Friends, memories more valuable than any card
- Brett Hiner: A Work in Progress
- August 8, 2024
- 595
The summer 1987: maybe not the most significant year for pop culture enthusiasts. It was, after all, the summer where the fourth movie in respective film franchises officially killed off what shred of waning interest there still was in the subject (RIP “Police Academy 4,” “Jaws 4” and “Superman 4”).
It also was the summer where we learned that no matter what, “nobody puts Baby in a corner” … at least not until after the climactic final dance in “Dirty Dancing.” Contrary to what the Bill Medley and Jennifer Warnes song tells us, at least for 14-year-olds, it was not “the time of my life.”
My recollection of summer 1987 has nothing to do with the majesty of the Kellerman Resort and “Johnny and Baby’s” quest for dancing immortality, but rather in the magic found in the art of baseball card collecting.
I am not sure if it was because, due to my lawn mowing job, I was finally able to seek a little financial independence from my parents for those 40-cent packs or if it was because the 1987 Topps Baseball Card design was a true original — wood border and all — but the summer of ’87 was a “Sandlot” type of year, for card collecting and friendships.
Summer 1987 was the endless chase for that little Topps All-Star Rookie gold trophy on the cards of Jose Canseco and Cory Snyder, convinced it meant immediate millionaire status.
It was hoping for pulling the rainbow-colored cursive Future Stars logo Bo Jackson card and, whether a fan or not, holding the rookie card of perhaps the most freakishly talented athlete of all time.
It was adding another George Brett card — my favorite player of all time — to a collection already exceeding 500 different cards.
It was the adrenaline rush one felt when any of these moments occurred, feeling the giddiness Charlie Bucket must have felt when he pulled that most sought-after golden ticket from a Wonka Bar.
But more than anything, it was the reliance on neighborhood friends — friends you had to have in order to trade, barter, swap and negotiate your way to completing the 792-card set. It was not something one could do alone, at least for those with teenage wallets where lint exceeded dollar bills.
The year 1987 also was the year where, for the most part, sports card collecting only included three brand names: Topps, Donruss and Fleer. It was pretty simple for the young collectors out there.
However, as the decade came to a close, the influx of brand names and sets, subsets, and sub-subsets destroyed the hobby. By the early 1990s, it was no longer a hobby for kids and teenagers. Overproduced product devalued almost everything being released, so it eventually veered to the other extreme: high-end business, presenting numbered variants and parallels, game-used and autograph cards, and wax packs that sold for well over the change one could find in a couch.
While my George Brett collecting has never really gone away, summer 1987 was, for the most part, the final time I was really enthusiastic about the hobby. Older high school life meant stepping up to the plate and focusing on sports and activities, academics and work, and the hope/search for a prom date. The desire to sit back and enjoy opening some ball cards with friends headed to the bleacher section.
But recently, a funny thing happened when my wife suggested we hold a garage sale. I headed to the attic and dusted off the boxes and boxes of baseball cards, filled with the memories and hopes we only associate with youth and the friends with whom those moments were shared. I knew what I had to do.
Hopping on e-Bay, I placed a bid and ultimately won a box of unopened 1987 Topps Baseball Cards — 36 packs of unknown baseball bliss. I rang up those neighborhood friends — friends that no matter how long it has been since you have seen or talked with them, you fall right back into the place where your memories left off — and suggested a get-together.
So for a few hours in late July, brothers Brett and Scott Ward and I headed back to 1987.
Over some Donna D’s pizza and cans of Barq’s Root Beer, the culinary choices of our youth, we divvied up the 36 packs and laughed for the next three hours.
While looking at the cards, we admired the facial hair choices, cringed at the odd poses for those not lucky enough to earn an action shot and judged the random player tidbits on the back of the cards — Brewers pitcher Bryan Clutterbuck “enjoys racquetball.”
Scott, always the most huggable of our group, even gave the nearly 40-year-old gum a try. “Is it supposed to dissolve so quickly?” he asked before heading to the closest trash can.
Brett, always the more introspective of our group, reminisced about the days his dad would drive us to the nearest flea markets, fairgrounds and hotel conference rooms, always supportive of our search for the rarest of cards of our favorite players.
While the overwhelming majority of the packs yielded long-forgotten names and careers, the euphoria and high-fives that accompanied pulling a Canseco, a Snyder, a Brett and, yes, two Bo Jacksons provided the immediate flashback to our 14-year-old selves when the only thing that seemed to matter was a gold All Star Rookie trophy on a piece of cardboard.
Thankfully, time allows for perspective. What really matters — and was likely the case in 1987, hiding just beneath our teenage consciousness — is not the ripping open of a pack of cards, which is still pretty great, but rather those with whom those moments were shared and the laughter that came with them.
Brett Hiner is ready to begin his 28th year teaching English/language arts at Wooster High School, where he also serves as yearbook adviser and Drama Club adviser/director. When writing, he enjoys connecting cultural experiences, pop and otherwise to everyday life. He can be emailed at workinprogressWWN@gmail.com.