tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-59851312300754810512024-03-05T10:32:05.281-06:00Treasure Never BuriedMusic.Jason Vhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07361057314597517133noreply@blogger.comBlogger29125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5985131230075481051.post-67040529444680822312009-07-07T00:00:00.002-05:002018-09-11T01:15:05.607-05:00The Future of...For now, I'm not sure what the future of TNB will be. It's been months since I last posted and even longer since I last collected. So, for now, I think it's fair to say that TNB is no more. I will keep this blog alive for posterity's sake and for the off chance that I decide to revisit this venture in the future. <br /><br />Thanks to everyone that has made TNB such an enjoyable memory for me. I've made some great friends, and a few that I'll consider lifelong. With my current focus on being a fulltime husband and father, restaurant manager, and college student there is little to no time left for hobbies. Even my Tuesday Night Softball has become difficult to fit in.<br /><br />Once again thanks to everyone along the way! I hope to be back in some form or fashion in the future!<br /><br />Sincerely,<br /><br />jv<br /><br />ps I'm still interested in unloading stuff from my collection so if you think I might have something you need don't hesitate to ask. I'm going to attempt to get some eBay stuff going again by the end of the year. And, yes, there are a few of you with outstanding packages left to send. I WILL get to it at some point.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5985131230075481051.post-70904381611785570332008-11-17T08:00:00.001-06:002018-09-11T01:15:51.664-05:00Building Our 1990 Topps Set - The EndI've never in my life completed a single set by hand. I've owned many sets both by personal purchases and those received as gifts, but I've never known the joy and/or frustration of building an entire set from the ground up.<br />
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I'm proud to announce that this is no longer the case. Today I received another trade package in the mail that gave the last few remaining cards I needed to complete Connor's 1990 Topps set!<br />
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The most important card of the entire deal, however, is this one...<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWItOkC6kB3gDnMEp-2vFu9QjXWpoASKm1MV3NezpLyKNhSPvtvP302NKDaatrDudOSna8bIhBbYRnLs71S0Ut44eKLqdHa8Rj2Hr1wqfRQbDB9np-3nWCiTs55Al2qVz3JfF9hnbaDAjz/s1600-h/Mills.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5269099742606274418" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWItOkC6kB3gDnMEp-2vFu9QjXWpoASKm1MV3NezpLyKNhSPvtvP302NKDaatrDudOSna8bIhBbYRnLs71S0Ut44eKLqdHa8Rj2Hr1wqfRQbDB9np-3nWCiTs55Al2qVz3JfF9hnbaDAjz/s400/Mills.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 400px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 295px;" /></a>It's a bad scan I know and it's not a 1990 Topps card. It is a 2008 Bowman Auto of Indian's prospect, Beau Mills.<br />
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This card is in one of the five packages I'm mailing out this morning in return for recent trades. The person receiving this card is obviously an Indian's fan and is the person who "completed" this set for me. I'll leave it at that since the person that will be receiving this card has no idea that it's coming. <br />
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I wanted to say a quick thanks to everyone that's contacted me concerning trading. I would have loved to have sent an auto to everyone that traded me some 1990 Topps, but it was simply impossible. <br />
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I've had this in mind for quite some time and had no idea who would be the the person to complete the set but I didn't want to tie the trades to a contest of any sort. I didn't want there to be a "goal" in unloading your old 1990 Topps. <br />
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Thank you to everyone that sent cards, whether as trades or as gifts. I hope I haven't let anyone down with the return packages. <br />
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Dave made the comment the other day after I posted my 200th post saying that it seems like just yesterday he was reading the first ever post. I would have to say I wholeheartedly agree.<br />
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Treasure Never Buried began with the end of an essay...<br />
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<span style="font-style: italic;">"...I do know however, a 4 year old t-ball star sleeping soundly in his bed right now that is going to help me put together a hand collated set of ragged 1990 Topps sometime in the near future. I won’t have to market anything. I won’t have a strategy for convincing him of how fun it can be. I do have faith that he’ll understand the enthusiasm and the magic in my eyes. I trust that my son will hear the faint whisper of a hobby tradition long gone."<br /></span>Chapter 1 is complete. I could quit now and would have attained everything that I set out to do. I have found comfort in the accomplishments of a job well done.<br />
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But...<br />
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Then there wouldn't be a Chapter 2 would there?<br />
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<span style="font-style: italic;"></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5985131230075481051.post-41968451075374744712008-11-07T18:23:00.004-06:002018-09-11T01:15:05.405-05:00Baseball CardizedCompletely unexpected, I receive an email today from Travis of <a href="http://punkrockpaint.blogspot.com/">Punk Rock Paint</a> stating that he has read Treasure Never Buried from the start and has always enjoyed it. I could stop typing there, leave it at that, and say thanks. I would be content in the satisfaction of knowing that someone appreciates what I've tried to do.<br /><br />Luckily, I don't have to stop there. Attached to the email was a picture that Travis recently created.<br /><br />How freakin' awesome is this!!<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://punkrockpaint.blogspot.com/"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 274px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgaBeLDGo05-LDKcdOjnhTxQqBSsKa5d6YgVQv6_YEX1taIKYQWvH_CyuHZSb8jCndE8smuWpLaQP4EZaVXIPsdMnSqkiRnUhywuYDN3-nU32jrgo4oSGCHteCHovv35Ic3yisQFoH7ouF/s400/card-jv.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5266078243446222082" border="0" /></a><br />Thanks for making my day, Travis. This is really, really great and very much appreciated!Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5985131230075481051.post-72687074138850150592008-10-24T20:35:00.000-05:002018-11-02T22:18:57.795-05:00My Inner Artist Was Tragically Killed TodayHoly Cow, that looks good!!<br />
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If you didn't notice the banner at the top of Treasure Never Buried when you came in, please take a moment to glance back up there.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYhotO95zArPoEMR86PsXHYmJ3BnaV7GCxwqA7gWS-3yRDK0iRJU4xobRgGEgNWDhqPJMNG_me5C_Mjr74JQ8LdwKcD63BxJLI4ES3JEpzyAyVh1tsg_PIboKmZRUUfyit7mDo6EAL1J0y/s1600-h/10-15-07-iphone.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5259419750583296002" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYhotO95zArPoEMR86PsXHYmJ3BnaV7GCxwqA7gWS-3yRDK0iRJU4xobRgGEgNWDhqPJMNG_me5C_Mjr74JQ8LdwKcD63BxJLI4ES3JEpzyAyVh1tsg_PIboKmZRUUfyit7mDo6EAL1J0y/s400/10-15-07-iphone.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px;" /></a><br />
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Isn't that friggin' awesome! Many thanks to <a href="http://boxbusters24.blogspot.com/">W. Ross of BoxBusters</a> for making this banner for me.<br />
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As I'm lying in my bed last night, ticked off that I missed the Tampa / Boston game, I glance over at my son who is playing games on my new iPhone. Before I realized what he was doing, it was too late. He had already sent the following reply to my boss:<br />
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"wwwwwwwwwwwhyyyslooosssssssssiiiiiiiiiiiiiii l;askjdfnnlwieyyyyyyyyyyy<br />
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sonsodffffffffffffffffffff<br />
ccccccccccccnnnnnnnn<br />
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roewsassss"<br />
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Too late, damage done. Right before I turned in for the night I received an email. I popped over to check it, thinking it was a comment for a post (which is the biggest reason I love my phone...I can moderate comments anytime!) Instead it was an email from W. Ross:<br />
<span style="font-size: 100%;"> <span style="font-style: italic;">"</span></span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 100%; font-style: italic;">Hey Jason,</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 85%;"> </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 85%;"><span style="font-size: 100%; font-style: italic;"><br />I was reading your site tonite during the game and noticed you changed your banner. I got to thinking about it and started screwing around - not really sure why but I came up with one for you."</span></span></div>
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It's not secret that I'm artistically challenged. My art has always been my words and on most days I'm not even so great at that. I don't have the time, patience, know how, or determination to do something like this.<br />
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I can't say thanks enough to Ross for this outstanding piece of work!!<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwNLWUCj6RLeiEGSL9kpOQLQcykte-GtZDCH8-9j70YtXVQBjzmnB8j6IsgTAF99QXz37J8vqQJ-qYS3zhYtj7ggQuqu4ZOgQG71sYzawQDrX5FwoYifknK8Gp4rqyBhhi2AnmyiAcLH-1/s1600-h/banner.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5259419118479615298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwNLWUCj6RLeiEGSL9kpOQLQcykte-GtZDCH8-9j70YtXVQBjzmnB8j6IsgTAF99QXz37J8vqQJ-qYS3zhYtj7ggQuqu4ZOgQG71sYzawQDrX5FwoYifknK8Gp4rqyBhhi2AnmyiAcLH-1/s400/banner.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" /></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5985131230075481051.post-24589729238641555672008-09-30T22:15:00.001-05:002018-09-11T01:14:24.689-05:00Happy Birthday, Peanut!!This is the last picture of me before I officially became a father. It was taken on the airstrip in Uzbekistan prior to my return home from my first tour in Afghanistan.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLiOseEGix5L30MyQLrtjP0priqeL_DJhNW-pPP3mY-_Ojt6UxpiFgo-J5RdHw1I8FzK_2r7gXqKV_qUb3LgFvZaO_yl2vBv3KFCYYWFaehbtsSnZxrlKFjGMl9acP3_Uqcrg15DN9a_k/s1600-h/001.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLiOseEGix5L30MyQLrtjP0priqeL_DJhNW-pPP3mY-_Ojt6UxpiFgo-J5RdHw1I8FzK_2r7gXqKV_qUb3LgFvZaO_yl2vBv3KFCYYWFaehbtsSnZxrlKFjGMl9acP3_Uqcrg15DN9a_k/s400/001.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5252068901080558962" border="0" /></a><br />Five years ago tonight, I sat in the small NICU of the Women's Hospital at River Oaks and held the hand of this little guy...<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizzVhVyJ-2ScYERTusVS_QpIt-56boWja8egn3RNLZGQIiXtFQkVZ5srRZ89EAfnJ_s25jY6AM_86wLSfrmaU2h1VQ2YLKWLVaIy2Vq2m5hpytkUzBH6PWJj1gMmXXNnX0s56fAoYIesk/s1600-h/002.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizzVhVyJ-2ScYERTusVS_QpIt-56boWja8egn3RNLZGQIiXtFQkVZ5srRZ89EAfnJ_s25jY6AM_86wLSfrmaU2h1VQ2YLKWLVaIy2Vq2m5hpytkUzBH6PWJj1gMmXXNnX0s56fAoYIesk/s400/002.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5252063417125548658" border="0" /></a>At around 1 pm that day, Connor was born. I was in the air somewhere between North Carolina and Mississippi and therefore missed his birth by two and a half hours. I arrived at the hospital shortly after 3 pm and found that Connor had been taken to the NICU where he would stay for the next ten days.<br /><br />To say that this was the most difficult thing I've ever experienced would be an understatement. To have spent the last 12 months gone from home, 6 of those months spent in Afghanistan, waiting impatiently every day to witness the birth of my son, and then to not be able to hold him and take him home was difficult. To worry that he might not make it was heartwrenching.<br /><br />But now, five years later I look back and say that this was the most beautiful thing I've ever experienced. To have watched, "iouweeu, daey" evolve into "I Love You, Daddy" has been amazing. Watching those first steps, hearing those first words, teaching him how to be a good kid, and watching the world shrink around him have been the greatest things I've ever experienced. It's what I was born to do.<br /><br />For those who might have missed it, and for those interested in catching up, you can relieve the life of Connor through this video.<br /><br />The sad thing about being a parent is that it took you as long to watch this slide show as it did for me to live the memories. It all goes by too fast.<br /><br />Happy Birthday, Son...I look forward to being around for many more to come.<br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/YfVE6UK3dx4&hl=en&fs=1"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/YfVE6UK3dx4&hl=en&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><br /></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5985131230075481051.post-79699950075809104492008-09-11T10:27:00.004-05:002018-09-11T01:13:46.649-05:00untitled<span style="font-style: italic;">"You're going to war!! You're going to war!!"<br /></span>My morning began as such 7 years ago to the day.<br />
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I rolled over and tried to block the sun out of my face. The morning rays didn't help my hangover. I stumbled into the living room of the small apartment and asked my roommate to please shut up, that my head was pounding from the case of Budweiser I had attempted to guzzle in it's entirety the night before.<br />
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I was disheveled, confused. I would catapult from anger to grinning to solemn disbelief at what I was beginning to watch on television. Is this a blooper reel? Is this a joke? What am I looking at? There is no way this can be real.<br />
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My roommate and best friend, Eric, would later go on to correct me. "I didn't say <span style="font-style: italic;">you're </span>going to war. I said <span style="font-style: italic;">we're </span>going to war." He was right and he was wrong at the same time.<br />
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I had enlisted in the Mississippi Army National Guard roughly three months prior to that morning. In less than a month, I would be shipping off to boot camp in Fort Jackson, SC. I was terrified and I was angry. I was scared and I felt as if the world had stopped moving. Unfortunately it was spinning faster than ever before. I only wished it had stopped. That time had stopped. That I could wake up all over again and that this had never happened.<br />
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Once it sank in I didn't know what to do. I left the apartment and went to the roof of our building where no one could see or hear me and I began to let out sobbing screams of pain and frustration. I didn't want to go to war. I didn't want innocent people to be dead. I didn't want to live through this.<br />
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<span style="font-style: italic;">I</span> didn't want to <span style="font-style: italic;">live</span> through this? I didn't realize how selfish I was until a few months later.<br />
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In early November, I met a fellow soldier at Boot Camp that had experienced first hand the sadness of New York City during and after the attacks. He, unlike me, had joined after the attacks. I remember a conversation we had one night, one in which he cried almost uncontrollably, recounting to me what <span style="font-style: italic;">he</span> had <span style="font-style: italic;">lived</span> through.<br />
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His words forever changed me and my stubborn, selfish mentality. This was bigger than what any us had lived through. I finally realized it was more important to focus on what those thousands of people died for.<br />
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Two years later, I was sitting in the middle of Afghanistan. My wife of 7 months was closer to the coming of our first son, Connor. But, I was not the same selfish jerk only worried about the fact that I was missing out on the single most significant event in my life. Although I regret that I wasn't there witness those things I wanted so badly to be a part of, there was comfort in the fact that I was serving my country in response to the most deadly attack ever perpetrated on U.S. soil by an outside agent. I was honoring those fallen.<br />
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Today, I'm off from work. I try my best not to work on September 11th each year if at all possible. This is a day I spend with my family. Today is a day that I hold my son and my wife close and thank God that I've been blessed enough to have them. Or better said, blessed enough to have never lost them.<br />
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Maybe to some, the 9/11 remembrance posts seem a little much each year. After all it was 7 years ago and we should move on. I've actually heard this sentiment from people each year.<br />
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Personally, I don't just do it to honor those fallen. I do it as a means of comfort for anyone reading this blog that lost someone that day. I do it as a way of saying I'm sorry for your grief. There are no words to truly express that. I'm doing my best through the tears right now.<br />
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There are those in our country, in our world, and possibly in our midst that will never be the same for the events of 7 years ago. There are those who will never heal. Hopefully, there are those of us who will never forget and will be there each year to say we're sorry. To listen and to love unconditionally those that still need it the most.<br />
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I didn't lose a loved one on September 11. I didn't know one single person that died that day. But, I lost out on one of the most important events in my life because of the aftereffects. My sacrifice was a small price to pay in comparison to many others.<br />
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Today, when he hugs my neck, when he holds on tight and he looks at me and I hear his little voice say, "I love you, Daddy" I'll probably break down. I don't think I'll be able to contain myself. I'll stand thankful that I have my wife and son. That I can hear Connor's voice one more time. That he's not gone forever.<br />
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This post is dedicated to those that can never do that again with their children. I can't imagine your pain and I can only whisper a prayer on your behalf. I promise you that I'll do this for you today.<br />
