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Once the best fun, we collected baseball cards, sacred for poor, working-class boys before we could afford to go to a real game, before TV. Collected all the cards, a big deal and cheap. We could stuff boxes full: all the stars, along with the bench jockeys, shuffle fantasies before our eyes, each face our own miracle catch or towering home run.<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n \u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n In the winter, when snow and ice pinned us inside, we made a game with them. Placed the cards on the floor, each player in his right position, even a catcher. We had our own All-Star team, changed<\/span>\u00a0line-ups\u00a0at\u00a0whim.\u00a0<\/span>We were the managers! Teams took turns. With our index finger, we flicked the batter card across the wooden bedroom floor, a dirt field in our minds.<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n \u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n Where it landed determined the play. Hit another card\u2014out! Land clean, a hit, depends how far it flew. A home run was atop the heating vent. Rooted for our favorite team: Pirates, Reds, Cubbies! Charted the league standings. Nine innings, whiling away winter. Played for hours until our cuticles bled from snapping floating heroes into the air. Heal in a few days\u2014Batter up!<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n \u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n We had no idea of value\u2014Cokes were a nickel. We did not know American\u00a0greed<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n would soon make some cards\u2014<\/span>Williams, DiMaggio, Mantle\u2014<\/span>if we did not bend or crinkle them, worth enough to pay for college fees.\u00a0<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n \u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n Comic books, then girls, took over. The cards sat in a box in the attic buried\u00a0in an Easter basket with fake green grass. It looked more like a field than the old, brown floor. But\u00a0a<\/span>\u00a0<\/span>\u202fsmall, attic fire incinerated them. Childhood dreams went up in smoke.<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n \u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n Years later, our own children collected cards:\u00a0\u201cMom, Dad, buy sets and keep\u00a0them;<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n they\u2019ll\u202fbe worth a ton!\u201d\u00a0As good parents we stored them safely, not in an attic, but cellophane-intact, like rare books with perfect spines.<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n \u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n Years later, a surfeit of cards\u2014America knew her business. Everyone collected and saved everything. The market crashed. Like a player who slid past second base\u2014Yer\u00a0Out!<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" Vern Fein Once the best fun, we collected baseball cards, sacred for poor, working-class boys before we could afford to go to a real game, before TV. Collected all the cards, a big deal and cheap. We could stuff boxes full: all the stars, along with the bench jockeys, shuffle fantasies before our eyes,… <\/p>\n