A Father's Tale

I have related some of my father's history in this blog over the last year. He was born into an immigrant family, and was raised during the Great Depression. He was an usher at Cleveland Stadium. He went into the Army at age 17 in 1942, and was deployed to the European Theater in 1944. He never saw action, but was in Germany after the Nazi's turned tail. He went to college and law school on the GI Bill. He worked for the IRS for over 40 years. He was a decent man and a good father.

He is near 84 years old now, and is beset by Alzheimer's Disease. His is not the struggle, though. As any spouse of an Alzheimer's patient knows, it is toughest on the spouse. Readjusting expectations is of primary importance, and understanding that you can not get mad that the other forgets almost everything that happens to him on a day-to-day basis.

My father was nominated for Honor Flight which flies veterans to Washington, D.C. It is not easy to be selected to go. You must be picked in a lottery. But this past Wednesday, my father was on the early flight to our capitol and was treated as a hero. He went to the WWII Monument on the Mall and to Arlington National Cemetary. He was taken to lunch, treated well, and escorted by a person from the local network in Cleveland.

I think that, most importantly, it gave my mother a day off. She was able to get a pedicure, relax, have lunch with friends, and not worry about my father's schedule or whereabouts for the entire day. It was a well-deserved and long-past-due respite.

But the most interesting part of the day happened when my mom called me to recount the day's events. She told the story of the return to the airport of the veterans from their day in Washington, how the people waiting for their relatives and friends lined up in the concourse, how they were cheered and saluted and thanked for their bravery. One little boy near my mom thanked the veterans for "saving us."

My mom cried when she told me this. My mom hasn't cried out of pride or happiness for my father in many years.

My eyes are welling up as I retell this.

If your father is still around, call him and tell him you love him, or go over to his house and give him a hug and a kiss. Don't forget to kiss your mother and thank her for taking care of your father and raising you, too. And let them both know, on this Father's Day, that you appreciate the sacrifices that they made for you, whether you know of them or not.

As Mike Rutherford wrote:

I know that I'm a prisoner to all my father held so dear.

I know that I'm a hostage to all his hopes and fears.

I just wish I could have told him in the living years...

I wasn't there that morning when my father passed away.

I didn't get to tell him all the things I had to say.

Say it loud, say it clear

You can listen as well as you hear

It's too late when we die

To admit we don't see eye to eye

Some changes...

First, I'd like to thank everyone who kept my wife and our family in their thoughts and prayers. We appreciate it, and we are slowly getting back to Life. It will take a while, especially for my wife. Surprisingly, the kids seem to be OK. They are more resilient than we give them credit for.

Second, in order to simplify trading, I am going to be using Zistle more. I really like the ability to easily specify cards that need to be traded, and the eBay pricing, where it exists, is far more indicative than book value. But let's not get into that now.

I will start by embedding my Tradelist onto my trading page, and later, when I've updated everything, I will do the same with my wantlist. It will be much easier than keeping two separate wantlists coordinated and updated. So, go take a look at my tradelist, and contact me if you want to make a trade. Or, better yet, sign up for Zistle and simplify your collection database.

Blog Bat-around: My Favorite Possession, Part I

Part I: My Favorite Possession in My Collection

Part II

Part III

Part IV

I have a decent baseball card and memorabilia collection. Not spectacular. No Babe Ruth jerseys, no Joe Jackson bats, no Hank Aaron autographs.

I own a few “hits,” which I have procured from various sources. A Troy Tulowitzki rookie-auto-relic card. A 1949 Bowman Whitey Lockman card. A rookie Gaylord Perry.

The most valuable member of my collection, and my favorite, is not a card, or a relic, or even an autograph, per se. It is a memory. In particular, it is my father’s memories.

This may not excite many, nor will it seem logical. However, because of the age of my father and the beginnings of a struggle with Alzheimer’s Disease, it is the most precious part of my collection.

