UMP DAY: Billy the Kid

Growing up in a recently developed subdivision in the 60’s brought not only new homes to the area, but a host of new kids to turn into old friends. Honestly, some of those “youngsters” and I are still friends today and although 50 plus years may have past, we remain close.
 

It was a neighborhood that was close too…close to each other and full of an innocence I miss. We knew which dads worked at the “Big Three” and we knew whose mom would let us play inside on a rainy day.  We played baseball in “the field” and tag in the backyard.  We played hopscotch on the sidewalk and dug in the ditches with the Tonka Trucks. And we rode our bikes. Up and down and all around the cul de sac. On occasion, when we could get a friend to go with us and we were fortunate enough to have an extra quarter burning a hole in our pockets, we made a trip up to the corner store to buy baseball cards. 

As the shoebox collection grew, so did the desire to trade those doubles. What was I going to do with two pieces of cardboard showcasing guys that weren’t even on my beloved Tigers?  I know I could have used them in the spokes of my bike and enjoyed the sound on my way to get the next new pack, but I was only allowed to do that once. I thought the best thing was to have all Tigers cards (I have since broadened my horizons to include other players) so why not trade my cards with the other young collectors on the block?
 

Stuffed into my white, plastic daisy-covered bike basket, that old brown Flings shoebox made its rounds with me as I traded cards with the kids on the block. Part of this innocence was not only founded in the time I grew up, but also in my upbringing. Because I was taught to be honest and not to cheat, it never occurred to me to that someone else would, especially not a friend. Especially not a new friend. Especially not Billy.

One night when I was called home to dinner, I thought nothing of leaving my shoebox at his house so that he could look at the cards to see if there were any that he wanted to trade. During dinner I remember my parents saying that I shouldn’t have left my cards there.  A nervous pit began growing in my stomach. No sooner was dinner finished then I rushed back to the corner house, grabbed my shoebox and hoofed it home. Of course, upon taking the lid off of that little brown box, all looked as it should.

Things are not always what they seem though. Somehow I ended up with a bunch of pitchers with little value to them, that were “traded” in my absence, much like “a player to be named later”. I still have a hard time believing that someone would be dishonest so I maintain that this is due to pitchers being more numerous in general.  Still, one card was missing. One very special card. One Mickey Mantle.
 

Like his namesake, Billy the Kid was a thief. While he did not steal strongboxes from stagecoaches, he stole from a little kid’s shoebox full of treasures. Not too long after that, Billy’s family moved. I guess they were on the lamb, running from the law of “what goes around comes around”…aka Karma.  No matter, Billy.  Mickey, through the magic of eBay, has come home once again. Only this time, he rests in a penny sleeve and a top loader inside a true strongbox, along with my trusting nature.  You can’t have either one of them.  

~ Cheryl
   Guest Blogger

UMP DAY: The Journey from Shoebox to Binders

Mama was a saver. Growing up during the depression era she saved everything from aluminum foil to last year’s Christmas paper. She kept my sister’s dolls for me to play with and my brother’s Lionel train set. She kept comic books and story books, greeting cards and baseball cards. Nothing that could be repurposed was ever tossed because we might need it someday.  She even saved cereal box tops to use for redemption of those cool prizes on the back of the box!

In the spring of 1969, she took me up to the corner drug store and we bought my first pack of cards.  I somehow suspect the purchase was prompted by carry-over guilt from not having met Mickey Lolich.  Neither one of us knew a thing about collecting cards because it wasn’t something my brother had ever pursued. In fact, in hindsight, none of the men in my life collected cards. It was just her and I, one pack at a time.

 

 

At a quarter a pack, it was a reasonable thing to get a kid who wanted everything she saw in the store. If I behaved while she shopped, I got a pack of cards. It was a simple proposition and one that worked quite well in her favor and mine; she got a well behaved child, I got cards. Lots and lots of cards.  As my shoebox collection grew, I grew older and discovered Teen Beat magazine. At that junction, the cards were neatly tucked away in the root cellar of our basement.

