Baseball cards hold value beyond money

From the time I was about 10 until I was 16, the most exciting time of the year was early March. That's when the new baseball cards hit the market.

My older sisters loved Bobby Sherman, Michael Jackson and David Cassidy.

I loved baseball cards.

Due to baseball cards (and my passion for sports in general), I knew the name of every major league baseball player – at least those who were among the 660 cards printed annually by the Topps Company.

Baseball cards were fun and interesting. My collecting started slowly and built up steam. By the time I was in seventh grade, my goal was to get a complete set: All 660 cards.

Obsession? Maybe. I prefer to think of myself as driven.

My friend Dana and I competed (and teamed up), pushing each other to do better, to get more cards. We sometimes traded, but also worked together.

By the time I was 14, I stopped relying on my mom to buy cards at the grocery store and ordered cards directly from a distributor, in boxes of 1,000 or 1,500. I spent much of my savings on those cards, then waited for the UPS truck to drive to my remote home in early March. It was like watching Santa Claus come . . . if Saint Nick delivered boxes of baseball cards 10 weeks after Christmas.

I collected passionately, telling everyone that these would make me rich one day.

But it wasn't really about money. I loved baseball and loved collecting cards. I traded them with strangers (Dana and I took out an ad in a sketchy baseball card magazine to land more old cards) and dreamed of getting the rare Mickey Mantle or Willie Mays rookie card. More than anything, I loved my era: the mid-1970s.

In 1975, Dana collected 659 of the 660-card set, missing only Steve Foucault of the Texas Rangers. We spent months pursuing Foucault, an otherwise forgettable relief pitcher. I'm pretty sure that Dana never completed that set. His 1975 Topps mini set (distributed in only a few areas of the U.S.) was forever at 659, one short. Mine remained 12 short.

I put together complete sets in 1976, 1977 and 1978. Then, like nearly everyone, I slowed. Then I stopped. By the time I was a senior in high school, I had no interest in baseball cards – but unlike most people my age, I kept them. Separated by year in boxes, in numerical order.

I know that because I recently decided to sell my baseball cards after storing them for years in my garage (in a plastic tote, secured and dry, still in boxes in numerical order).

When I reviewed them recently, they looked just like they did when I was a teenager. The complete sets (and all the extras from those years) are still in order. My 1975 mini set is still just 12 short (including Foucault!).

When I checked them out, I didn't think of their financial value (which has dropped off a cliff in the past two decades). I thought about how much they meant to me when I was a teen. They were distinctly mine. They were my first investment. They were the way I learned about baseball and friendship.

They tied me to a place and time.

I will sell my cards in the coming months, hopefully to someone who appreciates them as a snapshot of time as much as a fiscal investment. I won't miss them, since they've been largely out of view for decades. My memories aren't financial, but what those cardboard treasures meant to me.

They meant springtime, baseball, a good investment . . . and that Steve Foucault was elusive.

Reach Brad Stanhope at bradstanhope@hotmail.com.