Unforgiving

In an introduction to the book Diamonds Are Forever, George Will, the Washington Post columnist and a former colleague of mine at ABC, began with the following question: “Have you forgiven your mother yet?”

He was talking about baseball cards. More specifically, he was referring to mothers who have thrown out their childrens’ baseball cards. I had a mother like that. She wasn’t being mean or anything like that. She just thought the cards were taking up space, and since I wasn’t around — I had just left for college — decided they had to go. When I found out what she did, I was shattered. “How could you?!!” I exclaimed. “They were mine. You know what they meant to me!”

Looking back, she probably didn’t know. She just saw hundreds of cards stuffed in shoe boxes that were gathering dust, maybe were even a fire hazard, and decided to give them the heave ho. Maybe she thought I had outgrown them. I have no idea. I only remember the puzzled look on her face and her response: “But they were just baseball cards.”

Just baseball cards? Anyone who’s ever collected cards knows there’s no such thing as “just baseball cards.” What’s more, one NEVER outgrows them. I was 17-years-old when my cards went bye bye. I’m 73 now and still feel the pain.

I began collecting when I was playing Little League baseball and dreaming of being a big league baseball player some day.

I usually bought 5 or 10 cards at a time, they cost a penny a piece, and boy, was it ever exciting. I’d rip open the packet, toss away the flat piece of bubble gum inside and pray the new card was one I didn’t have.

Sometimes, I’d get together with a neighborhood pal named Paul Novelli to trade cards.

“I’ll give you one Mike Ryba for a Hobie Landrith and Carl Sawatski,” I remember saying. Paul replied he already had two Rybas and, being a White Sox fan, countered by asking for a Nellie Fox and Billy Pierce. “Deal,” I said, “but only if you throw in a Bob Grim, Jim Coates and Kent Hadley.” Bob, Jim and Kent played for the Yankees, my favorite team.

When Paul and I weren’t wheeling and dealing, we’d often flip cards. That involved getting down on our knees and flipping a card toward a wall. Whoever came closest got to keep both cards. Those were fun days.

As years passed, the sense of loss I felt over my mother throwing away my cards gradually receded.

I missed them, of course, but no longer agonized about it. The cards were gone. Time to move on.

More recently, moving on was something my wife Petie and I were contemplating. We’d been living in France since 1978 and thought maybe it was time to return to our roots, namely the U.S. New Mexico with its sunshine and splendid scenery seemed particularly attractive. That’s where we met Chris and Patti Webster.

The Websters operated a real estate agency in Santa Fe. They’d just sold their house and were busy getting rid of stuff they no longer wanted. Some of that “stuff” included hundreds of baseball cards Chris had collected, most of them from the 1950s, just like mine.

“Take them” he said. “We’re moving to a smaller place and I really on’t have room for them.”

For a moment, I thought I’d died and gone to heaven and wasn’t sure what to say. I knew what I wanted to say but instead replied,

“They’re your cards, Chris. I’d love to have them but. . . ” Chris repeated that he and Patti were moving and trying to downsize. He then spread a bunch of the cards out on a table and invited me to have a look.

As I sifted through one pile after another, the years seemed to fall away. Many of the cards were duplicates of those I had when I was a kid.

There was Vic Wertz, Roy McMillan, Camilo Pascual and Eddie Yost. The Mick and his Yankee teammates were there, too along with so many others. They hadn’t aged a bit!

What jumped out at me, however, were four cards of Stan Musial. Each one was different and each had been signed by “Stan the Man” himself.

Chris explained that one of his friends was also good friend of Musial’s and had gotten the Cardinal great to autograph them. That clinched it for me.

“Okay Chris, I’ll take the cards but I insist on paying for them. I had no idea what any of the cards were worth and neither did Chris. Money wasn’t really the issue. In the end, I gave Chris a check and went home with the cards.

That’s when something hit me. It just didn’t feel right. Although the cards were mine, they didn’t feel like they were mine. Someone else had experienced the joy of collecting them. All I had done was write out a check and walk away with a bunch of cards. I felt like a mercenary. It seemed a little cold-blooded.

Nevertheless, I’ve done my best to get over it and, for the most part, I’ve succeeded.

Today, as I look at each card and recall what it was like, watching black and white TV and seeing those guys in their prime, memories of childhood come rushing back.

Another memory has returned as well.

Not long before my Mom died several years ago at age 94, I good-naturedly kidded her about throwing out my card collection. I expected her to at least smile for she knew I was just teasing.

Instead, she grew serious. Looking me squarely in the eye, she said, “Don, I’m truly sorry.”

As for that question George Will once asked, “Have you forgiven your mother yet?”

Yes, absolutely.

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