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But even more so are the children who lost their parents in this tragic event. God bless you and comfort you in your grief. You're in my heart and on my mind.<br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5985131230075481051.post-70361875498450986612008-09-09T20:49:00.013-05:002018-09-11T01:15:05.644-05:00Striving for 5th or The Mesh Between Two Loves...There was an old tv show that used to title it's episodes with two different names and then separate them with "or" as if to give the viewer the option of choosing the title they felt most applicable. It's bugging the crap out of me that I can't remember what the show was. I always loved that<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb4rWVrVB8jq8YQDGMLmRap-3QMxWCxnOWyjhgrNKEIBVIKuJ6dEzYgYU1jvZ7kiRMBQ4wU_yVjgGvOIax_gOW0cuqjBpk1zafTi4EUgeHTZrHGZgedYQ2BNejs_ig8xE1ncNTLz1XXYg/s1600-h/x4046.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb4rWVrVB8jq8YQDGMLmRap-3QMxWCxnOWyjhgrNKEIBVIKuJ6dEzYgYU1jvZ7kiRMBQ4wU_yVjgGvOIax_gOW0cuqjBpk1zafTi4EUgeHTZrHGZgedYQ2BNejs_ig8xE1ncNTLz1XXYg/s400/x4046.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5244228201114394482" border="0" /></a> idea and so the title of tonight's post is in honor of this method. If anyone has a clue what I'm talking about, please leave a comment. Otherwise I won't be sleeping anytime soon.<br /><br />It's no secret that I intend to be a professional writer one day. This blog is only my second serious attempt at beginning the long road towards this dream and it's only the first attempt that can be considered successful. Maybe one day I'll milk some good out of the long hours I poured into the 7 chapters of a failed novel.<br /><br />Tonight, I came across a post for a book that I had forgotten I had purchased on Amazon a few years ago. I initially bought it to help with term papers and essays that I had to write while taking online courses in Afghanistan.<br /><br />For the last three years, it's sat on a shelf alongside another book that I had forgotten I had purchased. Stephen King's outstanding work, <span style="font-style: italic;">On Writing. </span><span>I</span><span> highly suggest both of these books to anyone interested in furthering their</span><span> writing skills. The latter is, in my opinion, the most interesting</span><span> book ever written by King. It stands</span><span> alone even for those not interested in it for his literary guidance.</span><br /><br />I've realized that if I'm ever going to realize this aspiration one day then I had better start now on getting back to the basics. After locating the books, I came back to do some research on Monster.com. While I'm not looking for a job, I wanted to see what's available in the realm of writing. In my area I found that there's not much. Actually, there's not much within a 200 mile radius. So, I dusted off both copies and sat them aside to reread.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs8mVVQU4k6gbfW9kG-LHAwT3NP4HY3ayXZe2TaP8nR0s3jX-sUcYPzYKzkk3Xe0e-nyeXuQ_7HQGrPogS5ZcY1HtOchQ_CT9c7YLGG6q8pIpzkRPah4saeP447MDi4awSgkx_15zIOxI/s1600-h/0671024256.01.LZZZZZZZ.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs8mVVQU4k6gbfW9kG-LHAwT3NP4HY3ayXZe2TaP8nR0s3jX-sUcYPzYKzkk3Xe0e-nyeXuQ_7HQGrPogS5ZcY1HtOchQ_CT9c7YLGG6q8pIpzkRPah4saeP447MDi4awSgkx_15zIOxI/s400/0671024256.01.LZZZZZZZ.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5244228199131523906" border="0" /></a><br />After having come up empty in looking to the future, I decided to do some research on the past. The first name that came to mind for me was William Faulkner.<br /><br />I don't consider William Faulkner to be one of the best American Writers of all time simply because I've NEVER read any of his work. But, apparently the rest of the world does. So, he must have done something very right with his career. <br /><br />But it's not just Faulkner. I've never spent much time with <span style="font-style: italic;">any</span> of the classics...<br /><br />Catcher in the Rye, 1984, One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, A Clockwork Orange, A Passage To India, Catch-22, Slaughterhouse-Five, The Grapes of Wrath...<br /><br />Nothing. I've read Of Mice and Men and The Notebook.<br /><br />Granted, of those listed, I've seen the movie if one were made.<br /><br />I've read tons of books in my life. I actually read 37 novels in less than two months while in Afghanistan the first time. The first of which was Stephen King's <span style="font-style: italic;">The Dreamcatcher. </span>It took me just shy of two days to finish off this 900+ page monster. I read really fast because once I do sit down to read, I can't focus on anything else. I've never read a book that was made into a movie <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitC6DeYUpTSHjnXke14uL3-MysJ_xU5hHlcTKcfVM64zS4McbCxzkVaxPo4M60l7aoLKhQ7wCRrX25NFgbTp6bu1Ihfn8DW4UpPIxxKFmDbQPU13c2NVvHssRw54Cbb8HFQWwv4QHFIwI/s1600-h/William_Faulkner_1954_(3)_(photo_by_Carl_van_Vechten).jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitC6DeYUpTSHjnXke14uL3-MysJ_xU5hHlcTKcfVM64zS4McbCxzkVaxPo4M60l7aoLKhQ7wCRrX25NFgbTp6bu1Ihfn8DW4UpPIxxKFmDbQPU13c2NVvHssRw54Cbb8HFQWwv4QHFIwI/s400/William_Faulkner_1954_(3)_(photo_by_Carl_van_Vechten).jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5244208218954474130" border="0" /></a>wherein I liked the movie better. The images in my head of what I'm reading are always better to me than the Hollywood adaptation.<br /><br />It's just that I've never sat down and read the Classics, those novels, short stories, and essays written by those that have shaped the literary world. I plan to change that.<br /><br />But, I digress...<br /><br />Even though I've never read his work I've always had a soft spot for Faulkner considering our birthplace. Had he not died of a heart attack in 1964, he would have been celebrating his 82nd birthday only 24 days after I was born in a small hospital less than 5 miles from where he was born.<br /><br />My second home, Tupelo, Mississippi, has Elvis.<br /><br />New Albany, Mississippi, my first home, has Faulkner.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMwB4sMKV4PD9Zo5TV8x0RhpkelTynwzN2teQDKkGJGYuN5AJWOmkBoK1wmKCOCN7xlCL_lz0JJQHI29nWw0v9WlpD2gbGxkki2I9xNugsyleF3WGiJxuYO77D-7xoU-ruAbALGAlQVNI/s1600-h/gladys_elvis_vernon_1937.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMwB4sMKV4PD9Zo5TV8x0RhpkelTynwzN2teQDKkGJGYuN5AJWOmkBoK1wmKCOCN7xlCL_lz0JJQHI29nWw0v9WlpD2gbGxkki2I9xNugsyleF3WGiJxuYO77D-7xoU-ruAbALGAlQVNI/s400/gladys_elvis_vernon_1937.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5244227976744165714" border="0" /></a>While reading the Wikepedia page on Faulkner, I saw the link for New Albany. I clicked on it and read over some of the facts posted there. I continued to scroll down the page and found 4 names listed as "Notable People".<br /><br />William Faulkner led the list, obviously. <br /><br />The second person was a Democratic U.S. Senator by the name of Hubert Stephens who served in the 20's and 30's. Third was Eli Whiteside, a young catcher for the Baltimore Orioles. At first, this name didn't catch my attention. And finally, fourth, was a woman by the name of Betty Wilson.<br /><br />Betty Wilson lived from September 13, 1890 to February 13, 2006. Mrs. Wilson celebrated the last of her 115 birthdays less than 10 miles from the home of my parents. She lived for 115 years and 153 days. She was survived by one son, five grandchildren, 46 great-grandchildren, 95 great-great-grandchildren and 38 great-great-great grandchildren.<br /><br />Wow.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://orioles.scout.com/2/559588.html"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrjU4TVnlbI0O0Sv7WiEQWhUX6Il32ZFUbZo0y93lua-R_iF-Baraz6VrvXDEab9vHiehF4M4DAjOohFe2RQqENsxmDiWCpd8F7XkSGAvWLvA3Y-h5MdJbN-QI6kFRjxvXQExnl_agD3A/s400/CBaD4dpT.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5244228844792449202" border="0" /></a><br />Outside of Faulkner, Eli Whiteside is the only other name I know. I don't know why I didn't realize who it was when I first saw the name on Wikipedia.<br /><br />Eli and I grew up less than one mile from each other in Northhaven, a small community north of the city of New Albany. Although we were never friends, I remember him vividly in Summer League Ball. This kid was a monster with a bat. I can still remember the grown-ups saying, "This kid's gonna make it to the big leagues one day!" I remember thinking that too.<br /><br />Well, it looks like Eli got his wish. Considering his career so far, I'm positive that it's not to the extent that he wanted. However, there is still plenty of time for this 29 year old to make an impression on the Major Leagues. I know that he's striving to secure a spot in history by doing what he loves. I, for one, am rooting for "a good kid" to hit it big soon. I'll probably be starting an Eli Whiteside collection so if anyone has any to spare, I would like to trade for them.<br /><br />Tonight, as I read this short of list of four names, the words of every teacher, preacher, motivational speaker and adult in my life ring true.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.baseball-almanac.com/players/player.php?p=whiteel03"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9_ahb84CQ_8aQNrX89mQuxE0UiNmkuLGRq2gx4MQYWo7vpsOFZHTRbju7sv4uPJVpNEHlR3R1pZBc-hLojvXCbx3XtaJl9I2-e-Qp1BtCcY0UVehDdMoF5R9NJGE4YEG5xcHR1LHmJjg/s400/eli_whiteside_autograph.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5244231779086464706" border="0" /></a><br /><br />"You can be anything you want to be when you grow up."<br /><br />For some, Politics may be the avenue. As much as I like to debate them, I never want to live them. I can argue with the best of them but the lifestyle is not in my blood. I'm a home body. And I'm not a good liar.<br /><br />For some, the milestone of seeing history unfold for 115 years might be the ticket. For me, I don't think I would want to live after everyone that I knew and loved are gone.<br /><br />For most of us, I'm sure that one day becoming a Major League Baseball player was a dream of yours as a kid. I know it was one of mine. I had the desire but I never had the talent. Eli, had both.<br /><br />For me, it's writing. Other than the obvious of being a husband, father, and dog owner, nothing is more important to me. Nothing excites me or compels me as much as putting my thoughts and ideas on paper (or screen, in this case.) No, I don't understand the process like the "professionals" and I don't always utilize the proper grammar and punctuation. That doesn't matter to me. I can correct those deficiencies. Personally, I think the ability is within me. I think I have the talent if I will just apply it.<br /><br />With that, I have decided to pursue this love. Over the next year, I'm going to shed some of the frivolous pursuits that I've been chasing and focus on making this a reality. I'm not looking to become a millionaire or to even be recognized as one of the greats. I'm simply setting out to do that one thing that has always made me happiest.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEik_4BGDq4vgd6l2vpuiPsbeiOsT3y_YJa2sSluoS5p_AxSMJ43sbZJFu4FSCaJe_hYiEK8_E1EE7IwfVVjFhBsbeq6BbuTD0rOmv1z19dozlWFWTzk3bS22Pb2eC6ZxS650QqwecM9-2A/s1600-h/open_book1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEik_4BGDq4vgd6l2vpuiPsbeiOsT3y_YJa2sSluoS5p_AxSMJ43sbZJFu4FSCaJe_hYiEK8_E1EE7IwfVVjFhBsbeq6BbuTD0rOmv1z19dozlWFWTzk3bS22Pb2eC6ZxS650QqwecM9-2A/s400/open_book1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5244231593711747890" border="0" /></a>Who knows, in the off chance that I'm successful in this endeavor, I might end up on that New Albany list after all. <br /><br />Senator, Supercentanarian, MLB Baseball Player, prolific American author....<br /><br />and me...<br /><br />Make that TWO prolific American authors.<br /><br />I wouldn't mind that at all...Unknownnoreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5985131230075481051.post-21366288559515966732008-09-07T10:26:00.007-05:002018-09-11T01:15:05.121-05:00One More Frickin' Politikin' Post<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqTcetbbVtqyjYrTc1VNkhLP7b4SP2-isAl3A7g7d8WBdHIA0Cd2vECXqCoeE2YlxUAjalRUi5TnwfebRKF_lZb8hAMxXq5UCe9nWJIeJ5HBGEa4NcjLxclZGAnuX-8cGiBiWEiMpXtxo/s1600-h/Politics-essence.gif"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqTcetbbVtqyjYrTc1VNkhLP7b4SP2-isAl3A7g7d8WBdHIA0Cd2vECXqCoeE2YlxUAjalRUi5TnwfebRKF_lZb8hAMxXq5UCe9nWJIeJ5HBGEa4NcjLxclZGAnuX-8cGiBiWEiMpXtxo/s320/Politics-essence.gif" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5243314054693687538" border="0" /></a>TNB will be laced with political awareness for a few months. I can't see any other way to be at this time in our country's history. This is not a call to arms for any candidate. I'm not advocating any candidate. I'm not quoting any facts unless otherwise stated. This is just my observation.<br /><br />I respect the bloggers who stay "card specific". I appreciate those guys but I'll be honest, I'm finding that I don't have as much to say as they do on the subject. 75% of my intended posts are about the hobby. But the other 25% have to be shared to show the full 100% spectrum of who I am. Some may like that. Some may not.<br /><br />I feel that we as a country stand precariously perched at the edge of a long fall down the side of a mountain. This election is not about Democrat, Republican, or Independent. This election is about the possible continuation of our country as we know it.<br /><br />We're in a war that could last forever, tied to an energy crisis like never before, while living in a country not living up to it's name. America stands 50/50 on everything. We have many united <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNvSlvidAbS1kva9fQGrd1tE2hg7ckHoOopOkXKoAe9Shgnk7iNIFSX9vN4Kv7Lz5andTlmMaVG8Hk312X2-iMEJHKZrl34rZIWxAyWw4-W5waW9vPIdQguDDCaV3F8JkSZh8Mxj6Siio/s1600-h/sbAngelDevil.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNvSlvidAbS1kva9fQGrd1tE2hg7ckHoOopOkXKoAe9Shgnk7iNIFSX9vN4Kv7Lz5andTlmMaVG8Hk312X2-iMEJHKZrl34rZIWxAyWw4-W5waW9vPIdQguDDCaV3F8JkSZh8Mxj6Siio/s320/sbAngelDevil.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5243316772834550834" border="0" /></a>fronts, but we are divided as a whole.<br /><br />I personally don't know what we need. I don't know how to fix the problems we face. I'm not a politician and have no desire ever to be. The pessimistic little jv on my left shoulder says the problems can't be fixed at all. He just told me that we're doomed. I hope he's wrong but I can't find the optimistic little jv that used to sit on my right shoulder. I wonder where he went?<br /><br />I can understand the decisions made by the parties involving their choice for candidates. The majority of the Republican party, I feel, wants this war to end, just not as quickly as the Democrats do. They wanted a strong minded leader with quantifiable ideas and a proven track record for change. Someone that will persevere until this war has ended. Victory is the only foreseeable option for John McCain.<br /><br />As a man with military experience and two deployments, I can honestly say that I am wholeheartedly against this war. But, I'm not against getting out the right way. On a personal note, no Democrat other than Hillary had a better idea for withdrawal. But those days are over now. Hillary is no more.<br /><br />I can understand their choice for Vice Presidential candidate, Sarah Palin. Granted, I don't believe everything she says in the same way I don't believe everything any of them say. I still like her. McCain held true to his political agenda and view by choosing her. No one is closer to the type of person that he is, than Palin.<br /><br />I can understand the reasons Barack Obama has made it as far as he has. You think the Democrats are worried about one 4 year election? Come on. Whether he's elected or not, they're "buying" the votes for the next 40 to 50 years. How many 40+ Americans are undecided? I agree, not many. How many people under 40 are undecided? See my point.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6c-Z06RJOMTKA3wZ-b5XIn6-ZCq0DMjItQB8sADNCZlGoF11EMKt9DnFMIUdiDQ5xeKw93eOjMwH82IGuAUXe1SeTFrgDKKGBfSVd9K_Rdjgp08QPCLfnUZ7gpXaGx25yAXWkOIYOI4A/s1600-h/undecided.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6c-Z06RJOMTKA3wZ-b5XIn6-ZCq0DMjItQB8sADNCZlGoF11EMKt9DnFMIUdiDQ5xeKw93eOjMwH82IGuAUXe1SeTFrgDKKGBfSVd9K_Rdjgp08QPCLfnUZ7gpXaGx25yAXWkOIYOI4A/s400/undecided.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5243680581572969874" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Yes, the man is an outstandingly eloquent speaker with an optimistic and concerned approach to the Country's well being. No, he has literally no creditable executive experience. Yes, our generation doesn't care anymore about experience. They only want change. Maybe we're all idiots for being so gung ho for change that we overlook things that should be there. It doesn't matter. Our current system doesn't work and we want someone to fix it.<br /><br />Otherwise, explain why John McCain, Mitt Romney, John Edwards, Fred Thompson, and Rudy Guilliani weren't as popular with the younger generation as Obama and Ron Paul were. We don't necessarily know how to fix it but we know it's broken.<br /><br />Biden...ok...I'll admit. I don't understand that one. Yes, he has comparable experience to McCain but I think there were more suitable running mates in the Democratic party. I'll never fully understand this one. Did the top names say, "no" to an Obama ticket? We may never know.<br /><br />Something has got to give or our children might not live in the same country as we do in 100 years. We are naive to think that our Constitution will continue to stand the test of time. We are gullible to think that our infrastructure can't crumble, that a mild recession now can't possibly turn into a Great Depression part II tomorrow. We are wrong to assume that it will just get better.<br /><br />Maybe I'm wrong in thinking that this election holds more precedence than any other we've seen in our lifetime.<br /><br />It doesn't matter if the "warmonger" or the "toddler" wins... Regardless, one of these guys will lead us into the future.<br /><br />Who will you follow?<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNhDYB-dk1foUq-R9uXQaqFqLbz2yDIW40Juf6nPzbgAVY0pEnStDuZVMqH3pqqS6OAS0wuSZXRchCsoFnm6oh9mwtJHzTVVmpfS8MGoVRF3Uhj0iUegz2qc-AtNJnAafliXRJifLSmoA/s1600-h/url.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNhDYB-dk1foUq-R9uXQaqFqLbz2yDIW40Juf6nPzbgAVY0pEnStDuZVMqH3pqqS6OAS0wuSZXRchCsoFnm6oh9mwtJHzTVVmpfS8MGoVRF3Uhj0iUegz2qc-AtNJnAafliXRJifLSmoA/s400/url.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5243680325101257522" border="0" /></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5985131230075481051.post-84349007124347736782008-09-06T03:05:00.010-05:002018-09-11T01:15:05.826-05:00A Man Without A TeamLately, I've questioned what I'm still doing here. I visit the card blogs multiple times daily and read the words of those that I consider to have a more unique writing style than I. I read the reviews and the opinions of those that understand the hobby and the sport better than me. I<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2wbXhPK8yNRtcr1FFfdACyZaksjCtpzsRCXD9iBV0o68XaGdZk6yptIjEhkIvXYrFhGuUGfLRmrHZP55OoNXS2HsQId7hHZOtCfsbBjV3D6am5ypLx6eQ1Arb_W5p_fli7RZ0cd9MNXY/s1600-h/iStock_000002705035XSmall_6.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 310px; height: 201px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2wbXhPK8yNRtcr1FFfdACyZaksjCtpzsRCXD9iBV0o68XaGdZk6yptIjEhkIvXYrFhGuUGfLRmrHZP55OoNXS2HsQId7hHZOtCfsbBjV3D6am5ypLx6eQ1Arb_W5p_fli7RZ0cd9MNXY/s400/iStock_000002705035XSmall_6.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5242831219837914610" border="0" /></a> read my own posts and wonder, "how many more friggin' times am I gonna say the words <span style="font-style: italic;">Google Reader</span>".<br /><br />Yet, I stick around wondering how long people will keep linking to me considering the direction in content I've subconsciously headed in. I spend hours upon hours submitting posts to social sites, feeds to RSS sites, and emails to non-card blogging sites, all in an attempt to build a deeper reader base.<br /><br />Then I wonder why I'm spending so much time promoting a blog lacking quality updates.<br /><br />Maybe I'm uninspired of late. Maybe I'm losing my fervor. I honestly don't know. I've been thinking lately that it's because I'm a man without a team. Tonight, I've realized that I'm wrong.<br /><br />Until tonight, I haven't known what, who, or why I continue to collect. It's not the "thrill of the chase" anymore because the Relic Fever broke a long time ago. And it's not because of the autos because, frankly, I have no clue who half the guys that I've pulled are. I'll probably never care about any of them either.<br /><br />I think the problem has been that when I left the hobby, I left the sport as well. In early 2007, I came back to not only the old shoe boxes of Donruss, but SportsCenter, too. I didn't know who <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZBbHPam77Iy_BWwAySl9p0q2nFawNinUh7Eg2UNkWVgxeGvsXupPzEXPvbOWOAUs0A-V1QZp3yJ8Eo2cccv3zYdoFtGp7kfi8YX2mN1JxXCpzmYtd33l3B-qTT8FNG4SddDX1zpJrzFs/s1600-h/SportsCenter.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZBbHPam77Iy_BWwAySl9p0q2nFawNinUh7Eg2UNkWVgxeGvsXupPzEXPvbOWOAUs0A-V1QZp3yJ8Eo2cccv3zYdoFtGp7kfi8YX2mN1JxXCpzmYtd33l3B-qTT8FNG4SddDX1zpJrzFs/s200/SportsCenter.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5242834107727459138" border="0" /></a>was who anymore. I didn't now which teams were "alive" or which players had retired. I had no clue who any of the starting lineup for my beloved Indians were.<br /><br />Some might call it "familiarity," and I would have to agree, that it was just easier to pick up my Manny Collection where I left off. I <span style="font-style: italic;">did</span> know that he was a BoSox due to headlines I had read from their first World Series win. But, I asked myself, "Where's Lofton, Baerga, Thome?" I was naive to think it would all be sitting there waiting for me.<br /><br />What is an Albert Pujols and why is he in McGwire's position? Where are the Expos? What happened to Fleer and Score?<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQyCcPWEI4BlKOA5oghyphenhyphenBFpfaTQz0DpeVEF8tUzasrPHYzHlQ7a0N4q8w53MqWZXbxcacS4p5gcESprZb0amwTL35SO5w-PKzOxGjPirtrQnFjgq4jQWfxHWkLaqNrDQyLGD1Y3pTt6CU/s1600-h/306202_f260.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQyCcPWEI4BlKOA5oghyphenhyphenBFpfaTQz0DpeVEF8tUzasrPHYzHlQ7a0N4q8w53MqWZXbxcacS4p5gcESprZb0amwTL35SO5w-PKzOxGjPirtrQnFjgq4jQWfxHWkLaqNrDQyLGD1Y3pTt6CU/s400/306202_f260.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5242835202693079906" border="0" /></a><br />And, the most embarrassing to admit, "Which one is left field and which one is right?" I had literally been gone <span style="font-style: italic;">that</span> long.<br /><br />As a child, your favorite team is born out of something you experience, something that has an impact on you. No matter what the reason and no matter what the scenario, you start to follow a team or player because of something they "do" for you as a person. For me, that player was Kenny Lofton. And because of it, that Team was the Cleveland Indians.<br /><br />I was never a very good hitter in Baseball. I actually never hit a true home run. But, I hit my fair share (and then some) of In The Park Homers as a kid. I was lightning fast. My coaches made me bunt 3 out of 4 times every game just to get me on base. The 4th time they would let me swing away because my mom, Janet, was screaming, "Just let him hit!!"<br /><br />I couldn't catch very well either, but it was masked by the fact that I could get to most anything before it dropped. I idolized the speed of Kenny Lofton and mirrored his style.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6NfjKpiE_0amBrb77V1b301_sarfRusHRmnS01YjTDB0ESCA-Merv3nK6lQ__d1cxXSwiJhHhPtKCwsI3yLqnV-2PemWn7ilvVuLeg_COLXREWM3J2cEQ7JeMoQ988J6hlMissZtxEb4/s1600-h/Indians_logo.png"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6NfjKpiE_0amBrb77V1b301_sarfRusHRmnS01YjTDB0ESCA-Merv3nK6lQ__d1cxXSwiJhHhPtKCwsI3yLqnV-2PemWn7ilvVuLeg_COLXREWM3J2cEQ7JeMoQ988J6hlMissZtxEb4/s400/Indians_logo.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5242834379210796482" border="0" /></a><br />From there it was Omar Vizquel, Jim Thome, Carlos Baerga, Sandy Alomar, Albert Belle, Charles Nagy, Eddie Murray, and ultimately, Manny Ramirez. At some point, I had a collection going for all of these guys and countless others. I would watch as they would slowly fall away and retire, quit, or get traded. When I last looked, Lofton was in center field with an Indians' hat on.<br /><br />When I returned, I quickly found that he was still there. It was actually one of the first things I checked on. But, earlier this summer I pulled a 2004 Topps Chrome of Lofton in a Yankee's uniform and said, "Huh"?<br /><br />I went online and started digging around to find stats and reasons and explanations for why the leader among active players in stolen bases was traded at some point. I was blown away to find that not only had he been traded but that he had played for over 10 different teams since I last paid attention. Disheartening comes to mind.<br /><br />And so, after all of that, I realize that the reason I've struggled for direction in my writing is simply that I haven't had any. Everything has been based <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjjjc0qv52rO5GCFg11SLvVLpE3hPPEhiz3CaO0wu38xN9oU9C_W6RAbJvvwz2bKYmiLJmFwx2LLOruLgHiT4_rjamIrfZKRs3FeoB_jJzhUlLfjKO43U5vV5vSHT34meigholT3oZVBk/s1600-h/1120ls3.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjjjc0qv52rO5GCFg11SLvVLpE3hPPEhiz3CaO0wu38xN9oU9C_W6RAbJvvwz2bKYmiLJmFwx2LLOruLgHiT4_rjamIrfZKRs3FeoB_jJzhUlLfjKO43U5vV5vSHT34meigholT3oZVBk/s400/1120ls3.