snagging a solid Billy Champion. I do need the Doug Rader variation (I’ve got all the other variations) and my Glenn Beckert is actually a hand cut Twinkie version (the remnant of the solid black bar on the back gives it away), but I’m calling this one done.
I’m six cards from completing the 1961 Post set (one of each number. I’m not even trying for all the variations).
I’m seven away from a complete 1960 Leaf Series 2 set, after a big auction win of 20 cards in VG/VGEX condition. I recently got a pretty nice Jim Bunning (there’s a delicate balance between cost and condition on these), but there are still the biggies left – Sparky Anderson, Cepeda, and Flood.
Totally stalled on 1933 Tattoo Orbit. I’m slightly more than halfway through, but I keep losing auctions. I think that shows my heart isn’t completely into it.
All this is by way of a reintroduction of sorts. Yeah, you know me, and I know you, but it’s been awhile and I want you to know I’m still here, still collecting, and with an itch to post again.
I don’t recall exactly why I walked into Joe’s Department Store on that blustery Saturday afternoon in November 1961. I probably had a dime that was burning a hole in my pocket. But I remember very clearly leaving Joe’s with two very different packs of football cards in my hand—the first packs of cards that I ever owned.
I leaned against the brick façade of the building facing Fenkell Avenue and tried to block the wind while I opened the packs. The first pack I opened was exciting! I still remember three cards from that pack—Minnesota Vikings quarterback George Shaw, who would soon be supplanted by Fran Tarkenton; Detroit Lions running back Nick Pietrosante, one of my father’s favorite players; and Jimmy Brown, the Cleveland Browns’ outstanding running back who even I, at age six, knew was a star player. That card was magnificent! Brown looked like he had been dropped in against a sky-blue background, just having taken a handoff and ready to run. I knew my dad would be impressed!
I shoved these cards—which I discovered later were manufactured by Topps—in my jacket pocket and opened the second pack, which had a completely different design on the wax wrapper. The cards themselves were also very different from the first pack; rather than players posing against a solid background, these cards depicted players on a gridiron that looked like it was on the edge of a forest, with trees and shrubbery in the background. The linemen were depicted charging toward some off-camera target, and the running backs all seemed to be heading straight toward the photographer. I still remember a few of the cards from this pack—San Diego Chargers lineman Ron Mix, Dallas Texans lineman Bill Krisher, and New York Titans running back Pete Hart.
(How, you might ask, can I remember what cards I got in packs that I bought nearly sixty years ago? That’s easy to answer. Those packs were the only ones I bought all year, and I was so enthralled with the pictures that I looked at them every day and read their backs so often that I memorized their stats and details. It was clear that I was hooked on cards within those first two packs.)
I quickly jammed the second pack of cards—which I later realized were made by Fleer—in my other pocket and closed my hands in the pockets so they wouldn’t blow away in the wind on my three-block trip home. (I have no recollection of whether or not I chewed the gum.) When I got home, I quickly showed the cards to my father. As I expected, he was impressed with the Pietrosante card, and upon seeing the Jimmy Brown card, he said approvingly, “He’s a good one!” But when he looked at the cards from the second pack, a puzzled expression came across his face. “Dallas Texans? The Dallas team is called the Cowboys!” “New York Titans? I only know the New York Giants!” I shrugged my shoulders as my dad suggested that maybe these pictures were of college players. Clearly the American Football League had not made an impact on anyone at the house on Patton Avenue in Detroit by the fall of 1961.
After my father handed the cards back to me, I asked him if baseball cards were also sold. Dad said he didn’t know but suspected that some company made them. He said we would have to see when the spring rolled around. I had something exiting to anticipate!
In late March 1962, I was thrilled to discover that Joe’s Department Store and Checker Drugs—just three storefronts down from Joe’s—both carried baseball cards. I loved that 1962 set, and I still do. From the faux woodgrain border to the photo with the lower right corner curled up to reveal the player’s name, team, and position, I thought those cards were perfect. I didn’t have a lot of them, but my parents were generous with their nickels and dimes, and I couldn’t wait to walk down to the store to pick up one or two of those green-wrappered packs of cards. I regularly volunteered to go to Checker’s with a note from my father allowing me to pick up a pack of Pall Malls for him—and to pick up a pack of cards for myself. (Thankfully, my dad quit smoking a few years later. I had to find other excuses to go to the store to buy baseball cards.) I probably had four or five dozen cards from the first and second series—not a lot, but enough to whet my appetite for more. And while I loved the pictures, I also studied the backs of the cards. I enjoyed reading about Roger Maris’ record-setting exploits in 1961, learning that Marv Breeding was the victim of the “sophomore jinx” in ’61 (although I had no idea what that was), and trying to figure out how to pronounce the name of Cleveland utility infielder Mike de la Hoz.