In its physical form, those memories come in the form of an autograph book. It is my father’s book from 1941 when, as a sixteen-soon-to-be-seventeen year old, he worked as an usher at Municipal Stadium and League Park in Cleveland. The fact that I have it now, and that it was not thrown away by my grandmother, his mother, is amazing and fortuitous.

Not long after that summer, the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor, and the United States was pulled into World War II. My father was drafted, which all young men were at the time, did his basic training at Camp Landing in Florida near Jacksonville, and then was deployed with his unit to Europe in 1944 and 1945. I believe he was with the Army General Corp,, and while in Europe was fortunate enough to not be on the front lines. He clerked in various locations, but most memorably was in Berlin after the downfall of the Third Reich. He remembers getting his cigarette rations, then selling them to the Russians that he would meet at the Potsdamer Platz for $100 (in 1945!) in military money. He would later serve at the Potsdam Conference that partitioned Germany.

These are only part of the memories that are so important today. During his time in the Army, his mother, as many mother’s did at the time, took the opportunity to clean up his room.

She threw away his baseball card collection.

This sad fact alone breaks my heart, but in a way that is sad for my father, not necessarily anger or frustration on my part for not having some very valuable cards, but in the regret that my father expresses when he talks about them. I’m sure there were some amazing cards from the 30’s in that collection. His family was not wealthy, but he worked and sometimes bought gum “that came with a baseball card,” as opposed to today when I sometimes find a piece of gum hermetically sealed off from a stack of cards in a pack, if at all.

One relic of his childhood still exists, though. It is his autograph book from that last summer of childhood for him. He was a big baseball fan, and probably was thrilled to work at the games and be so close to his idols. He would take his autograph book with him to work, and spend the game seating those who could still afford to go to baseball games in the stands. His location would vary, as would the venue. I did not realize until recently that the Indians would play during the week at League Park, an ancient downtown ballpark that had wood fences around most of the outfield where boys would try to peer through, and who’s outfield was almost as expansive and odd-shaped as the famed Polo Grounds.

After the games, he would wait for the Indians and the visiting team to leave the locker room, then ask them to sign his book. The litany of players from that era that signed it is astounding. Ted Williams. Luke Appling. Lou Boudreau. Mickey Vernon. Joe Cronin. And the list goes on.

The stories about the autographs are what I cherish the most. The ability to take my father back to a time that he loved, to a place he loved, to a family he loved, to a job he loved, to a pastime he loved.

He loves to tell the story of the day he got Joe Dimaggio’s autograph. Remember, 1941 was an historic year. Joe D set baseball on fire by hitting, and continuing to hit, for almost two months straight. He arrived in Cleveland in late July, 1941, with a 50+ game hitting streak. Ken Keltner, who’s signature graces the autograph book as well, made several outstanding plays to stop Joe’s hitting streak at 56 games, a record that may never be broken.

My father was there. And he says that Joe signed his autograph book on that day.

Now, there is no way to prove this succinctly. But, during a recent post-surgical recovery period, I researched the names of the players in the book, matched them against rosters from 1941, determined the Indians home schedule that year, and have verified that, indeed, that autograph is from the weekend that the famous hitting streak was stopped. I doubt that I will ever be able to prove that it actually came from that day, but I don’t need to. You see, I have my father’s memories of it. And right now, that is the most precious thing of his that I have.

A Problem with the Hobby

There are many problems with the Hobby today, and some of them may even sound like the problems facing Wall Street today. No, not credit default swaps or other derivatives. I am referring to issues such as opportunists invading our territory, speculation and supply-and-demand-gone-wild. These are the result of a successful industry and its desire to drive profits, as well as "collectors" who smell a killing in the market and have come only lately to this pastime in order to amass a nice little nest egg and build their retirement homes on the bones of the kids starting to collect and the enthusiasts for the game.

