Mike DeNero's Neighborhood was created by superstar 
cartoonist Jim Hunt – check out his website at www.jimhunt.us. To view a synopsis of the comic strip, past months’ strips, and sketches of the four characters with whom you may have already become quite familiar (Bernie, Tony, Leela, and, of course, Mike), please visit our custom eBay page dedicated to Mike DeNero's Neighborhood by clicking here.
Mick The Quick, My Aunt, and My 1977 Kellogg’s Set
by Mike DeNero
A few years back, I crossed the line between being a collector and a dealer. I have often heard you can’t be both, and since the day that, I have subscribed to that belief, until recently.
While I no longer purchase sportscards or memorabilia for my own collection, I do maintain those that I own, many of which I attained as a kid, in one way or another (e.g., buying packs, getting free 1977 and 1978 Burger King Yankees cards with my Whopper, fries, and a Coke, to name a few). One such item I have held onto since my childhood is my 1977 Kellogg’s 3-D Super Stars Baseball Set (card #1, George Foster, sporting his trademark California sideburns, through card #57, Steve Carlton, sporting a baby-blue Phillies jersey along with his 1970’s-style moustache). It was the first complete set that I ever owned. It was given to me by one of my favorite people in the world, my Aunt Robin.
In 1977, I was a seven year-old Yankees fan who lived in the North Jersey town of Lodi. While I started collecting cards at the age of three (to read the story of my first pack, click here), I (and my beloved Yankees) were just starting to hit our strides – me as a card collector, they as Major League Baseball’s most exciting team (to read the story of me pulling my first Reggie Jackson card from a wax pack, click here).
While I spent all of my fifty cents allowance each week at the local five-and-dime on 1977 Topps baseball cards and began to amass a pretty decent selection of the set, it was nowhere near 
complete – surely an impossible task, given my measly four-bits allowance, yielding me one rack pack (49 cents), if I had some extra pennies on me, or two wax packs (if I am not mistaken, they were 25 cents each).
But one day during the middle of the Summer of 1977, my Aunt Robin (who lived in Virginia) called my mom and told her that she was going to order me the complete set of Kellogg's 3-D baseball cards, a single card of which was included in each box of Kellogg’s cereal, and that it would arrive by the time we made our next visit to Virginia. I was ecstatic to hear that I was getting a complete set of baseball cards (and as a gift, no less – all the better). But, I had no idea what 3-D meant, as I’d never seen a 3-D baseball card, nor had I ever seen a 3-D movie. Regardless, I was excited. 
A couple weeks later, my family and I arrived at my Aunt’s house for our typical summer stay. Upon our arrival, she presented me with the prize – all 57 3-D cards, which were the coolest looking cards I’d ever seen! The colors were vivid, the pictures incredibly sharp and detailed, and the 3-D effect made the players jump right off the surfaces of the cards!
I carried the set around with me everywhere – of course with Mickey Rivers, known affectionately to Yankees fans as “Mick the Quick,” on the top of the pile. Many of my favorite players at the time were included – the aforementioned Mick the Quick, Mark “the Bird” Fidrych, Steve
Garvey, George Brett, Dave Kingman, Thurman Munson, Rod Carew, Big Dave Winfield, to name a few. The cards were so vibrant and awesome that I never noticed the absence from the set of Reggie Jackson, Nolan Ryan, and Tom Seaver, to name a few, until I sat down to write this tale. Regardless, the set includes seven Hall of Famers and countless stars of the 1970s.
If you don’t own the set, pick one up – it will only cost you $50-$150, ungraded, depending upon condition. I’ve had my complete set graded by SGC (see scans scattered throughout this article). The cards still look fabulous … and, of yeah, they are not for sale!
In an effort to avoid being bested by their pal Leela, Tony and Bernie (the lovable twins from Mike DeNero’s Neighborhood) allow me to present Tony and Bernie’s “Big Apple” Stash. As the lads are twins, and are usually forced to share, why stop at toys, snacks, and sportscards? They will also take turns authoring this column, a monthly ode to their favorite vintage sportscards picturing New York legends. This month, it’s Bernie’s turn.
My 1969 Topps Nolan Ryan and 1969 World Series Game 3 Ticket Stub
by Bernie
Since I’m a Yankee fan through and through, I usually don’t waste my time on the Mets, but Nolan Ryan is the exception. Born January 31, 1947, twenty-eight years to the day that Jackie Robinson was placed onto this Earth, Nolan Ryan is 
pictured on his 1969 Topps card, presumably as a twenty-one year-old fireballer (I assume the photo was taken in ’68). The photo is great, a follow-through pose, taken at a time when young Nolan was wearing the number 30 and had pitched less than the 137 MLB innings the 1968 season with. Of course, he had 144 strikeouts – more than one per inning.