That spring I would go outside after dinner to throw a rubber ball against the steps of my parents’ front porch. I soon discovered that the Brooks brothers three doors down would play catch on the sidewalk in front of their home almost every night. I would wander down and strike up a conversation with Billy, who was in fourth of fifth grade, and Bobby, who was in junior high. They didn’t seem to mind having a little kid talk to them and watch them, and in fact they encouraged it by asking me to play “running bases,” a glorified game of “pickle” where I would start in the middle between them and they had to try to get as close to me as possible and tag me without dropping the ball. Invariably we would all collapse in laughter on the cool front lawn of the Brooks home. Those were wonderful, precious times.
I soon discovered that Billy and Bobby collected baseball cards, just like I did. They collected their cards together and had a lot of the first couple of series of Topps cards in 1962. I did, however, have a few cards that they were missing, and they told me that they would give me three of their doubles for every card I had that they needed. I think I had six cards they wanted, so I got eighteen cards in exchange. That was a nice way to increase my collection. I told Billy that I also collected the cards from the backs of Post cereal boxes and the coins that were in Salada Tea (which my grandmother drank) and Junket desserts. Billy collected the Post cards too but didn’t know anything about the coins. I showed him my burgeoning collection and he looked at them with curiosity, saying he had never heard of Junket. “Really?” I exclaimed. “You haven’t seen the television commercials? ‘Junket rennet custard/The growing up dessert! Helps you grow up, not out!’ Billy stood back from me, eyed me up and down, and said with a grin, “Doesn’t seem to be doing a good job with you.” At first, I thought he was making a cruel joke about my weight, but he nudged me with his elbow and told me he was kidding. We both laughed about it—no harm, no foul.
Once school let out for the summer, the Brooks brothers went on vacation with their parents, and I didn’t see them much once they got back home, but they were my first trading partners and thus had a strong influence on me. I knew that there were other people out there who loved card collecting as much as I did. So thanks, Billy and Bobby, for your friendship and savvy trades all those years ago.
I collected baseball cards throughout the summer of 1962. I probably had about two hundred different cards—a pretty good collection, but not even half of the 598 cards in the set. The cards were issued in seven series, and I never saw any packs of sixth or seventh series cards at Joe’s or Checker’s. I bought one pack of seventh series cards at a drug store my mother visited for a special prescription; those were the only seventh series cards I bought at a store.
By mid-August, baseball cards were supplanted by the new Topps football card set, and I bought those, too. I liked the dark borders but wasn’t thrilled with the small black-and-white action photos that accompanied the larger color still shots. Still, they were cards, and I bought as many as I could.
That fall, my parents bowled in my dad’s Detroit Edison league, so every Friday they would take my older sister and me to my grandmother’s apartment. She would ply us with chocolate pudding and orange slices and let us watch such television programs as “William Tell,” “I’m Dickens, He’s Fenster,” “The Flintstones,” and “The Hathaways.” My grandma lived in a second-story apartment above a convenience store, and each visit also included a trip to the store. I discovered that the store sold football cards, too—a product issued by Fleer that depicted stars from the American Football League (about which I had read over the previous year). I probably had half of the small set of those cards and enjoyed the variety between them and the Topps issue.
When spring 1963 rolled around, and the new Topps baseball set was issued, I was excited, but I was a little let down by the cards themselves. They 1963 cards were colorful, but I liked the 1962 set so much that I was disappointed with this year’s design. I can’t quite put my finger on why, but no matter—I still bought as many as I could. And once again, I never saw any packs of sixth or seventh series cards. All that aside, however, I had an experience that has lived with me ever since and which I wish I could revisit and try to do differently.