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5242835894038031042" border="0" /></a>around the newest releases, the latest gimmicks, and the daunting task of introducing my son to Baseball Cards. With the exception of the latter, I've been in it for the wrong reasons.<br /><br />So, tonight, I've decided to revive my Kenny Lofton Collection. Sure, I like watching the guys I've collected in the past. I'll still keep looking for a nice "fitted, faded dark blue, retro logo" Indians hat. I may even still try to get up to Cleveland to drink a Budweiser and watch some guys that I know nothing about play ball for a couple of hours.<br /><br />I'll still grimace a little when I see Junior struggle to hit, The Big Hurt struggle for a spot on a club, and I'll still read and watch the news to see if Manny's pulled a Sprewell and choked the shit of out someone.<br /><br />It didn't all start with a Team anyway. The Love started with a player...<br /><br />It's Kenny Lofton that I'll be collecting from here on out. Indian or not...<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGloDHRAQRexnd44oJCVL2QBa1U9j3KjC-4XbaNJ5YBf1M2xVbrxJ9A_O_TNcSKoHbH4jX-j99vSsdhx3bDOUYJV6GS5epRPWc2C7rx2H83FkJeDQ_bzvxQPPcDznfvfUizbqwYsureWk/s1600-h/1262831751_f70f084808.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGloDHRAQRexnd44oJCVL2QBa1U9j3KjC-4XbaNJ5YBf1M2xVbrxJ9A_O_TNcSKoHbH4jX-j99vSsdhx3bDOUYJV6GS5epRPWc2C7rx2H83FkJeDQ_bzvxQPPcDznfvfUizbqwYsureWk/s400/1262831751_f70f084808.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5242835501624608402" border="0" /></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5985131230075481051.post-63496391520848986092008-09-04T00:45:00.004-05:002018-09-11T01:14:24.788-05:00Weed Eating Logos<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYum6pbndIUtKH_99Vu_bT0Cgs6QOloeWdyU8Hg-kKQ0bJs_abouVJXReln2igq7y7LLJ0OcOvsGY8mblJQa4kjZmrbmfN7aB82zR5rnLxD9hWCmigpk6tH9MiJ-7t9ppkWvDd0iJL9mI/s1600-h/IMG_3719.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYum6pbndIUtKH_99Vu_bT0Cgs6QOloeWdyU8Hg-kKQ0bJs_abouVJXReln2igq7y7LLJ0OcOvsGY8mblJQa4kjZmrbmfN7aB82zR5rnLxD9hWCmigpk6tH9MiJ-7t9ppkWvDd0iJL9mI/s320/IMG_3719.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5242040543791917538" border="0" /></a>Last night, I found these pictures that I had taken a few weeks back. The marks in the wall happened over 15 years ago while I was using my dad's "Weed Eater" to clean up the edges around his shed. The weeds tangled around the line and as I ripped the weed eater into the air the line hit the shingle style siding of the building, knocking chunks of it loose.<br /><br />For months I worried, scared that my dad would be mad at me for having torn the wall. He never found out that it was me. Until now, if he's reading this post.<br /><br />After all this time...rain, snow, wind and sun have not been able to wash it away...<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIHNEH7EK3IT5dEQN5sGWMizZovhhmsjwtTIVnJq_Ms8ufgk2ecXqXTxv_tzgoIVWLIVvips_pzaA05fp8DS1fjAVNG2jO63rkyHNZewja473Zt_-4LjeLo84Ifg-XRTu8uN9ykDpjrGk/s1600-h/IMG_3724.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIHNEH7EK3IT5dEQN5sGWMizZovhhmsjwtTIVnJq_Ms8ufgk2ecXqXTxv_tzgoIVWLIVvips_pzaA05fp8DS1fjAVNG2jO63rkyHNZewja473Zt_-4LjeLo84Ifg-XRTu8uN9ykDpjrGk/s320/IMG_3724.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5242040551190587666" border="0" /></a><br />This has got to be the first ever "Phillies Logo Accidentally Etched Into a Shingled Wall With a Weed Eater....EVER!"Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5985131230075481051.post-62194080187447226162008-08-10T14:29:00.006-05:002018-09-11T01:15:05.569-05:00The MySpace Blogs...Blog 03Last one...I swear...<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:180%;">My Favorite Method of Hurting People Who Deserve It </span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">Current mood: <img src="http://x.myspace.com/images/blog/moods/iBrads/apathetic.gif" name="graphics1" align="absmiddle" border="0" height="15" width="15" /> apathetic<br />Original Posted: Wed, January 23, 2008<br /></span></div><p style="margin-bottom: 0.2in;"> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0.2in;">If you know me at all, then you know that I occassionally use a phrase to describe the method of vengeance I intend to met out to someone who has just wronged me or put me in a position of awkwardness. I use this phrase as a "last resort". A way of describing what I would consider the worst form of payback at that present moment.<br /><br />Mind you it's probably not the worst thing you could do to a person. For instance, you might make fun of my purple polo work shirt. That's not reason enough for me to say, "I'm going to<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoweAYcWaGYfNRdTBYaDsYJ0xoDY_Wc9ab09LpMvH_EZ4EA-t9qHLpiKrpLPQL-YhbCjhLUfeRx3epRe4bHYabZWGX9USZdfMYSYCZkrHBa_TjQaqDOR0Z07yac0x-i0sUMhA7rJau03U/s1600-h/greyhound_bus_usa.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoweAYcWaGYfNRdTBYaDsYJ0xoDY_Wc9ab09LpMvH_EZ4EA-t9qHLpiKrpLPQL-YhbCjhLUfeRx3epRe4bHYabZWGX9USZdfMYSYCZkrHBa_TjQaqDOR0Z07yac0x-i0sUMhA7rJau03U/s400/greyhound_bus_usa.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5232975192790160258" border="0" /></a> burn your house down." That's not even really reason enough to say, "I wish you would french kiss the grill of a moving Greyhound Bus." That's a little extreme.<br /><br />My favorite catchphrase in this regards is much simpler, straightforward, and logical. I consider it to be the most extreme because, with the exception of the time Reed disrespected my wife and I punched him in the face or the time I broke my stepbrother's nose playing football, I'm not a violent person. This phrase seems to me to be the worst thing I could do to someone at the time.<br /><br />In all the times that I had used my phrase I had never truly considered the ramifications of it. It's not something so elaborate that you have to plan how you will carry it out. You can prewarn someone that you intend to eventually do this to them for what they've done to you or, if it serves you better, you can do it immediately.<br /><br />What is this phrase?<br /></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0.2in; text-align: center;">"I'm going to punch you in the throat."<br /></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0.2in;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgI9enP5u4wmuucS1boNp2JDRyoIOQj-PRqBYEW4FM1-wYC2zLJJh-OsF82GkWj4P7sAQl9wAgLKRo1nL1evGt-XsZJyInjtARBmF9dfbKhV15WYRyzxB0C_pVsJ6Wy5Bj81QKXy1t8Og/s1600-h/knockout_kobe__childs.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 258px; height: 189px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgI9enP5u4wmuucS1boNp2JDRyoIOQj-PRqBYEW4FM1-wYC2zLJJh-OsF82GkWj4P7sAQl9wAgLKRo1nL1evGt-XsZJyInjtARBmF9dfbKhV15WYRyzxB0C_pVsJ6Wy5Bj81QKXy1t8Og/s400/knockout_kobe__childs.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5232975722438125202" border="0" /></a></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0.2in;">Notice there is no exclamatation point at the end. It's not said in anger. You don't have to prove your furious with someone by shouting it or saying it forcefully. The nature of the act alone details it's own ferociousness. If someone knows that you're going to punch them in the throat it's<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhitkRwomhiq_TpdZn9Wk1O8SomQd-y28Ungms5WzS29ZmTW7f2Z1FoGtyzc-RowIsp5oKr4icKDZBIlHddGVxJuvBJ1PVPa2q95PslFfJpahYSYyiYE6mcSu4RsqrXGkqbisCfUh-z6DI/s1600-h/anger_management.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhitkRwomhiq_TpdZn9Wk1O8SomQd-y28Ungms5WzS29ZmTW7f2Z1FoGtyzc-RowIsp5oKr4icKDZBIlHddGVxJuvBJ1PVPa2q95PslFfJpahYSYyiYE6mcSu4RsqrXGkqbisCfUh-z6DI/s200/anger_management.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5232975503714036402" border="0" /></a> worry enough. You don't have to say it with any sense of empowerment.<br /><br />Until last night, I have been proud of my use of this phrase. Luckily, for some of the individuals I've said this to, I've never had to actually do it. The fear of the impending attack was enough to get my point across. But simply having this effective phrase in my arsenal has been, to me, a sense of achievement.<br /><br />I have sincerely intended to make good on my statement many times. In a sense, I have some regret that I never fulfilled this promise. I think it would have been a learning experience for both myself and the victim. I do, however, worry that I would have become addicted to carrying out the act had I at least done it once.<br /><br />It is with deepest sorrow that I have to tell you that I will no longer be utilizing this phrase. I have officially retired this to the history of Jason.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiflRf6fUV0hzLujxY-XKgEiP4hiGe7kD4RwiUHhONyObLYUrFEF89HNVoGeqmQxZhWNIGBcdjMKyaKJMqgA_ttCT6RTYAgtaNwR96sUajlXiyQvyBOVa3Dug0soTS4DVsr8skakBF3p2k/s1600-h/hi_transformers_animated_02.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiflRf6fUV0hzLujxY-XKgEiP4hiGe7kD4RwiUHhONyObLYUrFEF89HNVoGeqmQxZhWNIGBcdjMKyaKJMqgA_ttCT6RTYAgtaNwR96sUajlXiyQvyBOVa3Dug0soTS4DVsr8skakBF3p2k/s400/hi_transformers_animated_02.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5232976044347380498" border="0" /></a><br />Why? Why would I do such a thing? Last night, Connor was watching the new animated Transformers on Cartoon Network. He would watch for about 2 minutes and then he would go barrelling through the house acting out what he was seeing on the television. Near the end of the program, I decided to join in.<br /><br />All was well for the first 10 minutes of play. He would transform from Optimus to Bumblebee to Jazz. Occassionally he would transform from an Autobot to a Decepticon. This would confuse me entirely as to what my current status was in role play. Obviously, if he is one, I am the other.<br /><br />I pulled my hood over my eyes and proclaimed, "I am NoEyesBot!" and began to blindly chase him. He alluded me several times until I finally cornered him by the chair. I swung him victoriously above my head as he flopped and writhed to escape. I eventually balanced him upright above my head at which point his feet darted straight out in front of him.<br /><br />His left foot landed on my head. For some reason, I got a kick out of it, no pun intended. As I began to laugh my head tilted back at a reasonably large angle and the first sounds of laughter began to break from my voice. Before I could release anything audible to describe to Lori, who was sitting on the couch, what was occuring, his right foot swooped in and clocked me square in the, you guessed it, throat.<br /><br />I immediately crumpled to the ground! Amidst the coughing and gagging from the pain of the <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3fLECagQ4YUyvNXtaX9k7G1MjSvAwDyt7M6xDdlJcPJtxiSQHOs7OyP07Wqnp64oUzuJO5Y65q0dlHiMgdVUdTSfSOboFMa5X9Nl6PVFtK5Zws2zDtailzLfaH5-yg_eyr4OlpIbBwmA/s1600-h/suggestion.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 222px; height: 219px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3fLECagQ4YUyvNXtaX9k7G1MjSvAwDyt7M6xDdlJcPJtxiSQHOs7OyP07Wqnp64oUzuJO5Y65q0dlHiMgdVUdTSfSOboFMa5X9Nl6PVFtK5Zws2zDtailzLfaH5-yg_eyr4OlpIbBwmA/s320/suggestion.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5232976384978912994" border="0" /></a>small foot slamming into my larynx I began to think of one thing, over and over again. "I can't believe I ever wanted to punch anyone in the throat! This shit hurts!!"<br /><br />For the next 5 or 6 minutes, while recovering from the shocking blow, I made a vow. I will never again threaten to punch anyone in their throat. No man should feel what I've felt.<br /><br />Deep down I'll still always want to. I don't know if I'll ever completely dissolve the urge. I'll just have to try to remember what it would be like to walk a mile in their turtleneck. But, since I'm somewhat of an unimposing figure, I do still need something at the ready to say in the event that I need to assert myself and how far I'm willing to go to correct someone's attitude or actions.<br /><br />Any suggestions?</p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5985131230075481051.post-74347348129088319782008-08-10T14:03:00.006-05:002018-09-11T01:15:05.724-05:00The MySpace Blogs...Blog 02... Z O M B I E S<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_PbbWICefYaV6MT3Q_VB624rqKBr9LG7I_0SmdTV5T40K5IASIsa_Y_lmpTGL4NnjsOqRmpLW4PS1T3i3jGXftQc-f5Ve0UJObxmnGcSGgV1mwEEpmP489IarFFx35bs2ETtQtWUyvn8/s1600-h/B4CA5A68-C314-11DA-9A74-8F5762AF4742.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_PbbWICefYaV6MT3Q_VB624rqKBr9LG7I_0SmdTV5T40K5IASIsa_Y_lmpTGL4NnjsOqRmpLW4PS1T3i3jGXftQc-f5Ve0UJObxmnGcSGgV1mwEEpmP489IarFFx35bs2ETtQtWUyvn8/s400/B4CA5A68-C314-11DA-9A74-8F5762AF4742.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5232967760286132322" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:180%;">Zombies have infected me...I MEAN AFFECTED ME...I’m not a zombie, I promise </span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">Category:Movies, TV, Celebrities<br /></span><span style="font-size:180%;">Original Posted: Fri, Jan 18, 2008</span><br /></div><p style="margin-bottom: 0.2in;"> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0.2in;"> Tonight, my wife and son are on the road to visit my younger sister during the baby shower for my impending niece. I'm going to curl up on the couch with my Chihuahua, Yoga Sprinkles, drink about 12 budweisers and watch all of the scary zombie movies I've been missing lately. My wife refuses to watch horror movies at anytime of the day, anywhere. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0.2in;"> With that in mind, I want my second blog to be about something as equally important to me as shitting. Actually, I'm doing it while shitting. Tonight's topic is:</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0.2in;"> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0.2in;">Z O M B I E S</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0.2in;"> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0.2in;"> Steadily creeping up my all time favorite movies of all time list (I'm from the Department of Redundancy Department) is the oft-overlooked remake of a true American Classic, Dawn of the Dead.<br /><br />Throughout the whole of my life, I've never had anything affect me as forcefully as this movie. I have never been more scared of anything in my life. It's not zombies, per say, that scare me. Its zombies that run after you like you just stole their wallet that scare the everlovin' shit out of me.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEkdG1hpsKqILvPL0mUNuuCMCNELDcQFe8UIblo44GtKHtbG702u6znLL6pNO_7JiEsnUAx2GJyvig-65olIRdjJzMNF1r5hgDAzwklRzkkMoQPJgBvfMD3iGtgQ-3-cgD4vOrzyCB2cM/s1600-h/dawn_of_the_dead(2004).jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEkdG1hpsKqILvPL0mUNuuCMCNELDcQFe8UIblo44GtKHtbG702u6znLL6pNO_7JiEsnUAx2GJyvig-65olIRdjJzMNF1r5hgDAzwklRzkkMoQPJgBvfMD3iGtgQ-3-cgD4vOrzyCB2cM/s320/dawn_of_the_dead(2004).jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5232967946479714802" border="0" /></a><br />Come casually strolling towards me, arms outstretched, uneaten portion of a woman's cerebellum hanging out of your mouth, I'm cool with that. I can get away from you. You're not, under any circumstances whatsoever, going to catch me. I'll actually probably taunt you somewhat before I heroically kill you with a claw hammer.<br /><br />However, open up full gait like a thoroughbred at the gunshot whilst coming after me, and, I'm sorry, but I'm going to lie down and cry while you eat me. I'm not even going to fight. I'm actually probably going to strategically manipulate my jugular into the most opportune position for the zombie to end me quicker. I don't necessarily want to be the undead's meal. Instead, I would prefer to die quickly during the dining experience so that I can at least come back as a zombie myself. Undead life is better than no life.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0.2in;"> This movie has affected me in ways that I can not begin to explain fully to you nor comprehend for my own sanity. I lie awake in bed at night at least 3 or 4 times a month, unable to sleep, planning my escape were this ever to become a reality. Unbeknownst to my wife (until this blog, that is) I have gone as far as to strategically place items such as flashlights, clothing, and weaponry at various locations and/or hotspots around my home. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0.2in;"> I do this so that in the event of an attack by marathon running zombies not only will I be prepared but I will also look really cool to my wife as if I instinctively knew how to react to said attack without warning. That will make the "we're safe from the zombies for a while" sex even that much more amazing. How cool would it be to reminisce 20 years later and tell your child while lovingly hugging your wife, "yep, little Jason Jr., I remember the night you were conceived."</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0.2in;"> For anyone who has yet to see this movie, I must make the following disclaimer:</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0.2in;"> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0.2in;">WARNING: YOU MUST WATCH THIS MOVIE ALL THE WAY PAST THE CREDITS TO THE BITTER END! IF YOU WATCH MORE THAN 10 MINUTES OF THIS MOVIE AND DO NOT ULTIMATELY COMPLETE IT, YOU WILL NOT GET THE FULL EFFECT OF WHAT I HAVE DESCRIBED!</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0.2in;"> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0.2in;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk3NQoJxLKeRdoK18EBi_e2aEA4HCjeeJxXSnMEPNO8DY7BGjtCVEdGoNgdksglEG14SV909iIozV4EfbVrLQ7x0fnXeutvFjoIbq1aSBnwpSlH-4CYnS4WI6aC5gtFvLK1B5g5zeLfCE/s1600-h/hillbilly1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk3NQoJxLKeRdoK18EBi_e2aEA4HCjeeJxXSnMEPNO8DY7BGjtCVEdGoNgdksglEG14SV909iIozV4EfbVrLQ7x0fnXeutvFjoIbq1aSBnwpSlH-4CYnS4WI6aC5gtFvLK1B5g5zeLfCE/s400/hillbilly1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5232968406872299298" border="0" /></a> If you stop midway of the movie you will say to yourself, "that's kinda scary I reckon' but I wutn't too afeared of it." That's what you will say if you are a hillbilly under the circumstances listed above. If you are a normal speaking American it will sound similar to the following, "I suppose that was somewhat scary but, in all honesty, by Jove I wasn't quite as scared as I anticipated." That pretty much covers everyone except for the, "by Jove" part. Not many people will say that.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0.2in;"> My point being is that the credits are by far the scariest part of the entire movie. You obviously have to watch the entire movie to get the full effect, i.e. you can't just watch the credits and say, "those last 5 minutes alone, without any knowledge of the rest of the movie, scared the pure-d-hell out of me." It doesn't work that way, Clem.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0.2in;"> I won't spoil the movie for anyone who has yet to see it. But, I recommend that you go out and rent it at your earliest convenience. Don't say I didn't warn you though.</p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5985131230075481051.post-35771042786346046192008-08-10T13:00:00.005-05:002018-09-11T01:15:05.294-05:00The MySpace Blogs...Blog 01Until last night, while chatting with <a href="http://fielderschoice.wordpress.com/">Dave of Fielder's Choice</a>, I had forgotten that I had started a blog at MySpace earlier in the year. It wasn't so much a blog in the sense that I wrote it for <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiB5HwJX2gTQTOimKYiwZL5ESJRmJj3G1vF71if2pQob7Wut7D7_vruTLsGTc43pLvaHJIyXBmr_Km14c9jf_m9bX9PFFUqNeEc5GMA1eEfjWb4ZOvM01xKjv49KKXa3U62bHdlTr4wf58/s1600-h/ScreenHunter_02+Aug.+10+13.09.gif"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiB5HwJX2gTQTOimKYiwZL5ESJRmJj3G1vF71if2pQob7Wut7D7_vruTLsGTc43pLvaHJIyXBmr_Km14c9jf_m9bX9PFFUqNeEc5GMA1eEfjWb4ZOvM01xKjv49KKXa3U62bHdlTr4wf58/s400/ScreenHunter_02+Aug.+10+13.09.gif" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5232953042911704402" border="0" /></a>strangers as much as I did to make my friends laugh. Once TNB began, I was basically just pasting links there as a means to get back to here.<br /><br />The first is a little graphic. Although it's funny, it's graphic. And, sadly enough, it's true.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.myspace.com/papajv33">The MySpace Blogs</a> 3 part series is not Baseball related so feel free to skip it if you want. However, there's some pretty funny stuff in there...<br /><br />Oh, and by the way, the two guys commenting are two buddies of mine that posted comments to the original. I'm bringing them over for posterity's sake... Enjoy!!<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:180%;">Fitting that I start out this way... </span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">Current mood: <img src="http://x.myspace.com/images/blog/moods/iBrads/awake.gif" name="graphics1" align="absmiddle" border="0" height="15" width="15" /> awake </span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">Category: Life<br />Original Posted: Sunday, Feb 3, 2008<br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: left;"> <p style="margin-bottom: 0.2in;">This is my first attempt at blogging and I think it only fitting that I relay a story to you about something that has been a tremendously abundant factor in my life. Marriage? No. Kids? No. My military exploits? No. What is it you might ask?<br /><br />Shitting. Plain and simple. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0.2in;">I think you can handle what little language I intend to use here to illustrate what occurred. If not<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ1ZbpJhhpmWx9hbQ-sDFn9yXNA-ZUlJ4qaezwYjP-223g1TJ3djOS_e4zSMTdPLysPfT680Q_DLl5UUm_5VBIlRdN8-n5FOsw3v6JI8JCmFag1wmOQeAgpUNehq33L0-6m8VpaQhENxo/s1600-h/Ground_09.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ1ZbpJhhpmWx9hbQ-sDFn9yXNA-ZUlJ4qaezwYjP-223g1TJ3djOS_e4zSMTdPLysPfT680Q_DLl5UUm_5VBIlRdN8-n5FOsw3v6JI8JCmFag1wmOQeAgpUNehq33L0-6m8VpaQhENxo/s400/Ground_09.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5232953420279781874" border="0" /></a>, sorry, your loss. It's pretty damned funny.<br /><br />A few nights ago at work I sat down to have a late lunch. I chose, from the many delectable choices spread across the menu of my restaurant, to eat a simple salami sandwich on sourdough with a little pizza sauce for good measure. As a side item I decided on a cup of macaroni and cheese with some chili mixed in.