For the love of the game III

I have a fetish. I have spent well over $1200 to satisfy my desires. I sneak away at lunch breaks to visit stores that sell these items. I spend nights in my room staring at them, feeling them and dreaming about them. I have boxes of them and hide them from my parents.

The fetish is with little pieces of cardboard paper, plastic and ink.

I love baseball cards.

Ever since my cousin first gave me her box of old, worn baseball cards, I have been a very avid collector and enjoyer of the hobby. However, it’s different for me. I simply collect for the fun of it. I do check the prices on the cards and occasionally I’ll be deluded enough to consider myself a serious dealer. (My modest collection hovers around $750 in value) But, I know my limits and I won’t spend more than a certain amount of money each time I visit The Strike Zone, a small card shop in Novato.

This small hole in the wall is the only place where I buy cards. The owner, John Yon, is a genial man whose lived in the Bay Area all his life. He has rows of collectibles, signed jerseys, paintings, cases of cards of every sport, individual cards on display and his finest memorabilia welcomes each new customer. Every time I visit, I ask him what the newest and hottest stuff that he has is. It’s always the same reply.

“It’s all about what you like and what type of collector you are,” he tells me.

I think about it every time, but it’s always the same result. I collect to get closer to the game of baseball. I tell him, if his store were in San Francisco, I’d spend every hour of free time I had simply staring at his collections. I know then, it’s not about the cards, it’s about immersing myself further into my favorite sport. So, while I spend what my mom calls “wasted money,” I collect to enjoy the game and the cards themselves because of my love for baseball.

In the future, I hope to expand my collection. I want to be able to proudly display my best and priciest cards in a glass case in my home when I grow older. But, it will always be about the game, never about the money.

For the love of the game II

It sits on my bed stand in an airtight glass container. Late at night, just before I go to bed, I take a glance at it and smile. Nothing brings me more instantaneous happiness than this object. It is a round cork covered in yarn and wool fibers with a leather covering held together with 108 stitches of red-waxed cotton. On it are two blue stamps, one the Major League Baseball insignia, the other, a stamp authenticating the item by Commissioner Bud Selig.

The most important thing among this random collection of raw materials is a scribbling made in a black sharpie marker, practically illegible save for a small number 55. It is Tim Lincecum’s autograph, and it both was a fun adventure acquiring it and quite the revelation to me.

It was the Giants 2008 Fanfest. I had told myself all winter that I was going to go. It was my last spring in San Francisco, and my last chance to catch one of these events since I had not been to one since 1997. It was a big event. The Giants were going to be a bad team and the only way to bring people out to the event was to draw them with big names. In years past, most marquee names would stay away, but this year, rookie phenom Tim Lincecum, the Giants’ ace pitcher would be there, along with Matt Cain.

The morning of the event, I called my friend several times. He didn’t pick up and assuming his parents had grounded him, I decided not to wait and find out. I was out in front of the park with over an hour before the event began.

Unfortunately, the line had already wrapped around pretty far. Sneaking into line, I decided to go over my gameplan until the gates opened.

I was aiming for these two pitchers: Cain and Lincecum. I would NOT stop for anyone else or anything else on the way. So, as the usher pried open the squeaky monstrous gates, the lines began moving and people started storming in.

I knew what I wanted and I was going to get it. There were several stands lined up for players to sign cards, baseballs and anything else. I started from one and worked all the way around. None of the signs said what I wanted to see. Finally, after having walked all the way around the park, passing all the long lines and all the booths, I arrived at the centerfield area. The Make-A-Bear workshop had been transformed into an autograph station. I checked the sign and immediately stood in line. Half an hour of waiting later, I was staring a short, skinny boy of a man with a mop on his head next to a big, built southerner, Lincecum and Cain.

I handed Cain one of his cards to sign.

“Dude, it looks like I have makeup on…” he joked. I laughed.

Next, I gave Lincecum a baseball that I had caught from a game. He signed it and proceeded to roll it back to me.

I stuttered and mumbled something about how good he was going to be this year.

He smiled and said, “Nice to meet you, bro.”

The rest of the day was a blur. I skipped lunch and walked around listening to players talk and watching interviews.

I got home that night and went over the day’s events with my friend who couldn’t go. After finishing the description, he asked what it was like to be that close to those players.

“Dude, they’re so normal,” I replied to him.

It was true. They were just as human as the rest of us. I realized how crazy the whole day actually was. I waited an hour outside gates, ran around a baseball park and stood in line for nearly an hour to have two people scribble on a card and a ball. It was absurd; they were both only about five years older than me.

While that put things in a bit of a better perspective for me, each time I look at the autographs I smile and say to myself, “But this is just a part of the game. And I love the game.”