One afternoon in June 1963, just after school had let out for the summer, my mother asked me if I wanted to go grocery shopping with her. I liked going because I could look at the baseball cards on the backs of Post cereal boxes and Bazooka bubble gum boxes and shake the Junket boxes to hear the coin bouncing around inside. My mom and I headed to the local Packer grocery store “(Packer’s got the meat/Packer’s got the price/That’s why Packer is twice . . . as . . . nice!”). I soon left my mom to shop on her own while I visited the cereal and candy aisles. I saw what I wanted to see and was heading back down the main aisle when something caught my eye and caused me to halt all movement and gasp for breath. There, hanging from the end of the aisle on a metal bar, were rack packs of Topps baseball cards—three stacks of cards wrapped in cellophane and there for the taking. And not just any baseball cards—they were my favorites, 1962 Topps! And not just any 1962 Topps, but as I discovered by looking at the cards on the top and the bottom of the rack pack, they were the elusive seventh series cards, of which I only had five!!!
I quickly put the rack pack back on the metal stake and hustled off to find my mother. When I saw her, I was out of breath.
“Mom!!! They have baseball cards here!!!!! Please come with me!”
My mother looked at me suspiciously but followed me to the display on the main aisle. I took down a rack pack and handed it to her.
“Can I get this, Mom? Please???”
She looked at the package and asked, “Are these from this year?”
“No,” I replied, “But—”
“No,” my mother said forcefully. I’m not buying you old cards.”
“But Mom, I don’t have ANY of these cards!”
“No, I’m not buying you old cards.”
“Stop, Danny. Put them back.”
I thought about throwing a tantrum right then and there, but I figured it wouldn’t be dignified for an eight-year-old to be so immature. So instead, I decided not to talk to my mom at all for the rest of the day. That would show her!
That incident has stayed with me all these years. I sometimes wonder how valuable those cards would be today, when common seventh series cards can sell for almost $100 apiece in nice condition. Of course, in my hands, they probably wouldn’t have stayed in mint condition, and almost certainly those rack packs would have been quickly ripped open, but still, it’s nice to speculate on their value.
Once again, by mid-August, football cards were on sale, and I bought a lot of those cards. I really liked that set—they were very colorful and had strong visual appeal, plus a lot of my friends also bought them and I could trade with them. I remember, though, that some cards seemed almost impossible to come by—particularly the Philadelphia Eagles cards, which nobody seemed to have. Of course, at that time I knew nothing about short prints, but I would soon find out about them. My parents bowled in the Edison league again that fall, and once again the convenience store below my grandmother’s apartment sold Fleer AFC cards, so I had a lot of football cards to look at. The last time I bought cards there was Friday, November 15; a week later, President John F. Kennedy was assassinated, and while my parents still bowled that night, the convenience store was closed, and I don’t remember ever seeing Fleer football cards there again after that.
During March 1964, I began to visit Joe’s and Checker’s to look for the new baseball cards. I was surprised to discover, however, that neither store had them. Late March turned to early April, and still no cards were on sale. Rather than coming home from school and then going to the stores, I started to go right from school. I was desperate for my baseball card fix!
The baseball season started on April 13 in 1964, and a couple of days before that, I went to Checker’s and asked for some baseball cards. The woman behind the counter said they didn’t have them yet. She must have seen my disappointment because she leaned forward on the counter and said, conspiratorially, “Do you want to know why there are no baseball cards?”
I moved close to the counter and didn’t say anything but was shocked and stunned when she said, “It’s because of the Beatles.”
I looked at her like she had lobsters crawling out of her ears. “THE BEATLES??? What do you mean?” How could a show business phenomenon have such an effect on my baseball card mania?
The woman explained to me that the Beatles were such a big box office draw that Topps put together an offer to sell bubble gum cards of the band. Those cards sold even better than baseball cards and led to a second series, which sold just as well. She said that Topps was in the process of developing a third series and that the baseball cards would be issued after that third series of Beatles cards was released.
I was dumbfounded. I didn’t know whether to believe her or not, but it seemed logical, and later research proved that she had the details pretty much correct. I went home crestfallen, wondering when the baseball cards would arrive in the stores and cursing the Beatles for making me wait for my fix. Of course, I had loved watching the Beatles on “The Ed Sullivan Show” that February, and I had even begun combing my hair over my forehead, like 90% of the boys in my class at school, so I couldn’t stay mad at them for too long. They were on the radio constantly, and my sister collected their cards (she eventually had complete sets of all six series), so once the baseball cards came out, all was forgiven.