<br /><br />As anyone who knows me will attest, I then proceeded to "smother" my side item in Tabasco sauce. If ever I choose to stop eating Tabasco sauce I can guarantee you that they will have to file for bankruptcy. I pay their light bill with as much as I buy.<br /><br />Midway through my meal it became abundantly clear to me that I would need to shit very soon. I finished my meal and proceeded to the restroom. It was slow going at first because I had an upset stomach and some minor constipation. After nearly 5 minutes of agony I felt a sneeze coming on.<br /><br />My face squenched. My ears rose. My eyes dimmed. As the first millisecond of the sneeze occurred an unexpected belch developed as well. At that point I was so committed to the sneeze that I had absolutely no control over canceling the sneeze's progress nor had I any say in <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDcxWBGK6B_YfhbkAyVMnLrTsRPVj6L0MLV8jlCiXljbUvIwMeZ_QI6Hbav3b0q8u9OQJnQTjxEX6X-MdCC-IFHeE_3Y-PqenFSlD9xv3m_UQ_ndoyzuZqURy64E0477DB998v_qiYktA/s1600-h/6a00d83454414269e200e54f44f95f8834-640wi.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDcxWBGK6B_YfhbkAyVMnLrTsRPVj6L0MLV8jlCiXljbUvIwMeZ_QI6Hbav3b0q8u9OQJnQTjxEX6X-MdCC-IFHeE_3Y-PqenFSlD9xv3m_UQ_ndoyzuZqURy64E0477DB998v_qiYktA/s400/6a00d83454414269e200e54f44f95f8834-640wi.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5232953638851639666" border="0" /></a>hindering the belch's development.<br /><br />Both occurred simultaneously. The belch brought small remnants of my meal back into my throat at which point the sneeze propelled those remnants into my nasal cavity. An overwhelming pain shot through a part of my throat that had apparently never been exposed to Tabasco sauce. This same pain then seared through my nose as hot sauce slathered chili and mac-n-cheese began to pour out of my nose.<br /><br />As I sat there in pain, food coming out of my nose, my eyes welled up with tears. Somewhere during this course of this episode all of my body's conscious and subconscious focus rested solely on the face and upper throat region. It was at this time that the rest of my body lost all of its natural inhibitions and I began to uncontrollably...how should I say this...shit everywhere.<br /><br />It was one of the most uncomfortable situations I've ever experienced.<br /><br />Wow, what a good first blog. I'm proud.</p> </div></div><p style="margin-bottom: 0.2in;"> </p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5985131230075481051.post-53357025656881683622008-07-31T23:15:00.000-05:002018-09-11T01:15:05.519-05:00Memories Of The Way We Were"Nah, I ain't moved any of 'em in years. Nobody's interested in 'em anymore. It's a dead market." the clerk said smugly.<br /><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">For a brief second, the old man's response pushed me back onto my heels. Rarely am I at a loss for words. This turned out to be one of those times.<br /><br />"I, uh, hear that they're making a comeback, though." I said.<br /><br />"Don't go holdin' your breath, young man." He replied.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYffyHG2m1EMZPcv1Lw32bJu0npHhWZ3TZW43S5wG1ksqWLAbz2-DfefUuhOAKD4ShOnwmdk5vLudk2agJ3aBmikmu_1QxbDYHuhke7owmuZzSkH7R4rQ_sXEbZU6e42TYdMDV1IU7blo/s1600-h/Route66.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 270px; height: 266px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYffyHG2m1EMZPcv1Lw32bJu0npHhWZ3TZW43S5wG1ksqWLAbz2-DfefUuhOAKD4ShOnwmdk5vLudk2agJ3aBmikmu_1QxbDYHuhke7owmuZzSkH7R4rQ_sXEbZU6e42TYdMDV1IU7blo/s400/Route66.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5229425941382585314" border="0" /></a><br />I grinned sheepishly and turned to make my way around the rest of the store. I felt defeated as I halfheartedly flipped through vintage coins and dusty old records and considered his words. Is he right? Who really <i>collects</i> anymore? Could I really be the only person that has walked into his store in the last couple of years curious about the jumble of cards on display?<br /><br />I had found this place by accident in a part of town that I had never been to. The buildings and streets were so dilapidated that most businesses had been closed for years. The only storefronts with active tenants were second hand shops, liquor stores, and the usual Cash Advance scam artists. Traffic had been rerouted from this area decades ago when the Interstate replaced the Highway. The “Route 66 Effect” had all but condemned the small “Guns, Jewelry, Coins, and Pawn” that I now stood in.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNT3Hp3EV7ZY3cNsRC7TEgiqp8pbzs-7XYcZflf2XgF4YC8cqv59mIHnO3RI0dRCslL0UsYY1_jDWhMt3qrNKwSMBUHc9ZK8B7oKTxV7W9xRPPNi449jZLyvGwsSX4zZyfVJcVY8fVpcY/s1600-h/trapper+keeper.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNT3Hp3EV7ZY3cNsRC7TEgiqp8pbzs-7XYcZflf2XgF4YC8cqv59mIHnO3RI0dRCslL0UsYY1_jDWhMt3qrNKwSMBUHc9ZK8B7oKTxV7W9xRPPNi449jZLyvGwsSX4zZyfVJcVY8fVpcY/s320/trapper+keeper.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5229427543749381842" border="0" /></a>Halfway around the room, I found a metal locker packed full of old binders. I received a few glances as I laughed out loud, opening and shutting the Velcro flap on the Trapper Keeper full of cards. I don't even remember now what cards were in that binder. The binder's nostalgia had me completely enveloped in the moment.<br /></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I carefully removed each of them, one by one, and flipped through the pages, envisioning the kid that had touched them for the last time when they were sold to the shop. I quickly realized the collecting patterns of the person that had owned these cards. Random star cards up front, chronologically sorted commons in the middle andTerry Pendleton, Deion Sanders football cards, and a severely damaged Glavine Rated Rookie at the back. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Brave's fans...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHFSISstpODrVZGwCTuOeGGwQ0dSnHj50XMVqHN-e5mM4qsEGLVoIiYZL1O3X_7cf6iRVcz-ZrHE10uvjqZYydqW6ZkFhsyBh-c6kfdxJPeTOPJfWJcqmE9lxuPgceHfOiVpSI03oOmL0/s1600-h/tomahawk.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHFSISstpODrVZGwCTuOeGGwQ0dSnHj50XMVqHN-e5mM4qsEGLVoIiYZL1O3X_7cf6iRVcz-ZrHE10uvjqZYydqW6ZkFhsyBh-c6kfdxJPeTOPJfWJcqmE9lxuPgceHfOiVpSI03oOmL0/s400/tomahawk.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5229428292986506482" border="0" /></a></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Then I smiled, realizing that I only recognized this because in the early '90's, I was a Brave's Fan, too.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I grimaced as I picked up a “sealed” wax box of 1988 Fleer. Once again I envisioned a collector, only this time it was a greasy mullet-headed buffoon in a Def Leppard shirt, ironing the packs to reseal them, giggling to his buddy about the sweet Barry Bond's Rookie that he just found. I quickly placed the box back on the shelf.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">For the next few minutes I perused the inventory of what most collector's would call junk. I found some old Hoops Basketball that I had entirely forgotten about, tons of gloriously red Donruss, and finally a binder full of 1990 Topps that I need to complete my sets. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">“.20 cents a card?” I thought. Ouch.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I sauntered lazily around the last half of the small room and along the way came I across some old 1989 Classic Card Games still sealed in their original packs. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://cgi.ebay.com/1989-CLASSIC-BOARD-GAME-CARDS-151-200_W0QQitemZ190240057182QQcmdZViewItem?hash=item190240057182&_trkparms=72%3A552%7C39%3A1%7C66%3A2%7C65%3A12&_trksid=p3286.c0.m14.l1318#ebayphotohosting" 0px="" auto="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirMSRCpQusYRarpD6H_c8uPocJ2nGbYQFLfLXktNtd6_3NH1AINNzmv5iQM6xG7wJ4OXS_9yx1EAmWbp5OIZk0xmyZAq8nvU4K59lERA_BX7NTZD5U2wxP5g_Bdeh5VmjKXk2rOdFwp4I/s400/classic+game.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5229429066913579074" border="0"></a></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">“$12.50 apiece?” I thought again, this time audibly. “These must just be old prices.”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirMSRCpQusYRarpD6H_c8uPocJ2nGbYQFLfLXktNtd6_3NH1AINNzmv5iQM6xG7wJ4OXS_9yx1EAmWbp5OIZk0xmyZAq8nvU4K59lERA_BX7NTZD5U2wxP5g_Bdeh5VmjKXk2rOdFwp4I/s1600-h/classic+game.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirMSRCpQusYRarpD6H_c8uPocJ2nGbYQFLfLXktNtd6_3NH1AINNzmv5iQM6xG7wJ4OXS_9yx1EAmWbp5OIZk0xmyZAq8nvU4K59lERA_BX7NTZD5U2wxP5g_Bdeh5VmjKXk2rOdFwp4I/s400/classic+game.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5229429066913579074" border="0" /></a></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I made my way back to the cards held securely in the locked glass cabinets. They were stacked in neat piles and most were encased in overly thick screw down holders. The rest of them had been placed in top loaders and then shoved as tightly as possible into open shoe box bottoms. I made every attempt to view the cards, switching from one angle to another to see if I could determine anything underneath those sitting on the top of the stacks. A couple of Bo Jackson<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://cgi.ebay.com/2000-Joe-DiMaggio-Upper-Deck-Game-Used-Bat-Card_W0QQitemZ380049790301QQcmdZViewItem?hash=item380049790301"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhcwOJsE0I9lFKmeO7Y4J-ZnjB4NyOmVwYn8GsOgogZRZDF9WP-N17ggzKLDI9jK6UmDRs4e6lWpPvEpwgkTbXXpybSt6dvJbQWukuSCFMGd8nlIBTcJ4sYwRC4fjhdslxXs7TPS-R1i0/s400/dimaggio.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5229429923705229442" border="0" /></a> Rookies, some graded Canseco's, and one DiMaggio Bat card with a $150 sticker on it. I wasn't familiar with the year or the style of the card (until now) and I had no intentions of becoming more familiar with it after I saw the asking price.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">After 15 minutes of browsing the merchandise offered, I decided to try to speak to the store owner one last time. I waited patiently on the outskirts, arms folded, listening to the dealer haggle with an irate potential seller about an item that he had brought in to unload for some quick cash. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">“I mean, come on, man! It's nicer 'an anthin' you got in this case!” the customer exclaimed.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQgdz2wDGNtwqDwsGaEimvED5eIx31zucRGt32I4QnWMsP5Kc41SkZsk_IypgPljcuBKmPfVMx1HFW1LSYA-YpMCQKAxagazJb0GFBqOtI5dLg1hOuE7DMQpzak_FFTBaovvds6ZuuhAM/s1600-h/bush_jesus_christ.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQgdz2wDGNtwqDwsGaEimvED5eIx31zucRGt32I4QnWMsP5Kc41SkZsk_IypgPljcuBKmPfVMx1HFW1LSYA-YpMCQKAxagazJb0GFBqOtI5dLg1hOuE7DMQpzak_FFTBaovvds6ZuuhAM/s400/bush_jesus_christ.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5229430719946515330" border="0" /></a>“But look right 'cher at the <i>chain</i><span style="font-style: normal;">! What is this?” the clerk replied.</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">“<span style="font-style: normal;">I know it's held on 'er with fishin' wire but look here. Do you know who that is on tha' metal thang? Come on, man, it's Jesus Christ! On...HIS </span><i>Cross</i><span style="font-style: normal;">!” he bellowed.</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I wish that I had embellished on this dialogue in order to make you laugh. Unfortunately, most uneducated people in the South speak this way. This is, literally, word for word, what the customer said. The stereotype wouldn't even exist if someone hadn't created it through their words and deeds.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">It made me want to move to Michigan or California or Europe. Instead, I shook my head and left the store.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I drove away considering the words of the clerk. “That<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5VQtlrhxkERSuqMGt0RnzNMbp9yze-rvI87AAZW0uHYpCXQuGIWXkhxTSAxPOzX6o57fjGr-Dz6b-S5xW9T6xJKvuqA3Tei_dDetTFIWpT29YATwgQ5UxDSBi_wYLUlYz837sRr1IEqE/s1600-h/Barry+Manilow-thumb.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5VQtlrhxkERSuqMGt0RnzNMbp9yze-rvI87AAZW0uHYpCXQuGIWXkhxTSAxPOzX6o57fjGr-Dz6b-S5xW9T6xJKvuqA3Tei_dDetTFIWpT29YATwgQ5UxDSBi_wYLUlYz837sRr1IEqE/s200/Barry+Manilow-thumb.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5229431024422580466" border="0" /></a> market's dead” and “don't hold your breath” played over in my mind like the countless Barry Manilow records he had for sale. I discounted this mentality as being derived from the fact that most of his clients <i><b>aren't </b></i><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=""> interested in $150 pieces of cardboard, embedded bat pieces or not. I'm sure they pay his electricity bill each month by buying the speakerboxes, cubic zirconia, and huntin' rifles and for that, I think he's right. That market, </span></span><i><span style="">his</span></i><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=""> market, is dead for sports collectibles.</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="">I considered the .20 cent Topps commons, the $12.50 Classic Game sets, and the $150 DiMaggio Bat Card. Only one of them made sense. I concluded that this individual simply had no concept of pricing for these products and had wisely based these prices on a margin of profit that he considered worthy of the cost.</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="">And then, as I was driving away, it hit me.</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">“<span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="">I know that base design.” I said as I sat at one of the many red lights I still had left to go before I got “back across the tracks.”</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="">I rifled through the virtual sports card image database in my head and kept coming up blank. I</span></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://cgi.ebay.com/1959-Topp-Baseball-163-Sandy-Koufax-Los-Angeles-Dodger_W0QQitemZ370072207287QQcmdZViewItem?hash=item370072207287&_trkparms=72%3A552%7C39%3A1%7C66%3A2%7C65%3A12&_trksid=p3286.c0.m14.l1318#ebayphotohosting"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtCla4xSsRmXjFIRvYRhdMLKh-I50_U1sTqGpEblWjnp2xYZ8ijV2irGHjOE3ia6WeX-p0v-GvWBuSCG-q7QUuk0sCTQec1jEbL3GEebJAmcRfNoNrunscu_lKp7h2eKiZ63PPm-0026Y/s400/koufax.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5229431454029415026" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=""> immediately knew that it was vintage. This was furthered by the fact that he had a badly centered '59 Koufax perched atop one of the stacks. I had only got a glimpse of the corner but I know it's in my head somewhere. </span></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">“<span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="">It's not '52, I would know that anywhere.” I pondered.</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="">1960, 1948, 1971. Everything in between. And that's when I realized what it was. I had only seen a small piece of the cap's brim on the player's head.</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">“<span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="">It's the '58 Mantle.” I exclaimed, at roughly the same time that the cars behind me began to exclaim that I should move through the green light.</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="">I made a daring U-turn, wildly glancing around, hoping that blue lights would not be in my immediate future. I had only driven a few miles from the store but 5:30 pm was fast approaching and I wanted to insure that I got back before they left for the day.</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="">I sped into the parking lot and ran back inside, all the while, hoping that “Clem” wasn't still haggling for a better price on his “Jesus Chain”. </span></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><i><u><b><br /></b></u></i></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center; color: rgb(204, 0, 0);"><span style="font-size:130%;"><i><u><b>For just a moment, let's step outside the story for a brief commercial break:</b></u></i></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizN2KBaJuPjKbocSget_r5j_kTa1O-7SzVyJleyWPNHJY3x6bFBVRgW-tglDR2g8GFYd_c00A4-m7nhMfD0zj7ExrWBCNr_mLXd2v5c5oU2PvN0MH2sEIV_psdHkws2f7E1jFSZgYqDJs/s1600-h/Kim_Fields_One_to_Grow_On.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizN2KBaJuPjKbocSget_r5j_kTa1O-7SzVyJleyWPNHJY3x6bFBVRgW-tglDR2g8GFYd_c00A4-m7nhMfD0zj7ExrWBCNr_mLXd2v5c5oU2PvN0MH2sEIV_psdHkws2f7E1jFSZgYqDJs/s400/Kim_Fields_One_to_Grow_On.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5229432485246947362" border="0" /></a></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="">Have you ever found a rare item in the most unsuspecting of places? Have you ever realized this after the fact only to reenter the establishment in what is widely considered to be a mad dash? If so, was this item of your affection located at a pawn shop in the ghetto? </span></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="">If you answered yes to all of the questions above, please stop what you're doing and contact your loved ones, appreciative that you are still alive.</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="">This is not a smart thing to do. People in the ghetto, especially people at a pawn shop in the ghetto, do not take kindly to you running through their front door for any reason, '58 Mantles included. In the unlikely event that you are still breathing or that you do not have shards of metal embedded in your body, inflicted by the gunshot wound, consider yourself a walking miracle.</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">“<span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="">Now we know! And knowing is half the battle.”</span></span></p><br /><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="">MO!!! JO!!! </span></span><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="">(editor's note: best use of MOJO to date...sweeeet...)</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://images.google.com/imgres?imgurl=http://www.myteespot.com/images/thumbs/t_5874_01.jpg&imgrefurl=http://www.myteespot.com/GI-Joe-p-1-c-9-all.html&h=150&w=150&sz=4&hl=en&start=34&sig2=YBkWsMfgEYZuKHyYx62KWA&um=1&tbnid=KbURtIi0z-h-XM:&tbnh=96&tbnw=96&ei=VK-SSOTwGKKSeZmasaUJ&prev=/images%3Fq%3Dgi%2Bjoe%2Bknowing%2Bis%2Bhalf%2Bthe%2Bbattle%2Bvideo%26start%3D21%26ndsp%3D21%26um%3D1%26hl%3Den%26client%3Dfirefox-a%26rls%3Dorg.mozilla:en-US:official%26sa%3DN"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYxvJ0QTaaMaRV77PW7OX_56C2fGiFHaN3ITQQ-4wJSe4Hr1GBfxJ0gR_DXZCeOVz4T6BazRtO53ZauzaGJBfDTNK_atwjejV8d2G-vxKONo3JhHkGQtINHw0W9upa1ZOcznc4v86XK5c/s400/gi+joe.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5229435445871230466" border="0" /></a></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">“<span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="">Can I look at the rest of the cards?” I belted out, all too eagerly.</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="">After the clerk stepped away from the gun rack, he reluctantly obliged. Once again, I moved towards the small display case and pointed to the stack that I wanted to see. Sure enough, it was a '58 Mickey Mantle. I was in shock. I have rarely held a Mantle Card that the number on the back wasn't 7 or that didn't begin with an MHR of some sort. He took the card out of the case and handed it to me.</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="">Remember the stories from your parents/grandparents/great-grandparents about how cards were put into the spokes of the kid's bikes to make the clicking sound? Well, this particular </span></span><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="">card must have been used in the spokes of a Cadillac to produce the same effect. I have seen British teeth in better condition.</span></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwbnz65HZbFrQuOtOhCuL3hl1cUzBYmh_ku46SBBF9_7kCYWF9KZQCs6v0ALErDtDtG30C5m0IVSPLjGn2BMB29SUrxLkGnSyrTjqd93n3iAxGrgbeqkLUwkuCJohfwOK1H4zfvueViVU/s1600-h/amy.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwbnz65HZbFrQuOtOhCuL3hl1cUzBYmh_ku46SBBF9_7kCYWF9KZQCs6v0ALErDtDtG30C5m0IVSPLjGn2BMB29SUrxLkGnSyrTjqd93n3iAxGrgbeqkLUwkuCJohfwOK1H4zfvueViVU/s200/amy.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5229436329187662962" border="0" /></a></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="">For me, it was still amazing. The stains and creases only made the card more magical. Where had this card been? At what point did someone say, “I don't need this anymore.” Who in their right mind would want to ever part ways with this card?</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="">I am not a rich man and have to wisely spend money on my collection when I can. I realized that this would be as close to owning a Mickey Mantle card from that era as I would ever be. I was ecstatic that the card was so badly damaged. </span></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">“<span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="">I'm walking out of here with this thing for $10 bucks.” I thought to myself.</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="">Logically, my next question was, “how much.” </span></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="">After about a 10 second pause, the clerk stated, “I don't know.”</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">“<span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="">I'm sorry, I said how much.” I replied, certain that he had misunderstood my question, that he thought I had inquired about the year or the set or possibly even the player on the card.</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">“<span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="">I don't rightly know off tha top of my head.” He said.</span></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBHnhn9ED-0qISQyUaDMOGADapD2JWeQUM8WpzMrxBb1x2vDCf3GddA545QtWlyyt4v73cPHXBDRTpSex1i_daoQRXygo8DooKv-YNixfOfvXP0mNfBYmjt1JXkkQ2wiAt6P8RUb4giFI/s1600-h/mantle+1958.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBHnhn9ED-0qISQyUaDMOGADapD2JWeQUM8WpzMrxBb1x2vDCf3GddA545QtWlyyt4v73cPHXBDRTpSex1i_daoQRXygo8DooKv-YNixfOfvXP0mNfBYmjt1JXkkQ2wiAt6P8RUb4giFI/s400/mantle+1958.