American Tale

I stood behind the old man in the check-out line at the local convenience store. A navy blue Yankees hat covered a head of sparse gray hair. He carried an old framed photo which he proudly laid on top of his two Sunday papers as he rooted around in his pocket for the money.

"See this here picture? I’ve had this for years. It’s worth a fortune," he boasted to the Indian gentleman behind the counter. "It’s Mantle, old Joe D., and Ted Williams."

The Indian smiled politely but only shook his head. I assumed he didn’t really know who those baseball icons were. The old man picked up his papers and the photograph and headed out the door. Now it was my turn.

"You know, if that photo is the real thing, then it really is worth a lot of money," I said, making idle conversation.

The clerk looked at me. "You know, America is a strange country. Here, you save and collect things—cars, baseball cards. I don’t understand. We don’t hang on to things ion my country. You make money, you put it in the bank where it is safe. You got to keep cards for 50 years, then if you spill something on them all is ruined. You can keep cars but they all break sooner or later. Yes, my friend, put money in the bank where it is safe. That is my advice to you."

I was taken aback by his comments.

"I’ll have to ponder that one," I replied lamely. I paid for my papers and left.

Perhaps we Americans collect things, hold on to things because we’ve managed to be well-off enough as a country to have a period of reinforced childhood called adolescence and enough disposable income to spend on trivia.

Collecting allows us to hold on to our childhood. In his country, there is no childhood, no adolescence. The responsibilities relegated to adulthood come early. He probably began working to help his family when he was six so he has no adolescence to hold on to, no protected childhood to hold dear.

Perhaps we collect baseball cards to revisit a childhood that was free from adult pressured and expectations. Is it no wonder that despite baseball management’s stupidity, we are still drawn to the game that spoke so eloquently to us as children.

Who could not love the smell of freshly mowed grass, the sound of hot dog vendors hawking their wares, the sight of incredibly young men tossing balls, their echoes smacking the sweet spot s on wooden bats.

I attended my first baseball game back in 1958. I can still vividly recall the explosion of colors that greeted me when I walked up the runway and headed for the grandstand with my father. Thee is no green like the grass of a ballpark, no blue deeper than the sky overhead, no orange like the crushed brick that forms the warning track that circles the powder blue outfield walls covered with multicolored advertisements. I had that experience. I doubt my Indian friend had one like it when he was growing up. And every time I think of it, for just the briefest of moments, I am eleven years old again.

Yes, I could collect cars, and after a while they will surely break. I had a huge baseball card collection when I was a child. I have a small one today. I saw the old man’s picture and it struck an emotional chord with me. I recognized value; not monetary value, but rather value to my soul. For as I stood behind him and looked at the youthful images of The Mick, and Joe D., and The Splendid Splinter—frozen in time—for the briefest moment I was a child again.

And that, my friend is like money in the bank for me.