Maybe it was because it took so long for them to arrive, but I really liked the 1964 Topps cards., I still remember the first card that I saw in my first pack that year—Milt Pappas, the Orioles pitcher who hailed from the Detroit area. But yet again the sixth and seventh series were nowhere to be found in my local stores, and in mid-August I was surprised to see that Topps was issuing AFL cards rather than their usual National Football League product. In late August, a new company, Philadelphia Gum, began to distribute NFL cards. I liked the Topps cards but LOVED the Philly product—the pictures looked like they had all been taken around the same time in the same location, and I liked the offensive plays that were diagrammed on certain cards. My friends and I spent a lot of time trading cards from both sets but particularly the Philadelphia set. I think I came about forty cards short of a set, which is about the best I had done with any card set up until that time.
There was no such drama when Topps released their baseball cards in late March of 1965. These cards were beautiful! They were bold and colorful, and I loved having the team name inside a waving pennant near the bottom left of the card. I loved these cards, and I wanted to get as many of them as I could.
I bought most of my 1965 early series cards at Joe’s Department Store. Unlike Checker Drugs, where the cards were behind a counter and the druggist had to get them for me, at Joe’s I could grab the packs myself from a box in a candy aisle. If nobody was looking, I was sometimes able to slide down the bottom of the wax pack and see what card was on the top of the pack, thus assuring that I would get a card I didn’t have. I tried not to abuse that privilege, however, because the proprietor was such a nice man.
Joe reminded me of Wimpy from the Popeye cartoons—short, round, balding, with a bristly mustache. He always had a glint in his eye and a smile on his face; he would see me walk into his store and exclaim, “Hello, young man! What can I do for you today?” He always knew that I wanted to buy a pack or two of baseball cards. Joe’s was called a department store, but it was very different from Sears, Montgomery Ward, or J.L. Hudson. It was more like a small warehouse; it encompassed two storefronts and contained men’s and women’s clothing and various other items but was more like a thrift shop than what passed for a department store back in those days. But it was a neighborhood store, and while I don’t remember buying anything besides candy or cards there, I know that a lot of my neighbors regularly visited the store.
Joe and I got to know each other pretty well that spring—so well, in fact, that Joe and his female assistant granted me special favors. The big privilege was that Joe took a box of baseball cards and put them behind the counter so that he would always have some available for me when I came in the store—even if the packs were sold out in the candy aisle. Maybe Joe just didn’t want me to try to open the packs in the aisle, but I thought it was really cool of him to treat me that way. It also gave rise to an idea that served me well for the rest of the year.
One day in late April, I told my mother that I wanted to discuss something with her and my dad over dinner. She seemed surprised that her nine-year-old son would have some deep thought that needed airing and asked if I was in trouble at school. I told her no; this wasn’t a bad thing. So at dinner, I brought up my idea. I received twenty-five cents a week for an allowance, and I spent virtually all of that, plus a penny sales tax, for five packs of baseball cards. I asked my parents if I could instead get $1.25 per month—a 20% increase—if I did more chores around the house. I said that I would cut the grass and rake the leaves in the fall and handle some of the housecleaning that my mother was constantly doing.
My dad was always reluctant to spend more money than he had to. He grew up during the Great Depression, and I think his attitude toward money was a result of those tough times. He rarely enjoyed spending extra money on my sister or me, and even my mom hesitated to ask for certain necessary things because she didn’t want to make him angry. As a family, we never wanted to anything, but we didn’t live a life of luxury, either. We were solidly in the middle class.
My mother asked me why I wanted more money, and I explained my reasoning.
“With $1.25 per month, I could buy a full box of baseball cards each month.”
My dad didn’t even look up from his dinner. “You get a quarter a week” is all he said.
But my mom asked some other questions.
“how many packs are in a box?”
“At five cents apiece?”
“So that’s $1.20. Plus five cents tax, for $1.25. That works out nicely.”
“What do you think, Mom?”
Dad didn’t even look at me. “You get a quarter a week.”
My mother knew how important this was to me, though, and she said, “Let me discuss this with your dad.” Only then did my dad lift his head from his dinner; he looked at both of us and repeated, “He gets a quarter a week.” The look my mom gave me, however, implied that the decision was not yet final.
A few days later, when there hadn’t been any obvious discussion about it, I asked my mother where things stood. She said that she would talk to my dad about it that night.