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5229436991148284146" border="0" /></a></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="">You don't know? This is your store! How can you have anything here that you don't have some kind of price tag for? That's what I wanted to say.<br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="">I considered that maybe he thought I was about to try to swindle him out of something valuable. Me running through the front door like a child escaping the summer heat didn't help matters much either, I suppose.</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">“<span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="">Well, since I haven't looked at anything else that you have in those stacks, how much would you want for the entire collection?” I asked. I felt that this was the most honest way of purchasing these cards without feeling guilty if there were other valuable items entailed. My question posed an ethical 50/50 chance for both parties involved.</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="">But, once again, my inquiry received the same reply, “I don't know.”</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="">And then, as I attempted to gain some sort of semblance from the situation at hand, he said what each of you have been expecting him to say the entire time. Only, he said it in a way that I feel confident NONE of us has ever heard before. As before, I'm quoting the clerk word for word.</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="">As he pointed to a shelf behind the counter, he stated, “Well, I'd have to go lookin' through that book they send ever' month in the mail and I don't know how long that would take to do. Why don'cha come back in here some day and pick out a handful </span></span><i><span style="">yer intrested</span></i><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=""> in and we'll have a look see.”</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="">And, just like that I realized that I had probably come as close to that Mantle card as I ever will. I'm sure I can find a better deal on a PSA graded 7 somewhere on the internet for roughly the price that Beckett will </span></span><i><span style="">tell</span></i><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=""> him to sell his ungraded “1” to me. But, the fact of the matter is, it's not a 1958 Mickey Mantle that I want. It's that </span></span><i><span style="">particular </span></i><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="">1958 Mickey Mantle that I want.</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="">I shook his hand and then thanked him for his time. I told him that I would be back one day to look at the rest of the cards. I intend to, only next time with my son in tow. </span></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="">Until then I'll ponder the dead market that he spoke of. As of right now, I have to say that I am starting to partially agree with his sentiment. As I drove away from the pawn shop, I couldn't help but wonder that if he's right and this is a dead (or soon to die) market, then who <span style="font-style: italic;">is</span> truly to blame for killing it?</span></span><br /></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5985131230075481051.post-64862446619335861152008-07-11T01:33:00.013-05:002018-09-11T01:15:05.582-05:00Dork<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmfYDssigv3VW1JLIebFLOL2Ie4iUry75TqVq2blfWOrR4kDyywLb0V_HgJ_-cYMKYW86ZL8IOI1lR2FJ8hqp-2j8WIqQuFCuF36L4WtIwK_hzJ5A5m9WJvOSYvNPk7A_NuZbfbqOgFic/s1600-h/starship+troopers.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 205px; height: 115px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmfYDssigv3VW1JLIebFLOL2Ie4iUry75TqVq2blfWOrR4kDyywLb0V_HgJ_-cYMKYW86ZL8IOI1lR2FJ8hqp-2j8WIqQuFCuF36L4WtIwK_hzJ5A5m9WJvOSYvNPk7A_NuZbfbqOgFic/s320/starship+troopers.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5221641782594915202" border="0" /></a><span style="color:#000000;">Baseball Cards are for children, dorks, and especially dorky children. That's the general consensus anywhere that you go outside of the </span><span style="color:#000000;">Collecting World. To the average Joe, when we're not sitting around watching a bootleg copy of </span><span style="color:#000000;">Starship Troopers' with Chinese subtitles or flying around on our Purple Skeletal Warhorse in World of Warcraft, we're ogling pictures of grown men in tight pants from the comfort of our basement at mom's house. So, to say that being excited over</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicOUqtRmOAvY2YsB14_5eKYIcIMFkDgZQQ7_cG0hUa78dY2Wuk7UR3S3Fe6DS4hF8uipvBaKmjSm1MgmjhGHYLkpAqyTvXVWyJ6o94l2F3MP4cUYlgVc2Sc50njguPeZy_N2ndMYfbmAA/s1600-h/purpleskeletalwarhorse_t.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicOUqtRmOAvY2YsB14_5eKYIcIMFkDgZQQ7_cG0hUa78dY2Wuk7UR3S3Fe6DS4hF8uipvBaKmjSm1MgmjhGHYLkpAqyTvXVWyJ6o94l2F3MP4cUYlgVc2Sc50njguPeZy_N2ndMYfbmAA/s400/purpleskeletalwarhorse_t.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5221643818409630898" border="0" /></a><span style="color:#000000;"> opening packs of baseball cards is dorky is an understatement. At least to those not hanging out with us at our mom's when we do it. </span><p> </p><br /><p align="center"><span style="color:#000000;">(<b>DISCLAIMER:</b><span style=""> I have never seen Starship Troopers, I don't live at my mom's, and I had to Google World of Warcraft terms to come up with whatever a Purple Skeletal Warhorse is. </span>But, to the outside world, I'm as much a dork as you can get because of my obsession with the hobby.)</span></p> <p><br /></p> <p><span style="color:#000000;">Now, that being the case, it's not enough for us "dorks" to open our <span style="font-style: italic;">own</span> packs. With the latest in technology we are now able to take it a step further. W<span style="">e can watch OTHER people do it too on the internet!! Got 10 minutes to spare? Pop over to the YouTube and sit back, chocolate milk in hand, and watch people open packs of Baseball Cards. How did we ever make it before this was possible?</span></span></p> <p style=""><span style="color:#000000;">What I'm about to tell you opens me <a href="http://fielderschoice.wordpress.com/">(and Dave of Fielder's Choice)</a> to what could be a torrential downpour of dorkiness. We might possibly be branded forever and you might drop us from your</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWrP0-voDvczuvqJZ48jzgxOosGLhNCY9x1ER-UfYmOSegH0K0aAou8cibIWo8qGVPCgduTYK_B4WNtYZYskWh_7ietNtzqmGFqwAwScEURx2D7c6bXNdsG8amMzyDeHhvsLZsE3bbVFs/s1600-h/google-talk.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 165px; height: 248px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWrP0-voDvczuvqJZ48jzgxOosGLhNCY9x1ER-UfYmOSegH0K0aAou8cibIWo8qGVPCgduTYK_B4WNtYZYskWh_7ietNtzqmGFqwAwScEURx2D7c6bXNdsG8amMzyDeHhvsLZsE3bbVFs/s400/google-talk.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5221646015915502130" border="0" /></a><span style="color:#000000;"> list of blogs. We might have crossed a line and delved into dorkery so far that even YOU don't want to associate with us anymore.</span></p> <p style=""><span style="color:#000000;">Tonight, Dave opened a hobby box of 2008 Topps Chrome. Dave then relayed to me, via the miracle that is GoogleTalk, the cards that he was pulling from the packs...</span></p> <p style=""><span style="color:#000000;">Dave and I conducted, what I feel safe to say is, the FIRST EVER INSTANT MESSAGING BOX BREAK!. If you don't want to be our friend anymore, we understand.</span></p> <p style=""><span style="color:#000000;">I would say that I edited out the <i>boring parts</i> but, then again, I'm pasting the conversation from a CHAT WINDOW! It began like this...</span></p> <p><span style="color:#2323dc;"><b>Fielder: </b>hey blogger man</span></p> <p><span style="color:#2323dc;"><b>me: </b>sup, dude...</span></p> <p><a name="content1"></a><span style="color:#2323dc;"><b>me: </b> wow I sounded like an 18 year old surfer punk...lol...sorry...Hey, Dave...</span></p> <p><span style="color:#2323dc;"><b>Fielder: </b>it's cool, don't worry about it ... your new blog's looking good</span></p><br /><span style="color:#000000;">Innocent of so far, right...keep reading...</span><br /><br /><p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgejsUAymHtSvYiF9YrXhC73kMk2YanJWb8EeKgDCplEu9HIR17d2SGyIszwzyM6yq-7ZX0Rf6y94Bddkws1XnRlsgQ9cCrfkr_RzPqcYGQFT3vkrAZkyDWsIeCXVcvFgBMGAn4QwPnO5Y/s1600-h/ichiro.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgejsUAymHtSvYiF9YrXhC73kMk2YanJWb8EeKgDCplEu9HIR17d2SGyIszwzyM6yq-7ZX0Rf6y94Bddkws1XnRlsgQ9cCrfkr_RzPqcYGQFT3vkrAZkyDWsIeCXVcvFgBMGAn4QwPnO5Y/s400/ichiro.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5221646866806774290" border="0" /></a><span style="color:#2323dc;"><b>Fielder:</b> ... speaking of that my topps chrome hobby boxes came today</span></p> <p><span style="color:#2323dc;"><b>me:</b> oh yeah?! How'd you do on it?</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color:#2323dc;"><b>Fielder's: </b><span style="">haven't opened them yet, i was busy blogging :) </span>i think i'll start opening one of the boxes now, i'll tell you what i get</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p> <p><span style="color:#000000;">This is where I made the fatal mistake.... I shouldn't have asked...</span></p> <p><br /></p> <p><span style="color:#2323dc;"><b>Fielder:</b> sweet ... evan longoria in the first pack! and an ichiro card with japanese writing on it</span></p> <p><span style="color:#2323dc;"><b>me:</b> Trading Card History? probably so...all of the Japanese guys Topps are putting on vintage japanese card styles... Are you going to build a base set?</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color:#2323dc;"><b>Fielder:</b> probably</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color:#2323dc;"><b>me:</b> I would like to build a copper set...</span></p> <p><span style="color:#2323dc;"><b>Fielder:</b> copper refractor of russ martin ... you want it?</span></p> <p><span style="color:#2323dc;"><b>me: </b></span> </p> <p><span style="color:#2323dc;">y</span></p> <p><span style="color:#2323dc;">e</span></p> <p><span style="color:#2323dc;">s</span></p> <p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpp5VJwBbksdQ8rQ7GVoAWD1a6uW1brT_ID12qRJq9hsh7HamonY2bXHse6ochi7d8pd0RIuA_90GqiX1lkewPYtayXZ4Sk8x4gvvlsyFbgKxHeTcVwhDSR-cB-hqZ62eRz1SjKO1IPhM/s1600-h/russ+martin.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpp5VJwBbksdQ8rQ7GVoAWD1a6uW1brT_ID12qRJq9hsh7HamonY2bXHse6ochi7d8pd0RIuA_90GqiX1lkewPYtayXZ4Sk8x4gvvlsyFbgKxHeTcVwhDSR-cB-hqZ62eRz1SjKO1IPhM/s400/russ+martin.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5221647210712045922" border="0" /></a></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color:#000000;">Now I'm officially sucked in... Dave is either a kind soul with a giving spirit or he's wanting to do some trading. Either way, I'm invested in this now and it's too late to turn back...</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color:#2323dc;"><b>Fielder:</b> i don't get why topps puts more inserts into the retail packs. we need to write blogs warning people to only buy chrome retail packs</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color:#2323dc;"><b>me: </b>Seriously! I've NEVER thought the ratio was better with Blasters...I've always used them to finish off base sets...Until now...</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color:#2323dc;"><b>Fielder:</b> that's usually how it is. I just got a pack w/ 2 refractors in it, that's a step in the right direction</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color:#2323dc;"><b>Fielder:</b> ryan howard TC history in '82 topps design ... is cool... just got my first auto ... brian barton .. yay it's a refractor #/500, but he sucks</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXLuecsCud0hWPxdbW1k8aa4_WFpL-0htjbuh9hYL_DFzJxSRWQfnjem3TuFO5B3GE_Fjppivda-D5LPH1-IeilAy3AEwtpfWj5eVfiXVkq81Z2NffUqu3nb_7v3fWG5vQ6-eGz_GWlgE/s1600-h/ryan+howard.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXLuecsCud0hWPxdbW1k8aa4_WFpL-0htjbuh9hYL_DFzJxSRWQfnjem3TuFO5B3GE_Fjppivda-D5LPH1-IeilAy3AEwtpfWj5eVfiXVkq81Z2NffUqu3nb_7v3fWG5vQ6-eGz_GWlgE/s400/ryan+howard.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5221648181733848130" border="0" /></a></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color:#000000;">At this point, I'm closing my eyes every few seconds and living vicariously through the text popping up ever so often. What a dork...</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color:#000000;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJnC0EFFfQlEbShcFteX9GQTkxe4rNgqaKnJwGx-rJl4O-qttyUdBXf3J5bbDrXfQkRHjc8zrXcpQgE9CF2Hd62fS2uhLedhyG-uSGFxDm_OCdBehlO0hb0lOnb5gBaPejZvZK4HrA6to/s1600-h/lung+hu.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJnC0EFFfQlEbShcFteX9GQTkxe4rNgqaKnJwGx-rJl4O-qttyUdBXf3J5bbDrXfQkRHjc8zrXcpQgE9CF2Hd62fS2uhLedhyG-uSGFxDm_OCdBehlO0hb0lOnb5gBaPejZvZK4HrA6to/s400/lung+hu.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5221648864976283554" border="0" /></a></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color:#2323dc;"><b>Fielder:</b> these are some awesome cards, i'm glad you convinced me to buy them</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color:#2323dc;"><b>me:</b> I can't remember the last set I was this excited over...the chrome really works with the 08</span><span style="color:#2323dc;"> design this year...i hated last years chrome. i think the white border cards do better...I've got a lot of '06 stuff and it's nice...</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color:#2323dc;"><b>Fielder:</b> oh for god sakes .. got my second auto ... rich freakin' thompson</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color:#2323dc;"><b>me:</b> trade you an ohlendorf auto for it...hahaha</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color:#2323dc;"><b>Fielder:</b> yeah i'd probably make that trade</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color:#2323dc;">wait a minute ... holy crap ... i got a third auto in this box! and it's a decent one - chin-lung hu That makes me happy ... more auto's than i should have gotten</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color:#2323dc;"><b>me:</b> dude if you don't open the second box I'm going to cyber choke you...</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0FVUq3WOCe90FG-PPjzlhwUQ843fBtLV5wfoEtsyplblxY7ncYHrhuHztJrvC_9-W5qerYXrhO9lRN0tS84wINqTg74uHWNFqZksKGZ8u1XNT3inWPkEFUW3XUX54uC-52vfSO82BR5g/s1600-h/205_chappelle_m4.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0FVUq3WOCe90FG-PPjzlhwUQ843fBtLV5wfoEtsyplblxY7ncYHrhuHztJrvC_9-W5qerYXrhO9lRN0tS84wINqTg74uHWNFqZksKGZ8u1XNT3inWPkEFUW3XUX54uC-52vfSO82BR5g/s400/205_chappelle_m4.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5221650787959034658" border="0" /></a><span style="color:#000000;">Addiction. Images of Tyrone Biggums pop into my head. I'm jonesing for the next hit... And I didn't have to wait long...</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p><span style="color:#2323dc;">Fielder: i just got one of the awesomest copper refractors!</span> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color:#2323dc;">griffey</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color:#2323dc;">junior</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color:#000000;">I stand up and ALMOST go to wake my wife to have her NOT watch, NOT help with, rather “read” this box break. I change my mind I sit back down and it all comes rushing to me...</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color:#2323dc;"><b>me:</b> Man, we're dorks! I'm getting excited at a grown man opening baseball cards and relaying it to me through a chat window...</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color:#2323dc;"><b>Fielder:</b> it's fun though, better than telling my wife what i pull, she doesn't care</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color:#2323dc;"><b>me:</b> yeah, no kidding. I'll probably go wake mine up in a minute and tell her what you're getting...I'm sure she'll care even less than yours...</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color:#000000;">Mrs. Choice, Mrs. Buried...don't get offended. We know you gals love US and not the cards... Just keep <i>acting</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> excited</span>. That helps us more than you know...</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color:#2323dc;"><b>Fielder:</b> i felt pretty dorky the first time i watched a video box break on youtube</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color:#2323dc;"><b>me:</b> HAHAHAHAHA me too! I put headphones and dimmed the screen...I think my wife thought I was surfing porn...</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color:#2323dc;"><b>Fielder:</b> you're gonna wake her up .... she'll probably hit you</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjaMNgV5-X9xgqwkxOJjTE6NVDEjWHXAmYlipfAT2vEZxLw3WCVg1-y2-iaNsnmgApNT_U2F5T8cQKoDJhSTPiKrDoQ2RnQrxtT4cATL3yVFpgzPQbCrfMFCZ8I097fcwqXDhRaWbNABc/s1600-h/bo010-divorce-papers.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjaMNgV5-X9xgqwkxOJjTE6NVDEjWHXAmYlipfAT2vEZxLw3WCVg1-y2-iaNsnmgApNT_U2F5T8cQKoDJhSTPiKrDoQ2RnQrxtT4cATL3yVFpgzPQbCrfMFCZ8I097fcwqXDhRaWbNABc/s400/bo010-divorce-papers.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5221651623258307058" border="0" /></a></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color:#000000;">Yeah. She would have. In the face. With Divorce Papers.</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color:#2323dc;"><b>Fielder:</b> last pack ... got a manny ramirez 50th anniv all rookie team refractor ... it's yours if you want it</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color:#2323dc;"><b>me:</b> i don't think I pulled the manny refractor...i think i got the base chrome insert...I think I'm fixing to do a quick post about the dork thing...</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color:#2323dc;"><b>Fielder:</b> sweet ... are you mentioning me in it?</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color:#2323dc;"><b>me:</b> oh heck yeah...you're as guilty as me...I'm not the only dork here...you were typing...I was reading...unless if you don't want me to...</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color:#2323dc;"><b>Fielder:</b> oh no, i do</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color:#2323dc;"><b>me:</b> haha...great...i was going to anyway....I think I'll title it...</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjfcY5jWiOk1jgW0OnT4qtGSU40t75Ow7OOtpNFSydOCY8Q5EnpmnIqXTEv0FI7g3bXSi5ZfbJbCHDJjGhQ5VLeEBdPUnq3t3y50xsneQHO72IP5Gg60BVxjKoU3MJo3MDhzk1Czgl2gY/s1600-h/manny.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjfcY5jWiOk1jgW0OnT4qtGSU40t75Ow7OOtpNFSydOCY8Q5EnpmnIqXTEv0FI7g3bXSi5ZfbJbCHDJjGhQ5VLeEBdPUnq3t3y50xsneQHO72IP5Gg60BVxjKoU3MJo3MDhzk1Czgl2gY/s400/manny.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5221652248842761522" border="0" /></a></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color:#000000;">And now back to the present. Please tell me that Dave and I aren't <i>really</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> the first to have done this. Seriously, anyone? Otherwise, I feel obligated to go out and buy a copy of Burning Crusades and starting WOWing it up.<br /></span></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color:#000000;"><span style="font-style: normal;">Dave, you in?</span></span></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5985131230075481051.post-29755694929467582672008-07-09T09:58:00.010-05:002018-09-11T01:15:05.212-05:00Fitting That I Start Out This WayWelcome to the first post from the new site! I hope everyone likes the changes that have been made. I couldn't think of any better "first post" at BlogSpot than this. This should have been said at TNB a long time ago.<br /><br />I pride myself on my ability to recognize when someone does something right and more importantly something wrong. In my profession, it's imperative that I'm constantly aware and that I communicate to my employees and my assistants when they do something that requires my feedback.<br /><br />When I was a lowly server at O'Charlies in Ridgeland, MS one of my bosses, Felix, made a statement that I'll never forget about how he approaches this topic. "Praise in public...scold in <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVxpsPp1mgcxgzPJjVC3cdUdEzERMhpKimZ40CB-Jsy4cziUK2KmCGspF0r7aCR9-1CIpSzTeJn-qyKm48ReMRsV9Vmna_CyjlZ0i6nmKiV1Dqx2_oN9-a5Ix84NLH4LxLxovJtjlgHgk/s1600-h/ocharleyslogo.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 123px; height: 68px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVxpsPp1mgcxgzPJjVC3cdUdEzERMhpKimZ40CB-Jsy4cziUK2KmCGspF0r7aCR9-1CIpSzTeJn-qyKm48ReMRsV9Vmna_CyjlZ0i6nmKiV1Dqx2_oN9-a5Ix84NLH4LxLxovJtjlgHgk/s400/ocharleyslogo.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5221039475414887730" border="0" /></a>private." While, I've been horrible at scolding in private I've always felt that I did an excellent job at praising in public. Until now...<br /><br />When Treasure Never Buried began at Wordpress nearly two months ago, most of you probably thought I had some sort of man-crush on <a href="http://completist.wordpress.com/">Waxheaven's author, Mario Alejandro</a>. Every other post was, "Mario is Nobel Prize material" and "Vote for Mario" and "Screw Mother Theresa, Allen & Ginter, give us a Mario 1/1 Cut Signature". Not that I used those words exactly, but you get the picture.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5sjN0jeHbu699JikOa2V8JrWdvu8c94t3BWhJqT2iO_rRKmoEyryGnrLOFv97rZGcRCFKOQtoRQ4dA4POIyzuzt6tCAa9kv3n8BETxip4QKz-oyfLCFDzb7H-_NgBZle6fxVcN4AOSk0/s1600-h/waxheaven.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5sjN0jeHbu699JikOa2V8JrWdvu8c94t3BWhJqT2iO_rRKmoEyryGnrLOFv97rZGcRCFKOQtoRQ4dA4POIyzuzt6tCAa9kv3n8BETxip4QKz-oyfLCFDzb7H-_NgBZle6fxVcN4AOSk0/s400/waxheaven.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5221039191027842146" border="0" /></a><br />This was mostly due to the fact that, at first, Mario was the only person plugging my blog. I literally owe the first 1,000 hits to Mario alone. God only knows how many after that were from the "completist". I am thankful to everyone else that has posted on their own blog about TNB but WaxHeaven was the first to bring countless valued readers to my work. I can honestly say that there are some of you that I will consider "friend" until I'm old and gray. Without Mario, I wouldn't have met most of you. <a href="http://fielderschoice.wordpress.com/">Dave of Fielder's Choice comes to mind.