Later in the 1969 season, as the Amazin’ Mets cruised to the NL East division title, thanks to their skipper, Gil Hodges guiding them to a 100-62 record, young Nolan had yet to crack the Mets’ starting rotation, which included the legendary Tom Seaver, Jerry Koosman, and Carl Gentry. That didn’t stop him from performing admirably in the NLCS versus the Braves in Game 3, when he pitched seven innings in relief to get the win (it would take him twelve years to earn his next postseason victory) and provide the Mets with their first trip to the Fall Classic.
In that series, Ryan earned the save in Game 3, pitching 2 plus shutout innings against the Baltimore Orioles. The Game 3 victory gave the Mets a 2–1 lead in the Series, which they later went on to win in five games. That Game 3 appearance would be Nolan Ryan's sole World Series appearance.
Take a look at that card – what a beauty! Nolan Ryan pictured years before accumulating seven no-hitters, twelve one-hitters, 324 wins, and 5,714 strikeouts. An amazing record for an Amazin’ Met!
One of Rob Dewolf's passions is collecting cards of Cleveland Hall of Famer Napoleon Lajoie. A former minor league baseball player who advanced to Triple-A in the Padres organization, Rob's current job in the newspaper field requires him to get up at 4 a.m., six days a week. Hence the name of his column, which happens to be when he finds time to write about various aspects of the hobby. Rob lives in central Ohio with his wife and daughter.
Rarity doesn’t always mean that value is in the bag
by Rob Dewolf
Every so often I'll look at a card or piece of memorabilia in my collection and think, "Man, that should be worth more than it is."
This thought isn't sparked by regret, disgust or even puzzlement. I understand why the level of value often pales in comparison to the level of scarcity. Yet sometimes I'm left shaking my head.
Case in point: One of the coolest Cleveland Indians items I own is a shopping bag from Fishers Foods, a small grocery chain in my hometown in northeast Ohio. The brown bag is probably 
from the late 1960s or early '70s and features drawings of a full-size Chief Wahoo. It's in wonderful condition, and every time I look at it I marvel at how it survived.
I LOVE this thing. Ever since I bought it from another collector about 20 years ago, it's been one of my favorite Indians items. I'm pretty sure there can't be many around -- I mean, come on, a 40-year-old grocery bag? In near-mint condition? I ought to get it slabbed.
It's so "rare" and hard to find that I bet if I put it on eBay I'd get ... maybe $20? That's what I paid for it back in 1991, and I know the seller wasn't letting it go just for what he paid. My guess is he had $5 in it.
So how can such a rare, possibly unique item not be the cornerstone of the Dewolf retirement fund? Sadly, there's just not much demand for a decades-old brown-paper bag that features a drawing of a politically incorrect Native American.
Rarity is only half the equation when trying to figure out the value of a collectible. You've got to have demand, too. That's a pretty simple concept, one that I first learned in my eighth-grade General Business class when we covered the laws of supply and demand. Simple, yes, but still easy to forget and sometimes hard to accept.
Sellers often are most likely to develop amnesia when it comes to establishing the price of an item, choosing to remember only the rarity aspect.
"You know there can't be many of these out there," is a common refrain.
"You're right," I sometimes reply," and there probably is an even smaller number of buyers."
But again, I understand how easy it is to get caught up in the lure of scarcity.
I'm a sucker for Indians items that originally were sold as souvenirs. I don't know why, I just like them. Sometimes, though, you wonder what the manufacturer was thinking.
Case in point II: a balloon in the shape of a dirigible that was sold during the 1948 World Series. The one I have is unused and in the original packaging, leading me to believe that someone brought it home from the game as a present for his kid, who looked at it and immediately tossed it into the toy box.
Again, pretty rare item and very unusual. And worth probably less than an old grocery bag.
That's not to say that there's little to no value in a collectible when demand isn't terribly strong.
Case in point III: The pride and joy of my Indians collection is a 1948 World Series ring. My guess is no less than 50 and no more than 100 exist.
Rarer than the ring, though, is the original artwork for the award. The former Balfour executive who sold it to me explained that the company typically would draw up a handful of possible ring designs and present them to the management of that season's World Series champ. The brass would pick a design from the presented artwork, and the chosen one would be kept in Balfour's files.