The following day, when I got home from school but before my father arrived home from work, my mom took me aside and said, “Dad and I have discussed your idea and we have agreed to try it.” I must have been grinning from ear to ear because my mom quickly said, “On three conditions: One, that you do some more chores around the house; two, that you don’t ask for extra money for individual packs; and three, YOU DON’T CHEW THE GUM!” I laughed and quickly agreed to all those conditions. In fact, I told my mother that I would cut the lawn right then. “That can wait until tomorrow,” Mom said. “First, let’s go to Joe’s and get your box of cards.”
When I walked into the store, Joe saw me and started to say, “Hello young man–.” But then he saw my mother behind me and quickly changed his tone to sound more professional. “Hello madam, welcome to Joe’s. What can I do for you today?” My mom looked down at me, and I said to Joe, “I would like to buy a box of baseball cards.”
“Certainly, young man. How many packs would you like?” Joe headed back behind the counter to grab some packs from my special box.
“I would like the entire box, Joe. All twenty-four packs.”
Joe looked confused and glanced at my mother, who smiled and nodded her head. Joe then cocked his head to the side, as if to say, “This is different!” He told me to wait a moment while he went in the stock room to get a full box. When he came back, he opened the box and began shoveling the packs into a bag for easy carrying. I quickly stopped him and asked if he would leave the cards in the box and let me take the box with me as a souvenir. He smiled and said, “Of course!” He also complimented my mother on raising such a polite young man. My mother and I both smiled broadly. I thanked Joe and told him that I would be back for another box when the second series was released. Joe looked a little surprised and said, “I hope you’ll be back before then, even if you’re not buying baseball cards!” That man was a total sweetheart.
When we got home, my mother reminded me not to chew the gum and told me to have fun as she left my bedroom. I then proceeded to open all twenty-four packs and put the cards in numerical order as I opened them to extend the excitement as much as possible. For me opening those packs was like Christmas morning—new pleasures with each pack. As I reached the end of the box, however, it felt even more like the end of Christmas morning, when a kid realizes that he didn’t get everything on his list. I noticed toward the end of the box that I was getting a lot of duplicate cards, and in fact I was about two dozen cards short of the entire series when I was done opening the packs. But I had lots of friends at school who collected cards—Chuck and Rusty in my class, in particular—and I had lots of doubles to trade, so over the next few days I traded for the cards I was missing. Buying cards by the box was really going to pay off!
I relied on Rusty and Chuck to tell me when succeeding series of cards were released, and when that occurred my mother and I would walk or drive to Joe’s for a fresh box. The next few series were smaller in number than the first series, so I was missing substantially fewer cards after opening the boxes, and I was able to trade for everything I needed. Through the first four series, I had the entire set of 1965 Topps cards, and I had a good start on the fifth series when I bought a box of those cards. After trades, I was missing only one card—number 424, Gary Bell, a Cleveland pitcher. None of my friends had this card, and they didn’t know anyone who had it. My mom even broke her own rule and let me buy a few individual packs to try to find it, to no avail. I was stumped.
Then my mom had a suggestion. “Why not write a letter to the Topps company asking them to send you the card? I’ll give you a dime that you can attach to a letter explaining that you have tried hard to find the card but have been unsuccessful.” I thought this was as good an idea as anything I could imagine, and I sat down to write. I don’t remember my exact wording, but it went something g like this:
I am a ten-year-old card collector who has been assembling the 1965 Topps baseball set. I have every card in the first five series except number 424, Gary Bell. I can’t find it anywhere, and none of my friends have it. Could you please send this card to me? I have enclosed ten cents for your trouble and have also enclosed a stamped, self-addressed envelope. Thank you in advance for your attention to my letter. Sincerely, Danny Marowski
A couple of weeks later, my mother came into my room with a large envelope and said with a smile, “You have mail!” My jaw dropped when she handed me the envelope that had the Topps Chewing Gum address in the top left. I carefully unsealed the envelope and discovered three life-changing things inside.
First, I saw the Gary Bell card. They had sent it!!! I was ecstatic and yelled out to my mom, “They sent me the card!!!” She was very happy, too. Next, I pulled out a short letter from someone at Topps. I wish I had kept the letter, but I pretty much remember what it said.