</a> One day I'll retire to Tampa (my old folk destination of choice) and maybe we'll be both SunRays fans (yeah, they'll change the name again, I'm sure of it.)<br /><br />So, all of the accolades I've given to WaxHeaven were justified in my opinion. Praise is definitely in order for all of the above mentioned facts...<br /><br />however...<br /><br />I somehow failed to give thanks to Mario in "public" for a package I received quite some time ago.<br /><br />After TNB was off the ground and flying solo, so to speak, I went and rounded up all of my Andrew Miller cards. I had pretty much nothing but "crap" so I went to eBay to find a good looking, affordable game used, low number, or auto of Miller. It wasn't much, but I found a '07 Turkey Red Relic. Turkey Red game used have been, to this day, my favorite relic cards. I haven't found a design I like better (and especially for the price.)<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs8s_7NvUgz60JIMjHo7slqVwGeduco8D8rIDrfwjd4q6OtteWTdzvP0hz-dax2M7s7kSL0lRwWEN4OqMIwpK2-Y292DqO8GuzxxIAwzclEViW7OlhKRdnS3neky3NaJc0kG4EkKd3d4E/s1600-h/a+miller.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs8s_7NvUgz60JIMjHo7slqVwGeduco8D8rIDrfwjd4q6OtteWTdzvP0hz-dax2M7s7kSL0lRwWEN4OqMIwpK2-Y292DqO8GuzxxIAwzclEViW7OlhKRdnS3neky3NaJc0kG4EkKd3d4E/s400/a+miller.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5221040713282848546" border="0" /></a><br />I took all of the cards and packaged them up along with a great looking Jeter G/U and them sent them on their merry little way to WaxHeaven. It wasn't much, it wasn't even a great collection of cards, but it was my small way of "quantifying" a thank you to Mario and Tatiana for their support.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggJD8wPAijGJ9eytouC_0xUzI6_xm7AhpmbS2ILkY0VsXy5YakbRdiqMtUF_1mi20Ch3tvXecO-IipCtdWe9g6AW7bkuuvncb_hOgPzvaVFR1ZYzpXmdfEEhOJwN9n9Q8DEjc6ZfjzlVo/s1600-h/DJ+-+Jeter,+Derek.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggJD8wPAijGJ9eytouC_0xUzI6_xm7AhpmbS2ILkY0VsXy5YakbRdiqMtUF_1mi20Ch3tvXecO-IipCtdWe9g6AW7bkuuvncb_hOgPzvaVFR1ZYzpXmdfEEhOJwN9n9Q8DEjc6ZfjzlVo/s400/DJ+-+Jeter,+Derek.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5221040951899878066" border="0" /></a>Days went by and finally the tracking number registered "delivered". I kept on eating, sleeping, and blogging. A week or so later, I came home from shopping with the family. We had been gone all day so the mail was still in the box at around 9 pm. As I was checking the mail, I noticed a package and I assumed it was my wife's since I wasn't expecting anything. Standing in the dark, in the middle of the driveway, I see WaxHeaven as the sender.<br /><br />? ? ?<br /><br />I rush inside to open the package. This is what I found inside...<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqsQ0F1fkGAH6EbD1vI777VtMNnOeiQhKkfWSbSy9ZHFc54WJXOXB6QXa1Lvi9oua69L4P_KNikMzkCPtvSc4DrgG6utVrkxVHkXGpojjPAOpjLQ8Flw945nqj0FsGwq2vzRl_HIZ92zk/s1600-h/Manny+01.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqsQ0F1fkGAH6EbD1vI777VtMNnOeiQhKkfWSbSy9ZHFc54WJXOXB6QXa1Lvi9oua69L4P_KNikMzkCPtvSc4DrgG6utVrkxVHkXGpojjPAOpjLQ8Flw945nqj0FsGwq2vzRl_HIZ92zk/s400/Manny+01.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5221035604970829234" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ_INFWEYnOOWLxgGjN66pIatAo1vY2A5ibvb2At_iPdbZeOoVdkExdQ21JHBCU7OLVLI4MAX17q93XokRhlpGpiFdIzCDTuHm52BWeY1DFvFh8BpsqTZMuZuQhblrE9yoAkaIE325YjI/s1600-h/Manny+02.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ_INFWEYnOOWLxgGjN66pIatAo1vY2A5ibvb2At_iPdbZeOoVdkExdQ21JHBCU7OLVLI4MAX17q93XokRhlpGpiFdIzCDTuHm52BWeY1DFvFh8BpsqTZMuZuQhblrE9yoAkaIE325YjI/s400/Manny+02.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5221035614548896530" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9S31dzr8YjxbgfgzyBvvxKcVBBa2_alggiyDIKCQdiScmnnpMNxl1fO7OldiY-IukImw4jgik6aHePrjNFbFliAkZDDGbSzOhNxmfK6WkKkoMUaMD0d2LVuZ5nU4QGnO0g9SUlPlBwxc/s1600-h/Manny+03.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9S31dzr8YjxbgfgzyBvvxKcVBBa2_alggiyDIKCQdiScmnnpMNxl1fO7OldiY-IukImw4jgik6aHePrjNFbFliAkZDDGbSzOhNxmfK6WkKkoMUaMD0d2LVuZ5nU4QGnO0g9SUlPlBwxc/s400/Manny+03.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5221035617833121346" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzwNFShaVm99gtC23wOvfzgX5SuDCp_z4zrN8p0Np0X8_5YuvdkK65p-JFDCbXk4gLhyRljnu9jG0sbqt9RJL79NjI-nlaZOBdj7Ly-5GSeplh0-yL8bStzGApqaYkyL3D7tsVnMkwydA/s1600-h/Griffey+01.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzwNFShaVm99gtC23wOvfzgX5SuDCp_z4zrN8p0Np0X8_5YuvdkK65p-JFDCbXk4gLhyRljnu9jG0sbqt9RJL79NjI-nlaZOBdj7Ly-5GSeplh0-yL8bStzGApqaYkyL3D7tsVnMkwydA/s400/Griffey+01.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5221035632415338162" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh872jG4T33Vt3zGXX8VbPbmizjye5nxXEV3rsp4Z1My6NOv6RoS0GsmKn0IiAcGDeC00VJO-6E-ecETQABgmN0BUZEHYQFUIDs1NN0EaKm2S1J9M9t09xgFuW7v1eFdJ3MgpcN3M0eLsc/s1600-h/Griffey+02.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh872jG4T33Vt3zGXX8VbPbmizjye5nxXEV3rsp4Z1My6NOv6RoS0GsmKn0IiAcGDeC00VJO-6E-ecETQABgmN0BUZEHYQFUIDs1NN0EaKm2S1J9M9t09xgFuW7v1eFdJ3MgpcN3M0eLsc/s400/Griffey+02.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5221035640380653202" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPMTdYVhYVBK9TAqgRBb0jCg5X5bYb-NQvlxFwZNuamj76jjORmpTGQHXr-Fywgob6qA_tv3Ri94OifedvJ6-YVKmZcimmohFx2TvPKq9XzxCLfq81rmvbYQcBu7XUYadBYvSfIfakZUQ/s1600-h/Griffey+03.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPMTdYVhYVBK9TAqgRBb0jCg5X5bYb-NQvlxFwZNuamj76jjORmpTGQHXr-Fywgob6qA_tv3Ri94OifedvJ6-YVKmZcimmohFx2TvPKq9XzxCLfq81rmvbYQcBu7XUYadBYvSfIfakZUQ/s400/Griffey+03.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5221035798665938786" border="0" /></a><br />WHY? Why did Mario send me these? Has he never seen the <a href="http://cgi.ebay.com/ANDREW-MILLER-2007-TOPPS-TURKEY-RED-RELIC-JERSEY_W0QQitemZ270232013157QQihZ017QQcategoryZ149906QQrdZ1QQssPageNameZWD1VQQcmdZViewItemQQ_trksidZp1638Q2em118Q2el1247#ebayphotohosting">eBay value of that Andrew Miller</a>? He doesn't owe me anything. He's already done enough by saying good things about my blog at his. This wasn't a trade and I didn't expect anything in return. This is just the kind of guy that Mario Alejandro is.<br /><br />The Moments and Milestones Manny cards are the still the BEST Manny cards that I own. The Griffey American Hero inserts are from <a href="http://completist.wordpress.com/2008/06/11/video-box-break-2008-spx/">his SpX video break from a few weeks back</a>. Even if this had been a trade, I definitely got the upper hand.<br /><br />When someone does something good, you "praise them in public". You let everyone else around you know the type of person that they are dealing with. Mario Alejandro is one ____ of a guy! (Man, I need to be able to cuss on my blogs...<a href="http://treasureneverburied.blogspot.com/2008/07/angrychris.html">maybe AngryChris was right</a> and I should...lol)<br /><br />Thank you, Mario, for my first ever "mail day" post and for being such an unselfish and great guy! You're one in a million, Man!!Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5985131230075481051.post-20752882465767744482008-07-06T07:20:00.000-05:002018-09-11T01:15:28.119-05:00Building Our 1990 Topps Set - The Box Break<p> </p> <p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyu58ZlpS96arTrS8Z_0Yoscvw5UsvpAcvdYnuPt2EwbQA7yfhn-Njdvh3w-I6hxtuijkGXp41QnlyOAcP8VnQZBnaCxpq_rRXFt-b1gAsA-8s4lxy1T_aNnRDO1zeOdANtV3c2hHM1cw/s1600-h/topps.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyu58ZlpS96arTrS8Z_0Yoscvw5UsvpAcvdYnuPt2EwbQA7yfhn-Njdvh3w-I6hxtuijkGXp41QnlyOAcP8VnQZBnaCxpq_rRXFt-b1gAsA-8s4lxy1T_aNnRDO1zeOdANtV3c2hHM1cw/s400/topps.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5220838131554705490" border="0" /></a></p><p>FINALLY! I didn’t think I was ever going to figure out how to get these things uploaded. I won’t waste much on the commentary as the videos speak for themselves. I will tell you that with every pack the gum seems to get more and more…enticing…lol… I really hope you guys enjoy these… This will be the last Father & Son post for awhile…</p> <p>(I broke the video into three smaller pieces to make it easier to upload on my part and to view on your part. This should keep anyone interested in watching it from having to navigate through one long video.)</p><p style="text-align: center;">PART 1 of 3<br /></p><p style="text-align: center;"><object height="344" width="425"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/g_bZHJMJV5Y&hl=en&fs=1"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/g_bZHJMJV5Y&hl=en&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true" height="344" width="425"></embed></object></p><br /><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;">PART 2 of 3</p><p style="text-align: center;"><object height="344" width="425"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/h4QvkS5Ptqg&hl=en&fs=1"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/h4QvkS5Ptqg&hl=en&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true" height="344" width="425"></embed></object></p><br /><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;">PART 3 of 3</p><p style="text-align: center;"><object height="344" width="425"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/WKp4lCkmdN0&hl=en&fs=1"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/WKp4lCkmdN0&hl=en&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true" height="344" width="425"></embed></object><br /></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5985131230075481051.post-14029607959249413942008-07-05T00:42:00.000-05:002018-09-11T01:15:04.970-05:00Relentless<p> </p>Relentless: Showing or promising no abatement of severity, intensity, strength, or pace (From the Merriam Webster Online Dictionary) <p style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9RSVaJMCvS2UgObtDAh37kI_WN1kNWnj8QVtx0GoK3X8RPUpF31l4uSMUNDqOZeVH_yMar0iGTTWSYiluBAaR61GWi4oa97s4NYENxBWW_IOZgm_V-rcrae7aqAaXB-JCadje2oDQQRc/s1600-h/memorial_day_at_arlington_national_cemetery.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9RSVaJMCvS2UgObtDAh37kI_WN1kNWnj8QVtx0GoK3X8RPUpF31l4uSMUNDqOZeVH_yMar0iGTTWSYiluBAaR61GWi4oa97s4NYENxBWW_IOZgm_V-rcrae7aqAaXB-JCadje2oDQQRc/s400/memorial_day_at_arlington_national_cemetery.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5220836424156698082" border="0" /></a></p> <p>All day long, I’ve moped around my house, tired and hurting from whatever flu like symptons I have. I’ve organized a few cards, watched some kid shows, and reluctantly ate some pizza. All day I’ve told myself that I’m glad this happened on my days off and not when I’m supposed to work. In the 4 ½ years since I accepted my position with McAlister’s I’ve never missed a day due to sickness. I’ve worked with the flu, colds, hangovers, you name it. I simply do not miss work. Sick or not, I would have been there the last two days had I been scheduled. Thank God I wasn’t.</p> <p>Oddly enough, I didn’t watch any sports today. All day it’s been Transformers, Ben 10, and Noggin. We didn’t shoot any fireworks. If anything, I’ve had to console my terrified Chihuahua, Yoga, all night from the loud bangs and pops happening outside. This has been one of the most unpatriotic, or better said, untraditional July the 4th’s I’ve ever spent.</p> <p>We watched some fireworks on tv and then eventually it was back to the kid shows. Around 10<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdWhnGnkZzW8d9P3-kVPN4NaMaechaxskGrTQi_zoHxkozfBc2bKbjJJqSD14YnAueZD07ndtBh4EXT9iDpM78EA_Ts4Oq6X8b6QGzYTJuvw3UgyYwCL50ETggtbguGZoJjcEtJfv3V2c/s1600-h/indianshat.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdWhnGnkZzW8d9P3-kVPN4NaMaechaxskGrTQi_zoHxkozfBc2bKbjJJqSD14YnAueZD07ndtBh4EXT9iDpM78EA_Ts4Oq6X8b6QGzYTJuvw3UgyYwCL50ETggtbguGZoJjcEtJfv3V2c/s400/indianshat.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5220836547642429554" border="0" /></a> pm we watched our last show for the night and then Lori began to get Connor ready for bed. I grabbed the remote and flipped over to catch Sportscenter and to see what patriotic uniforms they had come up with for this year’s celebration.</p> <p>While watching, I was saddened by the fact that I am where I am today because of the fact that many who serve are not where I am today. I watched as countless American Soldiers were brought on to the field at numerous stadiums across the country, as flags were flown, as Bronson Arroyo delivered an outstanding version of “God Bless America”.</p> <p>I watched as children held their ball caps over their hearts, as grown men cried during the national anthem, as America stood in unity once more. I watched as men of opposing wills that would soon be put to the test on the field stood in unison, in respect, in allegiance to the flag of a relentless nation.</p> <p>But, the part that saddens me the most is that I sat and watched. For the first time in my adult life, my country celebrates it’s independence and I am not an American Soldier.</p> <p>Two years ago, I began my journey home. Bagram Air Base became Kandahar became Qatar. Before I knew it, I was landing in Dubai and on to Amsterdam, from there to Memphis, TN and finally back home to Jackson. July 4<sup>th</sup>, 2006, I would step off the plane exiting a war zone for the last time. I’ll never forget the joy of Connor running to me after nearly a year apart. Would he remember me? Would he know my name? As soon as he said, “I love you, Daddy” all of those fears were put to rest. I’ll never forget falling in love with my wife all over again as she stood crying, thankful that it was all over. I was home.</p> <p>Somewhere tonight, a soldier sits silent, longing for home, longing for the cookouts and the baseball and the family. Somewhere an American Soldier waits for the clock to strike 12, ready to<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj94x7JE6gTHuWcYKsRXTqh8a59zW-imbGvKLj0dzeg4UXjaeLdMQhXY-WaWdq74iuMnGO9EYFeAUSyK4A-vjBamShTCbbK1eOkkL81bqyEfl3jqjARBEQR_y_tuA6kYPCEsDqmxjjmPjw/s1600-h/audrey+saluting.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj94x7JE6gTHuWcYKsRXTqh8a59zW-imbGvKLj0dzeg4UXjaeLdMQhXY-WaWdq74iuMnGO9EYFeAUSyK4A-vjBamShTCbbK1eOkkL81bqyEfl3jqjARBEQR_y_tuA6kYPCEsDqmxjjmPjw/s400/audrey+saluting.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5220836824916976818" border="0" /></a> mark one more day off of their calendar, 1 “x” closer to coming home again. One more soldier holds the pictures of their spouse and children as the tears stream down their face in the darkness. As for me, it’s one less.</p> <p>I’m grateful that I was lucky enough to come home whole after two trips overseas. Physically, I have no scars. My scars are missing the birth of my son. Not knowing what it felt like when he “kicked” inside the womb. Not seeing my pregnant wife. Missing all of the “terrible twos”. Missing out on so many things that I’ve always wanted.</p> <p>My scars can’t compare to those that have lost a limb, an eye, their sanity, or worse, their life. To those unfortunate souls, I, We, should be eternally grateful.</p> <p>The one thing that the military taught me above all is to be relentless. No matter how sick, how tired, how frustrated, you keep pushing. You keep moving. You don’t stop. You keep going. It will all be over soon and you never falter. Maybe that’s why I’ve never missed work. You just do your job and go home when it’s time.</p> <p>If by happenchance some soldier is reading this blog, keep your head up. Don’t quit. Keep going. You’ll be home before you know it.</p> <p>You’ll be sitting on your porch one day and those loud bangs won’t be the sounds of the guns and the bombs anymore. They’ll be the sound of fireworks ringing in another year of our independence. They’ll be the triumphant revelrie of your sacrifice to a grateful nation. And this time, you can keep your eyes closed and soak it in. Your days of fighting will be over.</p> <p>God bless the American Soldier!!</p><p style="text-align: center;"><object height="344" width="425"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/FqBusm1-sBY&hl=en&fs=1"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/FqBusm1-sBY&hl=en&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true" height="344" width="425"></embed></object><br /></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5985131230075481051.post-39037575071220191572008-06-27T11:32:00.000-05:002018-09-11T01:15:05.365-05:00I’m Walking On Sunshine…OHHHH..OHHHH!!<p> </p> <p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgefrnjgddMSJAIXlEd2GJhVd_gaw5zsnsfwXN_rTOcsLBs7NCzklZeNSOZwwC3YGwRitbJdV01lmh48vf5vDtns2bhsUvpoveqg2cW1v6faSe-wjiIfyP3fPvu0eoOTcBsSb_jdXKbzc/s1600-h/beckett.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgefrnjgddMSJAIXlEd2GJhVd_gaw5zsnsfwXN_rTOcsLBs7NCzklZeNSOZwwC3YGwRitbJdV01lmh48vf5vDtns2bhsUvpoveqg2cW1v6faSe-wjiIfyP3fPvu0eoOTcBsSb_jdXKbzc/s400/beckett.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5220833437229229618" border="0" /></a></p><p>Wow! What a humbling experience! I would never have dreamed that in less than a month Beckett would be linking their official blog to mine regarding my writing. I know that in the past I have slammed Beckett on many issues. Rest assured, I will continue to do so in the future if I feel the need. It’s not that I dislike Beckett or think that they’re doing a bad job of representing the hobby. I’m just a very opinionated person and have never been much of a “shy type” guy.</p> <p>Beckett is an outstanding organization that I feel truly has the heart of the hobby at it’s personal interest. Beckett is full of people that are collector’s themselves. I feel it pretty safe to say that they share most of our gripes, complaints, and frustrations on a personal level. But, as I’ve learned in getting back into the hobby, baseball card collecting is a monster of a task. I can’t fathom the guys and gals out there collecting multiple sports. To be the people responsible for leading the hobby in pricing, Beckett does as best it can. I am personally grateful for their work.</p> <p>All of that being said, Thank you, Beckett for acknowledging Treasure Never Buried. It is an honor and a privilege to have gained the recognition of the leader in the sports card industry. Now, if I can just get Tuff Stuff’s attention…</p> <p>But, even more so, I’m honored to be featured by a guy that followed my blog from day one and <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5BTrHs38BRYR_8MNbuBlCE-odqKTXvGK49dX-mDspAtPf4oOjJnnYAANrplO7JVSDEMxg2RcDfYbHBwmn8GmW2Pav8ii_s1LQHHYeIpdA0J8-DCvo7archRA2QSh5uWx_iiaZkIp3bmM/s1600-h/fielderschoice1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5BTrHs38BRYR_8MNbuBlCE-odqKTXvGK49dX-mDspAtPf4oOjJnnYAANrplO7JVSDEMxg2RcDfYbHBwmn8GmW2Pav8ii_s1LQHHYeIpdA0J8-DCvo7archRA2QSh5uWx_iiaZkIp3bmM/s400/fielderschoice1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5220833603255428530" border="0" /></a>has gone on to begin his very own. To <a href="http://fielderschoice.wordpress.com/">Dave of Fielder’s Choice</a>, I say, Thank you for the kudos on your blog. If you’ve yet to check out Fielder’s Choice please do so. Dave has left multiple comments on TNB and from that alone I can tell you that Dave will find his way into the top 10, maybe 5, possibly 3 blogs on the net soon. Trust me, nothing but good is going to come out of Fielder’s Choice. I know it. Keep up the good work!</p> <p>To everyone that has enjoyed Treasure Never Buried, thank you as well. It’s an honor to be one of the many voices in our hobby today. I have no desire to be the best, only to be considered inspirational to anyone who finds their way here.</p> <p>I have 2 ½ days left on my vacation so it’s off to the 1:10 showing of Wall-E!!! I can’t wait. This movie should get the bad taste of Ratatouille out of my mouth…</p> <p>Thanks again, for enjoying TNB so far. I promise it’ll only get better with time…</p> <p style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: center; display: block;"><object height="350" width="425"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/FuCYarx2AAg"><param name="wmode" value="transparent"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/FuCYarx2AAg&rel=0" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" wmode="transparent" height="350" width="425"></embed></object></span><br /></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5985131230075481051.post-73519073333934287482008-06-25T11:12:00.000-05:002018-09-11T01:14:24.825-05:00The Card<div class="entry"><div class="snap_preview"><p>You hold it and you stare, searching for something that you’ve never noticed about it. You flip it around in your hands and you read both sentences on the back over and over again. Eventually, the school bus comes and you stuff it back into the little pouch on the front of your back pack to show your friends “the one that you’ll never get rid of.”</p> <p>Before you know it, you stick it in a box somewhere for safe keeping. You stop putting it in your backpack because you have to make room for Guns ‘N Roses cassette tapes and muscle car mags. One day, you open up a shoe box and place it neatly inside. You check on it every other day but soon every other day becomes every other month. And then one day you quit checking on it at all. You forget what the sentences say.</p> <p>Years later, it comes back to you by accident and you hold it and stare. You begin to remember the things that you’d forgotten about it, the things that you felt about it. You read the first two words of those sentences, close your eyes, and quote the rest. You run your finger over the imperfections and the stains and a portal to another world, a fantastical world from your childhood, is opened. You step inside.</p> <p>You go back in your mind to when you first found it. You remember the euphoria of holding it for the very first time and you notice that it feels different now. You realize that you have callouses that weren’t there the last time you held it. The delight of finding this lost treasure turns into a sort of sadness when you begin to understand that you can never go back to that place.</p> <p>For most, life beckons you back to work, to feed the baby, or to mow the grass and so it goes back into the dusty, dark box for the last time. It will be found by the grandchildren you’ve yet to meet that will come across it after you’re gone. They won’t know that the corners were bent because some bullies tried to take your backpack one day. They won’t know that the slight discoloration was from a bag of BBQ potato chips and a 10 year old’s dirty hands. Their first question will be, “I wonder what it’s worth!?”