The ratio of artwork to actual rings is at least 1 to 50. Yet a ring ($3,000-$4,000) will sell for seven or eight times what the artwork would. Why? Because it's not cool to wear an 14 x 18 drawing of a World Series ring on your hand. Even though the artwork is worth more than, say, a souvenir balloon from the same year, the value just isn't proportionate to its rarity.
Long ago I adopted a philosophy that if I wake up tomorrow and my baseball collection is worthless, I'll still be happy that I own each and every card and piece of memorabilia. Because of this, it's easier to focus on compiling and enjoying a collection rather than worrying about its value. So the whole "This should be worth more than it is" thing is more of a musing and less of a malady.
That said, I'll still look at my 1950s Chief Wahoo yellow necktie and wonder how I was able to buy it for only $30. There just can't be many of them "out there."
Leela’s Tips & Tricks is Leela’s first foray into writing a monthly column – she usually just appears in Mike DeNero’s Neighborhood. As such, she does not have an impressive resume … yet. But give her a break; she’s only five-years-old! We hope you find her vintage collecting tips useful, her butchered attempts at composing sentences in what she calls “Canadien-French” amusing (if not refreshing, albeit confusing), and her unabashed love for her Montreal Canadiens admirable. Enjoy!
Buy Cards, Not Bags
(Translation: Cartes d'achat, pas des sacs)
by Leela
Bonjour, collectionnuers de cartes! It’s me, Leela, providing you with some vintage cardboard education … my tip o' the month. Voilà!
Well, my beloved Canadiens are no longer playing golf in the off-season – we are now officially eight days 'til next year! (Attendre l'année prochaine!)
My tip is that you should only buy cards, which are not a pain in the rump to store in your house, or a closet, or even a cabinet. I mean seriously – look at Rob DeWolf’s article on that Indians stuff he collects. Nuts, huh? Where exactly would you store a brown paper bag? Un sac en papier brun appartient sous l'évier, au mieux, oui? I myself only collect cards (except for all of my wire photos of Maurice “the Rocket” Richard, of course! Je ne peux pas oublier de mentionner ceux-ci.
Gotta go now – and please heed my strong advice. My dry cleaner just called to say that my vintage red wool Maurice "the Rocket" Richard #9 Montreal Canadiens hockey sweater is ready for opening night! Ce nettoyeur à sec est un sot, mais au moins il devient mon chandail proper. Tout va bien dans le monde quand je peux porter mon chandail avec fierté Richard.
Au revoir … Vive Les Habitants! C'est tout!
1967-Style Red Sox Rockers Custom Card
by Bob Lemke
My list of pending custom card projects is likely to outlive me. I've got dozens of baseball and football player photos squirrel away in files both physical and electronic. My custom card output has slowed some in the past year or two, probably averaging something less than one new card a month. And that doesn't include my "rehabilitation" projects, remaking some of my earlier cards from a time when my skills weren't as far along as they are now, or in cases where clearly superior player photos have become available.
But while my to-do list is seemingly perpetual, I can never seem to strictly adhere to it. Something frequently comes along that strikes a chord and I drop everything else to take it on.
That was the case a month six weeks back when I found on eBay a very sharp photo of the Red Sox outfield of 1967 -- Carl Yastrzemski, Reggie Smith and Tony Conigliaro. The image of that photo on a late-Sixties style multi-player feature card (a term I invented for a Baseball Cards magazine article in the early '80s) leapt to mind and I was hooked.
I was the successdul bidder on the photo and while I waited for it to arrive, I did my homework. I quickly determined that the format for the card should be 1967. That's the year Tony C. was beaned and he didn't play at all in 1968. The trio was back in the Fenway outfield for 1969, but I decided to go with the '67 style.
Putting the back together was a challenge because of the space limitations and the necessity of covering three players. As always, I printed out stats from the SABR data base, then tried to copy the spirit of Topps writers of that era, who were writing for 10-year old boys, not adult card collectors.
My original version of the card front had the "RED SOX ROCKERS" in red type, matching that on the Boston uniforms 
in the photos. When he viewed the prototype on my computer, SCD editor T.S. O'Connell, himself a baseball artist, pointed out the card title seemed hard to read, with the black-outlined red letters largely coming out from the navy blue sleeves.
My next choice was to go with a light blue, picked out of the sky in the photo, and that seems to have been a great improvement. Maybe the red letters caused the eye to strain too much towards the title in an effort to read it, but to me, the blue letters at bottom, along with the blue sky above, seem to better frame the players and allow the eye to be drawn to that central element. I hope you agree.