 

There they sat until she passed away some 15 yrs. later, at which time the shoebox moved to the basement of my apartment building. There the box remained until we bought a house in the country, complete with a somewhat dilapidated shed, where those cards sat for several more years. Let me tell you, that shed leaked!  For some reason only half the roof had been shingled and it was NOT the half where the forgotten box of cards sat.

 

At some point, now living alone, I decided to tear down the shed and put a new one up to keep things like a four wheeler, riding mower, and that everlasting, long forgotten box of 1969 Topps. Rediscovering that old box, while sorting out what to keep in transitioning from one shed to the other, brought a smile to my face; like finding an old friend after “all these years”. However, discovering that they were still in good shape - not smelling of mildew from the manner in which they were stored and not chewed by the ever present “country mouse” - was a joy in and of itself.

These days those old cards are stored properly in binders; and in the case of the Tigers, with some reverence. Having reintroduced myself to the collecting of cardboard, I now pass along the doubles I pull from current packs to my grandson. Although he lives in a house with a basement, his cards - most of which are commons - are already in binders and will never see the inside of a shoebox. On the rare occasion when he’s given one in a top loader, he knows those cards are “extra special”.  One day when I’m long gone, that young man will have himself a nice collection of ’69 Topps cards too. But don’t worry, they’ll already be in binders.    

~ Cheryl
   Guest Blogger

UMP DAY: OCTOBER 1968 - You're Out! Left out, that is.

Guest blogger you say?  Me you say?  I don’t know a thing about blogging!  I do however, know a thing or even two, about baseball.  That’s all.  Two things.  You know, like Thing One and Thing Two of Dr. Seuss fame; but I digress. This…is about the baseball. One very special baseball.

 

Not much to look at, it still holds a revered place in my collection…and my safe. Not because its monetary value is high…not because it’s a much sought after acquisition…in fact, no one else would even put in a bid on eBay.  But the memories invoked in its signing to me alone, are priceless.

My Mom cut this from a Little Caesar's  promotional ad for Lolich's appearance
 

Back in 1968, the Tigers - MY Tigers - won the World Series.  A mere 8 yrs. old, I didn’t know much about baseball but I knew they were “my hometown team” and that was good enough for me.  My mother, who wasn’t a huge fan, heard about a Mickey Lolich signing at the local Little Caesar’s Pizza joint.  She did what any good mother would do, she took me…and a baseball.

 

We joined the throng of others outside the door and began what was to be a 3 hour wait.  We sang a rousing chorus or two of “Take me out to the ballgame”… (she loved the peanuts and Cracker Jack part) and we visited with the fans who had come to see this legendary man.  While most of us were content to wait our turn, two teenage girls were “moving their way” up the line by visiting folks and then gradually slipping in front of them.  As we made our way closer and closer to the door,  they made their way closer and closer to us. Mom and I were just a few steps away when they took cuts in front of us.

 

She was not a woman of many words, let alone those which were deemed confrontational. While I was busy eyeing Mickey through the big store front window, they were getting the ol’ stink eye from my mom. She chose to let it - and them - go though, and then the unthinkable happened, it was our turn. The gentleman letting folks in a few at a time, opened the door and let the girls in and as he did, he spoke the words that I can still hear, “I’m sorry, but that’s the last group we can take because Mr. Loclich has another engagement. Thank you all for waiting.”

 

I went home that day a very disappointed little kid…and so did my mother. She offered to sign the baseball for me, which to me at the time, wasn’t quite as good as a real Tiger. Still, using a blue ink pen, she penned the words “Sock It To ‘Em Tigers 1968”…and bless her heart, I’m sure she had no clue, but it’s not even in the sweet spot!

 

48 years have passed and so has that sweet lady. I have other autographed baseballs and cards…but none I treasure as much as the one signed by “mama”.   Perhaps one day, I’ll own a Mickey Lolich autographed baseball but until then…”Sock It To ‘Em Tigers”!

~Cheryl
  Guest Blogger