</p> <p>For me that card was the 1991 Score Cooperstown of Will Clark</p> <p style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj33m0AFj_Tu8oKamV3KQTWeiqKsPcl0DYN9ybeLtHtrs1pQJ0fDyn72c14GVsSFQFmB3AMU-cCSIOAVmw4iFFaoln5NVzkWTPiWaFiAtCu0Fn82dCimFAasSYt8B-13ssf4oLnfSO9f0A/s1600-h/clark.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj33m0AFj_Tu8oKamV3KQTWeiqKsPcl0DYN9ybeLtHtrs1pQJ0fDyn72c14GVsSFQFmB3AMU-cCSIOAVmw4iFFaoln5NVzkWTPiWaFiAtCu0Fn82dCimFAasSYt8B-13ssf4oLnfSO9f0A/s400/clark.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5220831589856660034" border="0" /></a></p> <p style="text-align: center;"> </p><p style="text-align: center;"> </p><p>And yet, there is another type of card more precious than this, more valuable to you than gold. You might not even know you have it yet, but, I assure you, it’s there. It’s waiting to be found and held and loved again for the first time. It’s only fear is not that it will be sold because even it knows that it’s worthless to other collector’s. It’s biggest fear is that you won’t ever come back to it.</p> <p>It’s probably more worn than any of the other cards packed around it in your commons box. It may even have duplicates in better condition. But, it knows that if you’ll just take the time find it that it can make you love the hobby of sports card collecting more than you ever have in your life.</p> <p>It doesn’t have to struggle for your affection. It doesn’t have to sparkle or shine or do anything other than be what it’s always been. It has only one story to tell, but, it knows that the story is enough.</p> <p>Growing up, my father never showed much interest in the things that I held dear. Not to belittle my dad by any means, he simply didn’t have the time. Since I was 2 years old, my Father, Kenneth, has driven a diesel for living. When he wasn’t gone he was too exhausted from the thousands of miles that he had driven that week to do anything other than rest. As a child, I never understood this and often resented him for not being there. I look back now and realize that everything I had was because of my father’s sacrifice.</p><p style="text-align: center;"><object height="344" width="425"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/DDHdIMudZdE&hl=en&fs=1"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/DDHdIMudZdE&hl=en&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true" height="344" width="425"></embed></object><br /></p><p> My dad was always more interested in teaching me things that would make me successful one day. He rarely showed interest when I started rattling off baseball stats or expounding to him the significance of 1989 Upper Deck. It simply didn’t excite him. But as a child, it made me feel like he didn’t care and that he didn’t listen when I talked. I would find out that I was wrong.</p> <p>The measure of a great father is not in mirroring the good things that your father was. It’s in understanding and learning from the things he wasn’t so great at. Interested or not, I listen when my son talks and I let him know how important his words are to me. It’s not always easy because I am constantly tired from work. Now that I’m grown, I see that my dad wasn’t ignoring me, he was simply trying to hear me over the sounds of his job and the multitude of responsibilities that played over in his head.</p> <p>I don’t remember how old I was, the time of year, or anything other than waiting for my dad to come home safely from the road again. I don’t remember where he had been or for how long, all I remember was the excitement when I heard the rumble of a diesel engine getting closer and closer. On most of his trips, my dad would bring me something. On this particular trip, he brought me the most important thing he possibly could have.</p> <p>If you like Treasure Never Buried, please take a moment to say, “thanks”, to my father. Without him, I would have sold all of my cards last summer. I would have never found Sports Collecting Radio, I would have never heard Mario Alejandro’s interview, and I wouldn’t be here now. I have been allowed to do something that I’ve always wanted to do and it is only possible because my father listened when I talked.</p> <p>While walking out of some random truck stop in some lonely, little forgotten town, my father happened to look down in the parking lot. There lying in the dark was the card. It had been ran over by countless cars, trampled on by countless people, and was seemingly gone forever. My father could have kept walking. It was only a Baseball Card and it held no value to him.</p> <p>He brought it home and I will never forget what he said. I met my dad in our gravel driveway, breathing heavily from having bolted out the front door to meet him. I gave him a hug and he said he had something for me.</p> <p>“It’s pretty messed up so I didn’t know if it is worth anything or if this player’s any good, but I saw it and I thought of you.” said my father.</p> <p>Please, dear God, let my dad have a 1989 Upper Deck Griffey in his hands. Or a 1990 Topps Frank Thomas. Or better yet, a Will Clark I don’t have. When I saw the card, I was severely disappointed but I didn’t let my father know it.</p> <p>“This might be a good card, Daddy, I’ve never seen it before.” I lied. Later, when my dad forgot about it, the card went into a box where it lay dormant, untouched for years. The card meant nothing to me. It was almost completely destroyed before it was ever found. It was Tom Niedenfur and I already had multiple copies of it.</p> <p>Years went by and finally in the Spring of 2007 I opened those old boxes one last time. I sorted through the cards and relived the memories of my childhood. Not one single card beckoned for me to stay. I thought about how much money I had spent and regretted that I hadn’t invested my money more wisely as a child. But, then again, how many kids really do that.</p> <p>Near the end of the box, I found my Tom Niedenfur card and I sat and stared, searching for something that I had never noticed about it. I flipped it around in my hands and read both sentences on the back over and over again. Eventually, my wife came in and I tried to stuff the feelings back into the forgotten place that they had come from. It wasn’t possible. I had opened a door to a part of me that I don’t think I’ll ever be able to close again.</p> <p>I will one day pass this card on to my son and tell him this story. I will make sure that he knows where the perfect imperfections came from. I will make sure that he knows that I’m always listening, whether it’s always obvious or not. To my own father I say, “Daddy, thank you for listening when I talked.”</p> <p>That night in 2007, before I knew it, I had stuck it in a top loader for safe keeping. This time I wouldn’t let other things get in the way of its significance in my life. This time it won’t go into a shoe box and be forgotten. This time, I won’t forget what the sentences say.</p><p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPECM_Gyk_YUkDUOX-qp29Mt4BQUfpzMLarhyM-K4GNAwUNbc0ot-f05_KA3iHFf8pjej1jWbXPDWCqyqLrh1UT6OfLnhokD4IdEVgyfjkbKbfQfq2RkNRn8ElWNijdaNT_cFxCEJHPQs/s1600-h/tom.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPECM_Gyk_YUkDUOX-qp29Mt4BQUfpzMLarhyM-K4GNAwUNbc0ot-f05_KA3iHFf8pjej1jWbXPDWCqyqLrh1UT6OfLnhokD4IdEVgyfjkbKbfQfq2RkNRn8ElWNijdaNT_cFxCEJHPQs/s400/tom.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5220832717257775058" border="0" /></a></p></div> </div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5985131230075481051.post-19867177081847634092008-06-20T01:35:00.000-05:002018-09-11T01:15:05.096-05:00My Blog Hasn’t Learned to Walk Yet…Just Give it Time…<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0Azsjj3UMyDjqju3FDFnrtPExoMXV19gJ5jxPPecAdcYx_acAFrLKCB7EVGPLJVysE6KYHs8qKdyZiGEwzXBUgBcMj95qheUQZ4d0NgBMRAqzA79kYud5jON2Km807zZUYHtwrOthpG4/s1600-h/baby.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 100px; height: 109px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0Azsjj3UMyDjqju3FDFnrtPExoMXV19gJ5jxPPecAdcYx_acAFrLKCB7EVGPLJVysE6KYHs8qKdyZiGEwzXBUgBcMj95qheUQZ4d0NgBMRAqzA79kYud5jON2Km807zZUYHtwrOthpG4/s320/baby.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5220817930749913106" border="0" /></a>Treasure Never Buried is officially one month old/new! I am amazed at how much the site has grown in it’s first month. I can’t begin to explain how grateful I am to everyone that has visited the site. Even those that have “stumbled upon” my site, “googled” to get here, or unwittingly clicked a tag somewhere in WordPress. Regardless of how you got here, I’m glad you came. I hope that I’ve captivated your attention enough to keep you coming back. If you like TNB, please pass the word along to anyone you know that might enjoy the blog! <p>When I say one month, I’m considering that this blog was created four weeks ago tonight. Eventually, a “month” will be literally that. I’ll consider June 30th the <em>end</em> of the first full month. The last few days of May will be considered my “training wheels” phase. But for now, if you would allow me, I would like to bask in what I consider one of the greatest accomplishments of my life to this point.</p> <p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiePjkSP6i23Y-X2QWcnH8xbOiVdr0-m0BaUAbZbWGOQjn2q0a1WwEkKgqH_bZjXDKYn5Vl1FofGkHt3aYPCrMqxVkxA-I_nbrUHQvkiJZNV0RBedPkAAEvqhNL-TzpzE9LizTqBHuSqhs/s1600-h/1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 221px; height: 334px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiePjkSP6i23Y-X2QWcnH8xbOiVdr0-m0BaUAbZbWGOQjn2q0a1WwEkKgqH_bZjXDKYn5Vl1FofGkHt3aYPCrMqxVkxA-I_nbrUHQvkiJZNV0RBedPkAAEvqhNL-TzpzE9LizTqBHuSqhs/s320/1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5220817937675235538" border="0" /></a>To celebrate, I would like to relay a brief history of the blog for anyone interested.<br /></p> <p><span style="text-decoration: underline;"><em><strong>THE PAST</strong></em></span></p> <p>TNB was created on May 22nd after the comments of <a href="http://completist.wordpress.com/" target="_blank">Mario Alejandro of WaxHeaven</a> regarding an <a href="http://completist.wordpress.com/2008/04/25/a-great-essay-about-the-baseball-card-industry/">essay that I wrote</a> for <a href="http://www.sportscardfun.com/default.aspx" target="_blank">Sports Card Fun</a>. My First post, <a href="http://treasureneverburied.blogspot.com/2008/07/ive-sat-here-with-my-fingers-on-home_08.html" target="_blank">Here I Am, Rock Me Like a Hurricane</a>, was created on May 22nd. It was soon followed by a <span style="text-decoration: line-through;">brief</span> long post, titled <a href="http://treasureneverburied.blogspot.com/2008/07/why-i-left-and-why-im-back.html" target="_blank">Why I Left, and Why I’m Back</a>, detailing my life in the hobby so far. To date, I have written 25 posts total. This will be the 26th.</p> <p>As of tonight at 11:45 pm, TNB has had 2,272 visitors. I have no idea what’s considered “successful” or “popular” in this genre. For all I know, everyone could be laughing at the red head (I prefer Strawberry Blond, it’s sexier) thinking he’s doing some good with 2,000+ hits in the first month. For me, it’s alot and I’m truly grateful!</p> <p>The Top Posts have been <a href="http://treasureneverburied.blogspot.com/2008/07/300-hits.html">300 Hits!!</a>,Who Am I?, and <a href="http://treasureneverburied.blogspot.com/2008/07/voice-of-collector.html">The Voice of The Collector</a> while the most active have been <a href="http://treasureneverburied.blogspot.com/2008/07/voice-of-collector.html">The Voice of The Collector</a>, <a href="http://treasureneverburied.blogspot.com/2008/07/take-me-out-to-ballgame-part-2.html">Take Me Out To The Ball Game - Part 2</a>, and <a href="http://treasureneverburied.blogspot.com/2008/07/take-me-out-to-ball-game-part-1.html">Take </a><a href="http://treasureneverburied.blogspot.com/2008/07/take-me-out-to-ball-game-part-1.html">Me Out To The Ball Game - Part 1</a>. Take Me Out To The Ballgame - Part 2 will always be favorite and I’ll probably never find a way to top it. I think this will stand as my crowning achievement. I still cannot read it without tears in my eyes at the end.</p> <p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtaETNQcCJ23DvSQwtc3agotVp8jtP2ZuJ-n14g5og-yARb1oVQeauIeG4hmLdM05cicxP0e9F2LF2bSaaGu2-Bu94l3qRUrupIvRI48_mWc_HtXZNFfzWoeRblFt9MY4ac_6ZB_AAftc/s1600-h/2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtaETNQcCJ23DvSQwtc3agotVp8jtP2ZuJ-n14g5og-yARb1oVQeauIeG4hmLdM05cicxP0e9F2LF2bSaaGu2-Bu94l3qRUrupIvRI48_mWc_HtXZNFfzWoeRblFt9MY4ac_6ZB_AAftc/s320/2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5220817940003783650" border="0" /></a>TNB’s greatest day occurred on Wednesday, May 28, 2008 when 212 visitors made their way to the site. This was mostly due to <a href="http://completist.wordpress.com/2008/05/27/wax-heaven-is-doomed/" target="_blank">this post at WaxHeaven on May 27</a>.</p> <p>So far, the readers (that’s you, stand up and take a bow) have left a total of 85 <span>comments. Special Thanks to Dave, the author of a great new blog at </span><span><a href="http://fielderschoice.wordpress.com/" target="_blank">Fielders’ Choice</a> who has left almost 1 comment per post since I started this blog.<br /></span></p> <p><span style="text-decoration: underline;"><em><strong>PRESENT</strong></em></span></p> <p>Another Drink of water. Knowing I should be in bed considering I have to be at work in a few hours. Enjoying the randomness of <a href="http://www.pandora.com/" target="_blank">Pandora</a>. Itching to bust my new box of 1990 Topps.</p> <p><span style="text-decoration: underline;"><em><strong>FUTURE</strong></em></span></p> <p>I’ve spent so much time writing my own blog that I’ve neglected to read many of yours. That ends tonight. Effective tomorrow, I will figure out exactly how RSS works and I’ll get feeds to <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGC-pZZv6YoxC3mL_GaQzo3o_e-QZyhdrLnIFC3vfHmjwtomEa0M5wk2DnhsYbjSrCUzBRdsgqY7m2j2xhZHPS0X6o5TCaWl_uiF7eCvdzE7bJlxVt9VdZF6UDQ192mOkVJxOBMZgTpgU/s1600-h/3.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGC-pZZv6YoxC3mL_GaQzo3o_e-QZyhdrLnIFC3vfHmjwtomEa0M5wk2DnhsYbjSrCUzBRdsgqY7m2j2xhZHPS0X6o5TCaWl_uiF7eCvdzE7bJlxVt9VdZF6UDQ192mOkVJxOBMZgTpgU/s320/3.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5220817939892445202" border="0" /></a>stay current with each of your blogs. This includes pretty much anyone in my “Grand Slams”. If you’re not there, it’s not because I think you’re doing something wrong. It’s just that I haven’t got around to reading. If you have a blog that you want me to check out, please email or post and let me know. I haven’t found a single sports card blog yet that I don’t like.</p> <p>I plan to work on some new features that will eventually become monthly, weekly, or possibly even daily sets. One such idea is a “Forgotten Set of the Month” feature. I know this is a retread and many of you have something similar. I hope to bring something innovative and new to the idea.</p> <p>The “Building our 1990 Topps Set” feature will continue. I’m working tirelessly to insure that it’s flawless. I’m a perfectionist so this may be difficult. I won’t spoil it by outlining how the future posts will be structured but to suffice it to say that the above mentioned ‘90 Topps Wax Box will be a good one.</p> <p>TNB WILL EVENTUALLY DELVE INTO BOX BREAKS AND PRODUCT REVIEWS! So far, the one box break I did for 2008 Topps Series 2 Jumbo didn’t go so well. Funds have been the main issue keeping this from happening. I haven’t had much luck with selling through NAXCOM so my “more cards” account is pretty low. Plus, I still owe the family account $80 for the stupid Jumbo Topps Box. Shot in the dark, but if anyone wants to contribute to the fund or if you have a spare <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4hNKoMiu0AM1X3zuLhiEVb4Wy5c_ErCQh8P5VCHmWwyqcPQRFOHj5SWVBMg3cd-i7bePGZuJfZ47HCA4NkWXguFk7WDQM95TYWOQj3cLBhd37ytjWZJ9KQtNLHNrFh0qKB9Zv3yRlzTc/s1600-h/obits.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4hNKoMiu0AM1X3zuLhiEVb4Wy5c_ErCQh8P5VCHmWwyqcPQRFOHj5SWVBMg3cd-i7bePGZuJfZ47HCA4NkWXguFk7WDQM95TYWOQj3cLBhd37ytjWZJ9KQtNLHNrFh0qKB9Zv3yRlzTc/s320/obits.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5220817935294179938" border="0" /></a>hobby box lying around that you want “your’s truly” to open, please, please, please let me know…</p> <p>That being said, I have set up an eBay account to unload some cards in order to get more. I hope to have that up and running very soon.</p> <p>I plan to start a new category devoted to Obituaries. I want to honor those who have devoted their lives to the sports we all hold so dearly.</p> <p>And finally, I plan to spend a few posts bringing you information regarding various services, sites and programs that I have found interesting and/or useful in maintaining my collection. These will be random and very sporadic and hopefully someone will get some use out of them.</p> <p>That’s not all, I assure you. That’s just all I’ve come up with so far. If you have any ideas or suggestions for things you would like to see on TNB please feel free to contact me at papajvscards AT gmail DOT com .</p> <p>Once again, thank you to each and everyone that has supported Treasure Never Buried! I <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoa_MFXprWBVAGWmDG0BQpyOnjXQx0_MNx5UHfYV_dolMXF7FVFnYOeEADw12O8OJ2G1u3N-dIxItYpjk6MJFp4_rAKZXXHaT0XwD18lF3qypbNjAC4NsHTaSYSkA5r68oVSIL3I8jhEo/s1600-h/4.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoa_MFXprWBVAGWmDG0BQpyOnjXQx0_MNx5UHfYV_dolMXF7FVFnYOeEADw12O8OJ2G1u3N-dIxItYpjk6MJFp4_rAKZXXHaT0XwD18lF3qypbNjAC4NsHTaSYSkA5r68oVSIL3I8jhEo/s320/4.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5220818532371792562" border="0" /></a>couldn’t do this without you guys and gals reading! Stay tuned for more…</p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5985131230075481051.post-90970531464273543222008-06-17T00:28:00.000-05:002018-09-11T01:14:24.876-05:00Take Me Out To The Ballgame - Part 2This post may not make sense unless you’ve read the first post in this two part series. I’ll give you a few minutes to go read that one if you haven’t done so already…Go ahead, I’ll wait…<div class="entry"><div class="snap_preview"> <p>Finished, already? Great! Moving on…</p> <p style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFD-GPISpoDNGb4iGtcpT0XigBd4iCZbY_ElP2ERjU5bdAprbFw3HKink01JRGDXEYk91MwEwysBJ3ah2xAiIAUWaus0D8_tONZnX25MOEWs19segP6Sa6TV8_TUqRbPKfe2pUqSdrusk/s1600-h/1.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFD-GPISpoDNGb4iGtcpT0XigBd4iCZbY_ElP2ERjU5bdAprbFw3HKink01JRGDXEYk91MwEwysBJ3ah2xAiIAUWaus0D8_tONZnX25MOEWs19segP6Sa6TV8_TUqRbPKfe2pUqSdrusk/s400/1.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5220814883152750530" border="0" /></a></p> <p style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJN8PvAnDljPdIGM9L5k8Xbc8qn8jexps-NCapLzl3Gy41wAowT2KkdnxNVOoiTxsXXSuHdVSPsndegMJhXc51lX5nOG8kUTB-m2LD_GQHl1IwfNykwdpUTx5yIY-4F-6Jsc8wD6hGEuA/s1600-h/2.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJN8PvAnDljPdIGM9L5k8Xbc8qn8jexps-NCapLzl3Gy41wAowT2KkdnxNVOoiTxsXXSuHdVSPsndegMJhXc51lX5nOG8kUTB-m2LD_GQHl1IwfNykwdpUTx5yIY-4F-6Jsc8wD6hGEuA/s400/2.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5220815095928360562" border="0" /></a></p> <p>As a father, if you’re worth worth the rock they’ll carve your name into one day, you want your children to have more than you did when you were a kid. No matter what your childhood was like, rich or poor, loving or broken, happily forgotten or cherished, you want more than that for your children.</p> <p>As a child, I longed for the chance to attend a Major League Baseball Game. Rangers, Royals, Padres, anywhere, I didn’t care. I had an aunt and uncle in Atlanta that we visited during a few summers, yet for some reason, we never made it to a Braves game. Every time that we went to Karen and Tim’s house I would stow away all of my Dave Justice and Chipper Jones cards in my backpack hoping to meet them and get their autographs. Even when I knew we weren’t going to a game, I took them just in case. I was so worried that I would run into one of them on the street somewhere unprepared.</p> <p>My aunt’s, Joy and Sharon, have lived in Illinois for as long as I can remember. To this day, I <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUEpp8WG3CDSYi3R1FH-uHZSd1Cmdspdi_cqfqq0OkXvl-FfuYphyphenhypheniFi1MSK4-IBXAkt3tHVVFN8jN0tBrU-m-2HDUQ9E2spRn7UddWGvaCu7vuHudvKDAMFz1q9RY2KnqHOyv-rkQpUY/s1600-h/3.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUEpp8WG3CDSYi3R1FH-uHZSd1Cmdspdi_cqfqq0OkXvl-FfuYphyphenhypheniFi1MSK4-IBXAkt3tHVVFN8jN0tBrU-m-2HDUQ9E2spRn7UddWGvaCu7vuHudvKDAMFz1q9RY2KnqHOyv-rkQpUY/s400/3.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5220815371436317634" border="0" /></a>never made it up there to visit them. As a kid, I would lie in bed at night in New Albany, MS and think about what it would be like to go there and get Frank Thomas’ autograph. I can’t tell you how many times I fell asleep and dreamed of this, holding the “Big Hurt’s” cards in my hands.</p> <p>Now, as a 28 year old man, I sit on my porch at 4 in the morning writing about the hobby of my youth, realizing that those days are gone forever. No matter how much I wish for it, I can never go back. Phil Plantier, Cal Eldred, and John Kruk are gone. So is the eleven year old lying in his bed, holding Frank Thomas cards.</p> <p>But here I sit almost 18 years later, lucky enough to be able to give my son those opportunities. As long as he enjoys it, I can live vicariously through him. I can go back in time and do those things I never got to do.</p> <p>As patiently as possible, Connor tried to understand the game from my explanations. He sat in my lap and screamed everything that I did. “Hit a homer, Quentin!” “We need a Base Hit, K.K.!” And my favorite, “Come on, Ump!! What kind of call is that!?!” Daddy’s little man.</p> <p>Middle way of the game, Spider Man and the Incredible Hulk made their appearances at the top<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxD-b3aAiRVL2P2kIHeZZLFDnwCTg1Oy9p7hReX4wbMFA1oz-apWgvh1pUOKlZWwrfD5TD4kNHO4X_w7wAktfHXH2jwziNIb76QwiqbPYNe8QwKyeXt5zzNVdJKo2Pc46yRZMDR_uNCVg/s1600-h/4.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxD-b3aAiRVL2P2kIHeZZLFDnwCTg1Oy9p7hReX4wbMFA1oz-apWgvh1pUOKlZWwrfD5TD4kNHO4X_w7wAktfHXH2jwziNIb76QwiqbPYNe8QwKyeXt5zzNVdJKo2Pc46yRZMDR_uNCVg/s400/4.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5220815615225381058" border="0" /></a> of the stands. This is what he came for. He chased the Hulk around growling. He posed for pictures and he got both of their autographs. When he met Spider Man, he was literally speechless. My son is NEVER speechless.