*****
Bob Lemke is a collector of bubblegum cards in the 1950s-1960s, Bob Lemke's hobby today is creating cards of current and former “players” in those "golden age" styles. He currently edits the vintage sections of the Standard Catalog of Baseball Cards and maintains a hobby blog at boblemke.blogspot.com.
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Contact us today to discuss your collection. You can call us at (571) 449-3470 or e-mail us at MDsportscards@gmail.com. We look forward to speaking with you.
Mike DeNero's Neighborhood was created by superstar cartoonist Jim Hunt – check out his website at www.jimhunt.us. To view a synopsis of the comic strip, past months’ strips, and sketches of the four characters with whom you will soon become quite familiar (Bernie, Tony, Leela, and, of course, Mike), please visit our custom eBay page dedicated to Mike DeNero's Neighborhood by clicking here.
Behold the Black Babe Ruth … and the Puerto Rican rival to the T206 Honus Wagner.
By Mike C. DeNero
1.
Two decades ago, The Great One bought the great one. Wayne Gretzky, the most prolific hockey player ever, purchased (with Bruce McNall) the world’s most cherished baseball card for an eye-popping $451,000. After changing hands again, this 1909-1911 T206 Honus Wagner sold for a shocking $2.8 million in 2007. Rarely does a collector peruse a memorabilia magazine without seeing a photograph of this American Tobacco Company product, which, along with hundreds of other cards in the T206 set, was peddled in loose packs of cigarettes during the time when Model Ts replaced horses. Today it remains the most celebrated piece of cardboard in the business, and arguably the most valuable sports memorabile in history.
Nicknamed “The Flying Dutchman” for his outstanding speed, Johannes Peter “Honus” Wagner was one of baseball’s greatest baggers. One of the original inductees into the National Baseball Hall of Fame, the mostly Pittsburgh shortstop played in the National League from 1897 to 1917, when he retired owning a supermajority of all offensive records that matter. Adding to his nifty glove-work and blazing speed, he hit over .300 in 17 consecutive seasons, led the league in slugging six times, and won five league batting titles.
Nearly a century later, however, few would argue that Wagner was a better player than, let’s say, Babe Ruth or Willie Mays. And although he was popular for his time, he never reached the cultural-icon status of Joe DiMaggio; nor as the son of German immigrants does he have a heritage-based following that rivals that of Sandy Koufax and Hank Greenberg (Jewish), Roberto Clemente (Latino), or Jackie Robinson (African-American). Indeed, more Americans of German heritage probably identify with Ruth or Lou Gehrig. Similarly, few would point to the aesthetics of the card as a value enhancer. Although the lithograph of a stern, ruddy-faced Wagner against an auburn backdrop does have a Mona Lisa-like aura to it (what was he smirking about?), this offset portrait of a young man, hair parted, in a buttoned-to-the-Adam’s-apple, gray “Pittsburg” (sic) jersey with wide, dark-blue collar is not to be mistaken for a da Vinci. Well, what about vintage, you ask? Consider this: a 1909-1911 T206 Ty Cobb, which graded the same as the T206 Wagner by the same grading company (PSA 8), sold in February 2010 for $25,076.40. That’s certainly not chump change, but it falls roughly $2.5 million short of the Wagner.
So what accounts for the T206 Honus Wagner’s stunning value? For many, the answer can be found in tobacco (or more precisely, not in tobacco). At some early point, probably at the behest of Wagner himself, the American Tobacco Company pulled the T206 Wagner from production. Although historians disagree as to Wagner’s motivation, many believe that the chaw-chewing shortstop didn’t want his image pasted on baseball cards used to promote smoking. In any event, today only about 50 T206 Wagners are thought to exist, and so the answer is simple: the T206 Wagner is so valuable primarily because it’s so rare.
In fact, it’s almost as rare as the 1950-51 Toleteros Josh Gibson.
2.
Like Honus Wagner, Joshua Gibson was a professional baseball player who played most of his career in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. Like Wagner, Gibson became a superstar playing at his hometown Forbes Field. Like Wagner, Gibson eventually was inducted in the National Baseball Hall of Fame (36 years after Wagner, in 
1972). Unlike Wagner, however, Gibson was African-American and never played a day in the major leagues. He died of a stroke at the youthful age of 35 on January 20, 1947, just 85 days before Jackie Robinson debuted with the Brooklyn Dodgers and forever smashed the MLB color barrier.
