A few months ago, my friend Graig Kreindler pointed out a song released by pioneering rap artist Chuck D of Public Enemy last year, called “It’s So Hard to See My Baseball Cards Move On.” Until then I’d known his music to be edgy, hard-hitting hip-hop, but this was something different: it was a downtempo, wistful remembrance of the baseball heroes he’d grown up with. The song opens “MVPs, Hall of Famers, big- time gamers/Bring out the big guns, strikeouts and home runs/Real dream team now restin’ in peace/A play-by-play on top of these beats.” The lyrics go on to describe an imaginary ballgame of departed stars, with Bob Gibson squaring off against Tom Seaver, joined by Lou Brock, Joe Morgan, Jimmy Wynn, Al Kaline, Jay Johnstone, and more, with the refrain “2020 threw us all a heck of a knuckleball – like Phil’s.”
make a living playing with sports cards and memorabilia. I get to talk about the hobby every day. But sometimes, especially lately, those discussions tend to sound more like investment advice than reminiscing about the history of the game. I get it – we spend real money on these things, and we like to do it with a clear head, and perhaps some vision into what the future might hold.
But all this talk of value sometimes clouds the beauty of our memories of the game, the things that helped propel us into this hobby. I will never forget those important events that made me fall in love with all of this. I’ll never forget Graig Nettles, saving Game 3 of the 1978 World Series for Ron Guidry, who had saved the Yankees all season. I’ll never forget watching Tony Dorsett break loose for a 99-yard run on Monday Night Football. And I’ll never forget being Dave Winfield, imitating his long strides as I chased a looping line drive, the ball gently settling into my glove, my cannon arm holding the ghost runner at third, because nobody runs on Winfield. These names, these people who are passing on, they’re more than just names on cardboard. We were those guys. We settled into those personas; our imaginary ballgames blended with reality in ways that are impossible to explain, unless you’ve done it yourself – which, of course, you probably have. I talk about my grandfather a lot; he’s the one who taught me baseball history and baptized me with a passion for the game that’s never gone away. At maybe nine or ten years old, I would bring him a pile of vintage baseball cards, and ask him to tell me about the players. For players he didn’t like, he’d jokingly toss their card on the floor. For guys he did like, he’d tell me stories. And once in a while, he’d pause, just for a minute, almost not even noticeable, and he’d get this look in his eye. Today, I understand what the look means. It means “It’s so hard to see my baseball cards move on.” Thanks, Chuck.
2021 hasn’t been any different, sadly. Beginning with the passing of Tommy Lasorda in January and most recently with Ray Fosse just a few days before I wrote this letter, we’ve lost some of the game’s greats this year. Hall of Famers Don Sutton and Hank Aaron passed in January, but so many other important names left us as well – names I pulled from wax packs as a kid. Grant Jackson, Ed Armbrister, Ken Reitz, Rennie Stennett, Dick Tidrow, Bill Freehan, and of course the great James Rodney Richard, are all among the players we’ve lost in 2021. At one point or another as a youngster, I most certainly pretended to be each of those players with my neighborhood friends, as we played daily backyard wiffle ball games, cycling through imaginary lineups of each team. I vividly recall being J.R. Richard, hurling fastballs in my backyard during a make-believe All-Star Game. And as a young Yankee fan, I was certainly Dick Tidrowmore than once, a giant wad of gum stuffed inmy cheek like tobacco. When I reminisce with the other guys from the neighborhood, those are the things we laugh about – the time Dave Winfield lost a big home run because it got stuck in a tree, or how in our neighborhood, Cecil Cooper’s nickname was “On the Roof ” because the neighborhood lefty pretending to be the Milwaukee first baseman once slammed a big home run onto the roof of our house, the ball getting stuck in the rain gutter. Because of those games, we called real-life major league home runs “on the roof,” as in “Did you see Reggie put another one on the roof last night?” I’m a pretty fortunate guy in that for the past nine years, I get to
Regards, Al Crisafulli
FALL 2021 PREMIER AUCTION − CLOSES NOVEMBER 27, 2021 1
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