Thank you for your letter. While we don’t sell cards to collectors, we were very impressed by your letter and are happy to help you complete your collection of 1965 Topps baseball cards. We have also returned your SASE and your ten cents and have enclosed a catalog for The Card Collectors’ Company. You can buy cards from them for this year and previous years’ sets at reasonable prices. Feel free to contact them for all your collecting needs. Good luck in your pursuit of the full 1965 Topps set, and keep collecting!
I quickly looked at the catalog, and I caught my breath as I realized that I could fill in my sets from the past few years for pennies per card. I ran out to show my mother the catalog—actually, more like a small bifold pamphlet—and said that I wanted to try to complete my older sets through The Card Collectors’ Company of Franklin Square, New York. My mother reminded me that I was spending all of my allowance on current baseball cards, but I noted that the season was almost over and that I probably wouldn’t be able to find sixth or seventh series cards in stores, so I would save my allowance in the fall and order cards through the catalog. Little did I realize the impact that catalog would have on my collection over the next few years.
I waited patiently for Joe’s to have the sixth series of baseball cards, but as in previous years they never arrived, so I figured it would be football card season soon anyway and gave up my pursuit of the Topps baseball set. Imagine my surprise, then, when Chuck told me that a store near him was selling sixth series cards! I quickly hopped on my bike and rode the eight blocks to Chuck’s house, then walked down the street to a small convenience store named Connie’s Corner. Connie was indeed the proprietor, and she welcomed us with a broad smile. Chuck asked for a couple packs of cards and opened them right then and there. Sure enough, they were from the sixth series! We went back to Chuck’s house, and I called my mother to let her know that a new series was out. She told me that we would have to wait until the next day to buy the box, and I worried all night that they would be out of stock by then. My worries were unfounded, however; I bought a box and completed the entire sixth series without needing to trade with Chuck or anyone else. My pursuit of a complete set was still alive!
I never expected to find seventh series cards anywhere in my neighborhood, so I figured that I would have to mail away for them through the CCC catalog. A couple of weeks before school started that fall, however, I began visiting another classmate. Jon was different from most of my other male friends. He wasn’t into sports, concentrating instead on fascinating electronics and oddball devices. His parents were older, and his father worked either in the government or in some science-based position. Their house was full of things I had never seen before, and they were clearly wealthier than most of my friends’ parents. Also, their house was north of Grand River Avenue, a main artery in Detroit that separated middle class residences from old, moneyed families. While most of my friends and I would attend public high school in a few years, Jon attended Assumption, a private academy in Windsor, Ontario. Jon’s world was very different from mine.
I must have visited Jon at his home three or four times over a ten-day period. To get to his house, I had to cross the massive Grand River Avenue, and to do that I crossed at a street that had a traffic signal. On the southwest corner of that street was a drug store named Schnellbach’s. I had never gone in there before because it was a Rexall drug store—noted by the orange sign above the door—and they were notoriously kid-unfriendly, at least in my neighborhood. But after one visit to Jon’s home, I was parched, so I stopped in to Schnellbach’s to get a bottle of orange soda. Before I got my drink, however, I noticed behind the counter a box of baseball cards. I also noticed a small banner on the front of the box that stopped me in my tracks. The banner read, “FINAL SERIES.” There it was! The elusive seventh series!!! I forgot about the soda and rode home as quickly as possible, exploding though the back door to tell my mom that we needed to go to the drug store to get the cards. Mom was making dinner and told me that she would take me after we ate. That night I probably ate my dinner faster than I ever had before.
As my mom a I prepared to go out, my dad asked where we were going. Mom said that she was running an errand with me. My dad looked puzzled and asked if he needed to come along, and my mom told him no, it wasn’t necessary. It hadn’t dawned on me until right then that my dad didn’t have any idea that I was buying baseball cards by the box! On the way to Schnellbach’s I asked my mom if dad knew what was going on. She smiled, said no, and said she wanted to make this decision herself. I gained newfound respect for Mom that day but also wished I could share my excitement with my dad.
When we got to Schnellbach’s and I asked for a full box of baseball cards, the salesperson gave me a box without the banner on it. I pointed to the box behind the counter and asked, “Do you have any boxes with the Final Series banner?” She checked the back room and came out with one such box. “Last one!”
