Once the best fun, baseball cards—
sacred for poor, working-class boys
before we could afford to go to a real game,
before TV.
Collected cards, a big deal and cheap.
We could stuff boxes full
all the stars along with the bench jockeys,
shuffle fantasies before our eyes,
each face our own miracle catch or towering home run.
In the winter, when snow and ice pinned us inside,
we made a game with them.
Placed the cards on the floor,
each player in his right position,
even a catcher.
Our own All-star team, changed line-ups.
We were the managers!
Teams took turns.
With our index finger, we flicked the batter card
across the wooden bedroom floor,
a dirt diamond in our minds.
Whereever it landed determined the play.
Hit another card—out!
Land clean, a hit, depended how far it flew.
A home run was atop the heating vent.
Rooted for our favorite team.
Pirates, Reds, Cubbies!
Charted the league standings.
Nine innings, whiling away winter.
Played for hours until our cuticles bled
from snapping floating heroes into the air.
Heal in a few days—Batter up!
We had no idea of value—Cokes were a nickel.
We did not know American greed
would soon make some cards—
Williams, DiMaggio, Mantle—
if we did not bend or crinkle them,
worth enough to pay for college fees.
Comic books, then girls, took over.
The cards sat in a box in the attic,
buried in an Easter basket with fake green grass,
looked more like a field than the old, brown floor.
A small attic fire incinerated them.
Childhood dreams up in smoke.
Years later, our own children collected cards:
“Mom, Dad, buy boxed sets and keep them.
They’ll be worth a ton!”
Good parents stored safely,
not in an attic,
cellophane intact
like rare books with perfect spines.
Years later, a surfeit of cards—
America knew her business.
Everyone collected and saved everything.
The market crashed.
Like a player who slid past second base—
“Yer Out”!--
Originally Published in The Literary Yard