</p> <p>Late in the game, when the Braves had taken a 3-0 lead, I held Connor in my arms. He was as exhausted as I was. We stood on the very back row and he waved his “Number #1 Fan” Finger and his Braves “Tomahawk”. All of a sudden, everyone started doing the “Tomahawk Chop”! I was amazed! I could have sworn that they had quit allowing it for fear of offending Native Americans. Apparently, I was wrong.</p> <p>My eyes almost filled with tears when Connor, still resting comfortably in my arms, began to follow suit with all of the fans at Trustmark Park. He had no idea what he was doing. The 11 year old in me was revived as I stood there teaching him the “chant”. We were both just little boys at a baseball game.</p><p style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFDHI2pfIAKKNsfw9xEEcftHv64KBypdI9WDgVwTcdmVU4MvsBiuimVgB6RdI0Yft7QzSKmBsUsVPktV-_ONLoDT-crs8tMCSaz3ELCNS68OKbrcbi-Y0xA95WhhIvd8d_WzOZzM4EhRY/s1600-h/5.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFDHI2pfIAKKNsfw9xEEcftHv64KBypdI9WDgVwTcdmVU4MvsBiuimVgB6RdI0Yft7QzSKmBsUsVPktV-_ONLoDT-crs8tMCSaz3ELCNS68OKbrcbi-Y0xA95WhhIvd8d_WzOZzM4EhRY/s400/5.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5220816140550948610" border="0" /></a></p> <p>The night dwindled down. The 7<sup>th</sup> inning stretch rolled around and once again I held Connor in my arms as Lori and I sang “Take Me Out To The Ballgame” with him. Eventually the game was over. The fireworks display afterwards went as quickly as it came. We slowly made our way to the exits.</p> <p>Everything worth doing ends too soon.</p> <p style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqz-49kcvgyVgHP9sx1jWn8Jye2-8YrQlNCB6QD3y_qA2qMxruwDgi_6iYnFq0q91nSrJWYHSnp2uaxSolboHXmLfIDsLMnZStjFcPuRzGMZWyG3d4sJ42-q-LCCfCwShKNe1ojRf9dYk/s1600-h/marvel+autos.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqz-49kcvgyVgHP9sx1jWn8Jye2-8YrQlNCB6QD3y_qA2qMxruwDgi_6iYnFq0q91nSrJWYHSnp2uaxSolboHXmLfIDsLMnZStjFcPuRzGMZWyG3d4sJ42-q-LCCfCwShKNe1ojRf9dYk/s320/marvel+autos.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5220816513624626034" border="0" /></a></p> <p>I revel in the fact that this won’t be our last trip to a ball game. We’ll probably make 1 or 2 more Braves games before the end of the season. We’ll watch MLB and NCAA together on TV and before you know it the World Series will come and go. Hopefully, we’ll end up in a Major League Stadium at some point.</p> <p>Next spring, our 2<sup>nd</sup> season of T-Ball will begin. Not long after that, he’ll wave to me from the window of his school bus and then I’ll be teaching him how to drive. Connor will graduate and move off to college and in the blink of an eye I’ll get that phone call saying that he’s found “The One”. Then I’ll hold my first grandson in my arms.</p> <p>I’ll bury my father and then my friends will all die one by one. I’ll find myself at a coffee shop talking about them. My “old man name” will be, J.L. Voyles. No one will call me Jason except for the beautiful woman with gray hair to whom I made the promise to spend my life with. We’ll dance in the dark to songs we fell in love to 50 years before. I’ll wake up one morning and she’ll be gone and my heart will never again look to the future, only the past. My hips and knees will cease to function correctly and Connor will take my car keys from me for the last time. Ultimately, I’ll lay down and close my eyes and people will cry and hold one another.</p> <p>And in those last few seconds, when my eyes close for the last time, I’ll find myself forever standing in the bleachers holding Connor, waving our tomahawk, proud that I was his father and that I gave him more than I ever had.</p> </div> </div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5985131230075481051.post-44311004766849518532008-06-16T10:46:00.000-05:002018-09-11T01:14:24.739-05:00Take Me Out To The Ball Game - Part 1I’m sorry, but TNB is officially a long winded blog. Guys and Gals, I can’t seem to figure out how to write short posts. I swear I’ll do my best to get better at it. I’ve decided to do this as a two part post so the best part will come later today:<div class="entry"><div class="snap_preview"> <p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguOGn-nEF7RrRouwD9NzmsaysfvrDMgmQh7YMFN8lFjWSxcbA5s9z-5xfIGP1dleZAw_wKuSWZKgNaqZHs0UOMATD9p4hR5koksGK_G6GKEe72XMa6jHilJ6MbBslOqwedE_YSyFGWonY/s1600-h/hanson.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguOGn-nEF7RrRouwD9NzmsaysfvrDMgmQh7YMFN8lFjWSxcbA5s9z-5xfIGP1dleZAw_wKuSWZKgNaqZHs0UOMATD9p4hR5koksGK_G6GKEe72XMa6jHilJ6MbBslOqwedE_YSyFGWonY/s400/hanson.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5220813269199068962" border="0" /></a>Anyways, here goes:</p> <p>I’m beginning to realize that most of my Father/Son posts will attempt to start with the following statement:</p> <p>“Tonight is a night that I will never forget.”</p> <p>My wife started to doubt me when I began doing something that I had never done in our 6 year history together. For no apparent reason, and with little to no warning, I started sitting cross-legged in the floor, sorting through pictures of grown men. That was 1 year ago.</p> <p>1 year later, my wife is on the phone with her brother Mark, who is currently in Canada. I just overheard her relaying to Mark how grateful she is that Connor and I have something so special between us now. My son and I have always been close and I’ve always made every effort to show interest in his interests. But, it hasn’t always been easy. I can only take so much Transformers before I give out.</p> <p>But, I digress. I’m proud that Lori realizes the importance of what I’m trying to show my son.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVvvN-ta3wHgyRLDgpywADQq9sdyAtEp6aDrO103yM7aE4CUWj2ANnwUzJTUgEPo5J69DN6LZfg4Gb3ju8uCAAmrJEG3qdW0tN50ASFqGRkxR1iX_Tmhy6fui9wCZ4raZjJL-eBQYWDcQ/s1600-h/davis.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVvvN-ta3wHgyRLDgpywADQq9sdyAtEp6aDrO103yM7aE4CUWj2ANnwUzJTUgEPo5J69DN6LZfg4Gb3ju8uCAAmrJEG3qdW0tN50ASFqGRkxR1iX_Tmhy6fui9wCZ4raZjJL-eBQYWDcQ/s400/davis.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5220813499150384690" border="0" /></a> I’m glad that she enjoys watching the bond grow deeper between us. I’m grateful to have such an understanding wife. But more than anything I’m glad that she’s a part of it. My wife isn’t just a spectator in our new hobby. She’s becoming more and more interested every day.</p> <p>All of that being said, tonight is a night that I will never forget. On Friday the 13<sup>th</sup>, June, 2008 we attended our first big league game. Now, mind you, it was just the Mississippi Braves versus the Tennessee Smokies. But to us, we were watching Game 7 of the World Series.</p> <p>I honestly can’t give you a play by play of what occurred during the game. With Connor there, it was constant bathroom and concession stand breaks. The game started at 7:05 pm but was hampered every 15 minutes by rain delays. They only stopped the action once but it was impossible to stay seated even with our massive umbrella. By the end of the game, I was utterly exhausted from traveling up and down the stairs.</p> <p>As far as highlights, there were very few to speak of. There were a few great catches in the outfield and one outstanding diving catch by the Braves second baseman. Nothing truly stood out from the action on the field, though. There were some good hits, some good plays, some bad calls by the umps, and lots of rain. There were some t-shirts shot into the stands with the cannons, between innings contests, and yes, more rain. It was a baseball game.</p> <p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4_Ts1QrHUjjOr2t5wVSLrRM-Qy1KyRBO94TGq-PSzyyL_4JiQazCuBU_3ZuSL1CIndPO2iszQxMOAp19NZVHGjlwcKtGqNly3Ywnl4i7GtMvdkTbgd4Us0l6H2ugufcJVVRm5fiYrvcE/s1600-h/fuld.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4_Ts1QrHUjjOr2t5wVSLrRM-Qy1KyRBO94TGq-PSzyyL_4JiQazCuBU_3ZuSL1CIndPO2iszQxMOAp19NZVHGjlwcKtGqNly3Ywnl4i7GtMvdkTbgd4Us0l6H2ugufcJVVRm5fiYrvcE/s400/fuld.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5220813713601225570" border="0" /></a>I got what I had come for during the worst of the rain delays. The stands were almost completely empty and so I made my way towards the Smokie’s dugout. I had made sure to check their roster and pull some cards for autos out before we left the house. I found Sam Fuld’s 2007 Bowman Heritage Prospects and a Tyler Colvin TriStar PROjections rainbow foil. Both guys were outstanding about giving me some signatures.</p>Subsequently, I made my way towards the Braves dugout. I had a Tommy Hanson 2007 Bowman Heritage Prospects and a Quentin Davis 2008 Bowman Prospects. I never got the chance to meet<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj238riRrunJolt4RxCk734drL415wTDYlPAkSRj4v247ZfTrNv0_CZ3feO3T8Q9VfEsenMmgb-Zt5G-DJ9fVUY9E8HjK8bCC9sW611JBpFnuBeI6bMJnaLzK7bX33UQjq8RwQ0YhWDA6A/s1600-h/Colvin.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 322px; height: 415px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj238riRrunJolt4RxCk734drL415wTDYlPAkSRj4v247ZfTrNv0_CZ3feO3T8Q9VfEsenMmgb-Zt5G-DJ9fVUY9E8HjK8bCC9sW611JBpFnuBeI6bMJnaLzK7bX33UQjq8RwQ0YhWDA6A/s400/Colvin.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5220813932460125794" border="0" /></a> them, though. Being a home game, the autograph area was overrun with kids wanting signatures. I was happy to stand back and wait for an opportunity. I glanced into the dugout and saw that there was only one player and a few of the coaches. Everyone else was in the team room. <p>The player was a Braves outfielder by the name of Reid Gorecki. THIS GUY IS A JERK! I swear, you would have thought he was Barry Bonds! All of the kids but two had now ran back up the stands to their parents. Two little boys, maybe 10 years old, waited patiently for him to sign their baseball. He stood in the dugout and stared at them. Finally, one of the boys called him by his jersey number. He took almost 5 minutes before he finally came to them.</p> <p>I swear I’m not making this up. He snatched the kid’s ball from his hands! He didn’t even sign it. He basically drew a line across it. He made it a point to sign as far from the sweet spot as he could. He then shoved the ball back into the kids hands, snatched the other kids visor off his head and scribbled on it as well. Mr. Gorecki then slammed the visor back on his head and walked off. He never said one audible word.</p> <p>DISCLAIMER: Reid Gorecki is a punk. If this guy ever makes it to the Bigs, please snub him. Any player that treats his fans, much less two young children that way, doesn’t deserve a fan following.</p> <p style="text-align: center;"> </p><p style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIJfCXorOQvmKwohfjtefAkYSKV8cCGSn8w__sRYwuvzCrCt22BWb9NJbPLtOJHus_vg-4nRSkJilh6jrzH6cRgHABotsm_kpbyjb_VlxKVZfuQjtPfTeyqxMbdH3bHPtDprc1DIv4dL0/s1600-h/gorecki.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIJfCXorOQvmKwohfjtefAkYSKV8cCGSn8w__sRYwuvzCrCt22BWb9NJbPLtOJHus_vg-4nRSkJilh6jrzH6cRgHABotsm_kpbyjb_VlxKVZfuQjtPfTeyqxMbdH3bHPtDprc1DIv4dL0/s400/gorecki.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5220814375332554674" border="0" /></a></p> <p>The highlights I want to share with the readers of TNB won’t show up on SportsCenter. They’ll never find their way into any type of record books. There are few pictures of it and no film capturing the action. They are memories that will forever be embedded in my heart and mind. If I end up with Alzheimer’s one day, these memories will still be there somehow, I know it.</p> <p>I’ll have the second part completed later today. Until then…</p> </div> </div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5985131230075481051.post-27105421241488979212008-06-10T02:54:00.001-05:002018-09-11T01:15:05.173-05:00Congratulations, Kid!!<p> </p>I’m officially back from the trip to visit my family in North Mississippi. Thank you for your prayers and consideration during this difficult time. I loved my aunt but we hadn’t seen each other much in the last few years. The most difficult part was watching my dad so upset over losing his big sister. There’s nothing more heartbreaking than watching your father cry. Thank you again for keeping us in your thoughts. <p>Now back to business. After a frustratingly injury prone career, Ken Griffey, Jr still managed to reach the 600 home run plateau. I honestly lost a lot of faith in him in the late ’90’s as I was exiting the baseball scene. I was shocked when I returned in 2007 that not only was The Kid still playing but that he was so close to reaching such a momentous milestone. What an amazing career!</p> <p>Tonight, I’m sure 90% of us bloggers are penning our “Congratulations” post of some sort. I know that I’m one of many as much as I know that Ken Griffey, Jr. will more than likely never read this post. I still want to personally say thanks to Griffey for nearly 20 years of memories, highlight plays, and stories that I will pass on to my son as the years progress.</p> <p>(Come on, Manny! You can still make 7<sup>th</sup> on the list…)</p><p style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXrHLOAbsGG1FeY8akBEB89k1olgdz9QOtbvDct9rHmEPy4TLlig4FoHV9eZYEsZ8Ng1p1drsVhVKIvszlLmv1h2jwsZe95lmw6uvX6ie5GF43KZHjPxTQpdFNZiBcJb95wPGjpVKsyf4/s1600-h/KG1+-+Griffey,+Jr.,+Ken.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXrHLOAbsGG1FeY8akBEB89k1olgdz9QOtbvDct9rHmEPy4TLlig4FoHV9eZYEsZ8Ng1p1drsVhVKIvszlLmv1h2jwsZe95lmw6uvX6ie5GF43KZHjPxTQpdFNZiBcJb95wPGjpVKsyf4/s400/KG1+-+Griffey,+Jr.,+Ken.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5220804518995302530" border="0" /></a></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5985131230075481051.post-38396755127431864642008-06-05T06:56:00.000-05:002018-09-11T01:14:24.702-05:00Building Our 1990 Topps Set - Part 1 - The Commons<p> </p>Tonight is a night that I will never forget. On my deathbed 900 years from now I will remember this night. Yeah, I’m holding out that science will figure out a way to keep me around that long. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuKLqm722yb0dMHk2l4ro-enUYPpUCMqrtQ60QLkKYz4otIAHQz6q7U17zqLg-FPpYNq7q3ZseE84w0ndd0X8fklSsZ5NUkqcRItxAuoTmif1IDB0VshMPlX9Mn2edQnK1A45rGsdEQJ4/s1600-h/thomastp.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuKLqm722yb0dMHk2l4ro-enUYPpUCMqrtQ60QLkKYz4otIAHQz6q7U17zqLg-FPpYNq7q3ZseE84w0ndd0X8fklSsZ5NUkqcRItxAuoTmif1IDB0VshMPlX9Mn2edQnK1A45rGsdEQJ4/s400/thomastp.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5220802701188496242" border="0" /></a>My 4 ½ year old son and I spent our first night sorting baseball cards together! <p>I've alluded to this post so many times in the past. I knew that the day would come very soon when Connor and I would sit down in the floor with a box of ratty old Topps cards and sift through them until all of the 1990 Series were pulled. Never once was I worried about bending the edges. Most of them were bent by my own 10 year old hands a long, long time ago. I wasn’t worried about creasing them, dinging the corners or anything that today’s collectors would consider baseball card blasphemy. We were only concerned with finding the right set’s cards.</p> <p>First we took our Topps box and stacked everything in the floor. I pulled a few 1990 Topps and explained to him how to tell them apart from other sets. He had some trouble with the checklists, but after 2 or 3 stacks, he was pulling them with ease.</p> <p>After the 6<sup>th</sup> or 7<sup>th</sup> stack, I began to notice his curiosity with certain cards. I watched him out of the corner my eye as he would stop and stare at some of them. He quickly pointed out that the Reds wore the same color jerseys as his t-ball team, the<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3XCmxZgCHPZ3PAEnrUGrj6W_ZUElnK9DmMQGhlGMvKugijrVQdhkUXmwwadifYgF1L98IFyq1vejMBRC-6YQsGHJqKAc4J6y505EUMHErN2_V9D1djDvLbZMURwyaVOQ5ri-Cv7Eim_U/s1600-h/3c9e_1.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3XCmxZgCHPZ3PAEnrUGrj6W_ZUElnK9DmMQGhlGMvKugijrVQdhkUXmwwadifYgF1L98IFyq1vejMBRC-6YQsGHJqKAc4J6y505EUMHErN2_V9D1djDvLbZMURwyaVOQ5ri-Cv7Eim_U/s400/3c9e_1.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5220802854198381058" border="0" /></a> Fireballs. He found numerous cards that made him ask, “Is this one you, Daddy?” I thought it was funny until he asked me about Mel Stottlemyre, Jr. “No son, that’s not me. It’s not even close. Thanks for the vote of confidence in Daddy’s looks, son…”</p> <p>I laughed when he pointed out that one guy looked like Mario from his Wii games. When I looked at it, I saw that it was, in fact, Mario. Mario Diaz. Oddly enough, the next card was Bo Diaz. He sat and listened intently as I told him how Bo was killed when I was just a little boy. Every question was “Why?” With four year olds, this is their favorite question. When he finally asked “How?” I really didn’t know how to say that a satellite dish fell on him. Instead, I went with electricity. That’s easier to explain away.</p> <p>We made two new stacks out of the pulled cards. ‘90 Topps in one and everything else in the other. I noticed that he was making a third stack off to the side. This one he called his “super special stack.” I picked it up and glanced through it. He really liked old Stadium Club sets.</p> <p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaOBDNo-6wfea3qzO-pz5qr9nXIf1koCN62DeAqLRNTOTX-3aiuYMtov6TiV118Hs1Q9BVdN2RfNZj1MGkLTaD4pzebitj4enTd6OAo5iPatsAXFxvF-JaWpzE0Rhv8VKshTxR3odgbEc/s1600-h/Image1-1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaOBDNo-6wfea3qzO-pz5qr9nXIf1koCN62DeAqLRNTOTX-3aiuYMtov6TiV118Hs1Q9BVdN2RfNZj1MGkLTaD4pzebitj4enTd6OAo5iPatsAXFxvF-JaWpzE0Rhv8VKshTxR3odgbEc/s320/Image1-1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5220803081612322386" border="0" /></a>And then we came across Steve Olin. I began to explain once again how a young baseball player died in an accident. Death is not a subject that my son truly understands yet. Thanks to these two baseball cards and the lives of these long forgotten players I can help him to understand.</p> <p>As the night wore on, Connor began to lose interest, as I expected. He got up and swung his play sword, jumping and flipping and babbling on about Ben 10. I sorted as quickly as I could through the “boring” sets to dwindle down the stack. I came across a bunch of old Stadium Club, Gold Label, and Stars that I didn’t realize were in there. I called him back to help me and gave him the stack of shiny cards I had found.</p> <p>That’s when he found it. THE CARD.</p> <p>I told him the name of the set, and he was off. He yelled, “Whoa! Mama, look at this one! It’s a ‘<em>Top Laser</em>!’” as he jumped up from the floor and ran to show Lori. “Yeah, Baby, that’s a pretty one!” she exclaimed. Throughout the remaining stacks he found a few more “Top Lasers,” each time repeating the process. These were the cards he wanted to keep for his own. I was happy to oblige.</p> <p style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOhIesLAOuGcEn-7_TfgS-nLGcJDPWSDfwWKUNnVbbNalfa2S1mEPvCzYFNIkMYQzG-UypbO00bR8SN71w9tlLDO1cPUs18lVKGQ5G8gaTzCFzra8YWOyYq6k-x9WwhrSXX0tFG2u7BDQ/s1600-h/ben10.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOhIesLAOuGcEn-7_TfgS-nLGcJDPWSDfwWKUNnVbbNalfa2S1mEPvCzYFNIkMYQzG-UypbO00bR8SN71w9tlLDO1cPUs18lVKGQ5G8gaTzCFzra8YWOyYq6k-x9WwhrSXX0tFG2u7BDQ/s400/ben10.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5220803293823572514" border="0" /></a></p> <p>We finished our first box around 9:30 and had one other box to sort. I knew that there would be little to no ’90’s stuff there, but we looked anyway. I was paying little attention to him, rifling through the cards quickly so that we could finish before Mama said “Bedtime.” I would hand him his stack, and then I would take one much larger. After his third stack I realized what was taking him so long.</p> <p>This is the best part. This is what made me realize that my kid is cut from the same mold of Redneck as I. Of all of the things he did or said tonight, this is the crowning achievement. This<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbPHYLdF8YKaJVDXkwDyZkEfet1DMKEomhrZGHRHQALBQ4QSzRwg_XMjzIf1KAyBSau3QlaEKyhDqfouQ7npdG6PXYKAvD5Mr_VKT6EBkf82EVb5PuM6di1ooYeallpy9yn_3R9JFN4Io/s1600-h/00695+-+Lofton,+Kenny.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 225px; height: 311px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbPHYLdF8YKaJVDXkwDyZkEfet1DMKEomhrZGHRHQALBQ4QSzRwg_XMjzIf1KAyBSau3QlaEKyhDqfouQ7npdG6PXYKAvD5Mr_VKT6EBkf82EVb5PuM6di1ooYeallpy9yn_3R9JFN4Io/s400/00695+-+Lofton,+Kenny.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5220803529603390338" border="0" /></a> made me realize that Connor is in this for the long haul.</p> <p>He had three neatly piled stacks of cards. One for ‘87 Topps, one for ‘86 Topps and one for ‘85 Topps. My 4 ½ year old was collating his stacks by set! In over 100 cards, he didn’t make a single mistake! He did, however, have a 4<sup>th</sup> stack on the other side with everything else. But hey, it’s a start.</p> <p>Eventually, the night drew to a close. I placed our ‘90 Topps chronologically in our “special” box. I took all of the other boxes back to the office knowing that this wouldn’t be our last trip into them. At some point, we’ll make two 1987 Topps sets, two 1984 Topps sets, all the way back to 1979 and all the way up to 2003. Two sets of each for every year between my birth and his.</p> <p>I didn’t know what to expect from this venture. I was terrified that he would get bored and burnt out, never wanting to do this again. I think that tonight was a step in the right direction. I didn’t “make” him do anything he didn’t want to do. I didn’t force the hobby on him. I did exactly what I said I would in my essay.</p> <p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzoZMtCb_efOr6ThOYPXrOXCDt_vY3MrCekZ8ZU5OMh5EcACg9QZOuvRTHzONrZO_xhesw0KSezNNdtl4l2CYrJjAVLkYNbyTmW49-42rPEAVzP6hpLTqi8In2D90mLVf90rKFASjCm-4/s1600-h/home+plate+fireballs.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzoZMtCb_efOr6ThOYPXrOXCDt_vY3MrCekZ8ZU5OMh5EcACg9QZOuvRTHzONrZO_xhesw0KSezNNdtl4l2CYrJjAVLkYNbyTmW49-42rPEAVzP6hpLTqi8In2D90mLVf90rKFASjCm-4/s400/home+plate+fireballs.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5220803707714850386" border="0" /></a>I introduced him to baseball cards and let the magic of the hobby do the rest. I’m proud to say that it worked.</p> <p>This is the first of, what I hope to be, a long series of “Father and Son” posts on Treasure Never Buried. I’m creating a new category that you can access on the right hand side of the site, if in the future, you want to read this series in order.</p> <p>I hope that you’ve enjoyed reading this post as much as I enjoyed experiencing it.</p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com7