When I got home, I opened the packs and found myself three cards short of a complete set. Oddly enough, two of those cards were of my hometown Detroit Tigers—Jake Wood and Joe Sparma. But Rusty told me that he had found seventh series cards at Connie’s Corner and that I could have his. That left me one card short—I was missing Howie Reed, number 544, a Dodgers pitcher. Neither Rusty nor Chuck had the card, but Chuck told me that a friend of a friend had it, and a connection was soon made. The boy with the Reed card came to Chuck’s, and I told him he could have as many of my doubles as he wanted in exchange for Howie Reed. I think he took a couple of dozen cards away with him, but I didn’t care—I had Howie Reed, and I had the entire 1965 Topps baseball set!!!
That was a red-letter day in my life. I was excited; my mom was happy for me; my friends were thrilled as well. Even my dad found out that I had completed the set and was impressed—although I think he thought I had traded for the majority of my cards. What this did for me personally was give me a hunger for completing future sets and going back and completing older sets as well, first through services like the Card Collectors’ Company and later through hobby magazines and conventions. I remember attending national shows in Troy, Michigan, in the early 1970s and picking up amazing deals on older cards for prices that couldn’t be touched today. Those sets have stayed with me all these years; I have a complete run of Topps sets from 1955-1990, Bowman 1948 and 1954-55, and Fleer 1960-63, plus most Topps football sets from 1955-1990, Fleer football 1960-63, Philadelphia football 1964-67, and my favorite, a Post cereal football set from 1962, as well as hockey and basketball card sets. I took quite a few years off from collecting to pursue work and raise a family, but I’m happy to be scratching the collecting itch again and trying to fill some older sets, including 1950 Bowman baseball and 1961 and 1963 Post cereal baseball.
1965 was the final year that I collected cards though packs. During 1966, I discovered that another Checker Drugs a few miles away sold cards in a vending machine—six cards (or more—sometimes as many as eight) for a nickel. My mom would drive me to the store with a dollar’s worth of nickels, and I would spend them all on the machine. My 1966 and 1967 sets were completed like this; beginning in 1968, I ordered the complete set from the Card Collectors Company, and I kept up that method for many years.
I lost touch with Jon and Rusty over the next couple of years, but I just recently reconnected with Chuck after more than forty years. Unfortunately, we have very little in common anymore. That said, I think back often to those wonderful days when our only worries were whether we could complete a baseball card set. Would that our lives could be like that again!
The first house that an old high school buddy and his wife owned was built in 1850. Adjacent to the house was a carriage house that had been converted into a garage. Shortly after moving into the house in 1979 it was apparent that some of the support beams in the carriage house needed to be replaced.
To get at the support beams the walls in the carriage house needed to come down. Much to the surprise of my friend, behind the sparse insulation and the horse-hair was a mishmash of early 1900s Americana that included advertising signs, newspapers, pins, and tobacco cards that were also being used as insulation.
Some of the historical artifacts were carted off to the dump along with the debris from the construction. Some items, like the “Modern Women Use Crisco Instead of Whale Blubber” sign, were tossed in 2012 due to mold build up. However, for some reason my friend decided to keep the tobacco cards and the pins that he found behind the walls.
The tobacco cards and pins remained tucked away in a drawer for over 40 years until last month when he posted a couple of group shots of the items on Facebook. In the post he asked – “Does anyone know if they are worth anything?”
I immediately called him and gave him some information about the cards, pricing guides, and grading services. I also emailed him links to online sources of information that included checklists.
It was impossible to determine which tobacco cards he had from the group shots, so I asked him to email me individual photos of the front and backs of each card.
From the photos I determined that he had T205, T206, and E91 baseball cards and T-218 Champions and Prize Fighters cards.
Behind the Walls Checklist
I have listed below the cards by set that my friend found behind the walls. I have also included the photos of the individual cards that my friend sent me organized by set.
My friend also saved some assorted pins that he found, including a President McKinley pin.
My friend and his wife sold the house in 1982. When I asked my friend if he had taken down all of the garage walls. He replied – “I am not sure. It might have been only two walls.” My follow up question was – “Did you take down any of the walls in the house?” He said – “No. We just wallpapered over the walls in the house.”
My buddy and I are now planning a road trip to see the current owners of his first house. We want to see if they would be interested in some free wall demolition work on the condition that we do a 3-way split on the proceeds of any T206 Honus Wagner cards that might be found during the wall removal process.