I see it with my son and some of the younger people showing up at the Trade Days that I attend. They are more interested in that shiny card, that auto-relic, that plastic-encased serial-numbered refractor, than in the true, pure joy of a well-loved 1933 Babe Ruth Goudey. Joshua now understands "Beckett value" as a basis for trading, instead of having a personal connection to the card that makes it "valuable." (I remember trading cards because I liked the guy represented on the card or needed it for my set, not because it was pretty or expensive. In fact, I put many cards in my spokes and drew goatees on some HOFers.) I am partly to blame for this, though, because, since my return to the hobby a little over a year ago, I got caught up in the chase for the 1/1 AutoChromaJerseyFractor of some unknown rookie.

"Hi, my name is Dan, and I'm a recovering baseball card collector."

(Everyone respond now: "Hi, Dan!")

I have since pulled back from chasing these cards, and now am concentrating on collecting sets and the Indians. Yes, I still look for relics and autos, but in pursuit of set completions and trades for cards that are meaningful to me. I have completed at least a dozen trades on-line with fellow collectors and bloggers, and made quite a dent in my want-list, as well as helping many of you with your sets. I feel better about my hobby now, knowing that I am not spending recklessly.

Now I get to the bigger problem with the hobby.

My wife.

(Aside: I love my wife. In fact today is her birthday, and I am fretting over what to get her. Suggestions welcome, although they should not include appliances, power tools or anything that might make more work for me. And, No, she is not THE problem with the entire industry, just my personal involvement with it. She may be representative of other wives/girlfriends/significant others.)

She thinks that this is a childish endeavor. I spend too much time on the computer. My cards are taking up too much space in the basement, and are strewn all over the desk in the office. I am spending too much on buying Blasters and packs. I haven't kept track of my expenditures for shipping and purchasing collecting accessories. I'm not selling things in order to make up for buying things.

Should I try to convince her that this is a productive pastime? That I spend more time with my son showing him the interesting cards, the famous players, the favorites? That I am not overspending or underselling? That this is something I enjoy and affords me some escape, relaxation and fulfillment?

I think that to do so would be fruitless and diminish my enjoyment. To me, the search for that one card to complete the set, that 1965 Mickey Mantle that came in the box of cards I just bought for a song, the joy in seeing Joshua's face light up when he sees that 1933 Babe Ruth card is the reason I am doing this. It is fun, a simple pleasure, and isn't that what life is all about?

Chief Wahoo

Is it me, or is Chief Wahoo, the symbol of the Indians for almost a century, one of the most racist caricatures of a human that one could draw? It is almost as bad as the cartoon ads from pre-WWII Nazi Germany depicting Jewish citizens as evil incarnations. It is appalling that MLB could let this go on for that many years.

Having said that, however, it is also something that is near and dear to me, though not for its potential to incite. It is a reminder of something I love, something that brings me back to my childhood, something that bound me to my dad, and my son to me. It is a momento, a symbol, a touchstone that makes me wish I had swung the bat some more or played more catch with my dad.

It is me.

How could I be a grotesque like this? How could I let this be part of my identity? Well, let's go back to psychotherapy to determine that. But really, it is that I identify with the Indians, perennial losers and runner-ups, only winners in the movies, second fiddle to the Red Sox or Yankees for WAY too many years. Even in David Halberstam's fantastic Summer of '49, the Indians were the foil to the Yankees-Red Sox rivalry. Good, but not good enough. Jack-of-all-trades, master of none.

Yes, that is how I have always thought of myself. I yearned to be a great baseball player. My heydey was 8-year-old slow pitch on a team named after a funeral home, with red jerseys, where I was the winning pitcher and team MVP (along with the coach's son). It was all downhill from there. I guess it mirrored my beloved Indians' travails. Always next year. Forever next year. Lots of promise, but always coming up short.

I have moved on, and survived, even thrived. I have a wife, two beautiful healthy kids, a place to live, a good job, friends. I wouldn't give it up for anything, not even a chance for a moment in the Big Show. (I do have an extra kidney or testicle floating around that I don't necessarily need. I'd give one of those up...well, maybe that's not such a good idea.)