One of the biggest stars in the Negro Leagues from 1930-46, Gibson’s prodigious power earned him the nickname “The Black Babe Ruth.” Because the Negro Leagues did not consistently compile game statistics, much of Gibson’s 17-year career with the Homestead Grays and Pittsburgh Crawfords is hazy, subject to debate, and the thing of legend. But as Larry Schwartz notes in an ESPN.com article on Gibson, there was “[n]o joshing about Gibson’s talents.”
Officially, the MLB Hall of Fame claims that he swatted “almost 800” career homers. Legend has it that he hit nearly 900 dingers. The Hall of Fame credits him with a lifetime batting average of .359. Other sources, however, argue that it was closer to .385, the highest in Negro League history. The Sporting News, 30 years later to the day, claimed that on June 3, 1937 Gibson hit a home run 580 feet at Yankee Stadium. Legend has it that, three years earlier, he hit the only fair ball out of the House That Ruth Built. Stats and heroics aside, the best evidence of Gibson’s greatness is the testimony of Hall of Fame players that witnessed him play. “He hits the ball a mile,” said flamethrower Walter Johnson of the Washington Senators. Satchel Paige, a former Gibson Negro Leagues teammate before going on to dominate the major leagues, went a step further in describing Gibson. Paige said, simply: “He was the greatest hitter who ever lived.”
One cannot—indeed, should not—revisit Gibson’s legacy without recognizing the depriving effects and sickening stain of Jim Crow. Even writing or saying the term “Negro Leagues,” for instance, is an uncomfortable exercise for many (including the author). But for those who were a part of the Negro Leagues (as players or fans), it is a source of pride. And why not? They claimed one who, according to Paige and others, had no equal: The Black Babe Ruth. And while historians grapple with the accuracy of Gibsonian legend, only those who watched Gibson play know the real story.
3.
Felix Vega, Jr. grew up a Josh Gibson fan. Vega, who was born in New York City, has a heavy build and stands two inches beyond six feet. Nearing 73 years of age, his eyes are still sharp and brown but his hair is now gray. When asked to describe his father’s appearance, Vega’s oldest son will tell you, endearingly, that his “old man is a cross between Pavarotti and Perry Mason.” After his birth, Vega’s parents took him back to their native Puerto Rico, where he has lived an active life and been blessed with a large family, including five children. Through it all, though, Vega has never forgotten the memories of his own childhood in Puerto Rico, where amidst the baptisms, first communions, graduations, and patron saint festivities, one activity predominated: baseball.
Vega grew up in Santurce, a working class barrio in San Juan. And his childhood routine mimics that of many children on the island at the time. During morning school breaks, Vega would practice pitching in the schoolyard. After school, he would study a few hours and then play baseball with his friends. After dinner, he would listen to baseball on the radio. On the weekends, his dad would often take him to the park where he would . . . you guessed it. There was another notable fact about Santurce. It is home to the Cangrejeros de Santurce (“Santurce Crabbers”), a Puerto Rican Winter League baseball team that for a few years in the 1940s boasted an American slugger named Josh Gibson.
By the time Vega was old enough to hit live pitching, Gibson was already a legend in Puerto Rico. In the 1941-1942 winter season, his batting average was .480, he belted 13 home runs, and was the league MVP. By 1948, a year after Gibson died, Puerto Rico had hosted other future Hall of Famers, including Vega’s favorite player, Willard “Home Run” Brown. That year, the talent and excitement surrounding the Puerto Rican Winter Leagues prompted the production of what are now extremely rare baseball card sets: the 1948-1951 Toleteros (“Sluggers”), a collection of the Puerto Rican Winter Leaguers.
When Vega was ten, he shined shoes to afford the Toleteros cards that he religiously bought at la tienda local. This practice continued for three years during which time Vega became the proud owner of the 1950-1951 Toleteros Josh Gibson. The card depicts the prodigious slugger, bat in hands, body torqued, a sly smile on his face, in his trademark explosive follow through. For sociologist fodder, the picture of Gibson is against the backdrop of a chain-link fence and surrounded by white borders. Within the white borders, the name “Joshua Gibson” is prominently etched in black.
Like Josh Gibson himself, there are many unanswered questions surrounding the Toleteros sets (e.g., how many cards were issued?). But looking back over seven decades of life, Vega has all the baseball answers he needs. He knows he’s the original owner of one of the rarest baseball cards known to man. He knows it’s a card of a player that many consider one of the greatest players of all time; a player who actually played in Vega’s childhood barrio in Puerto Rico.
He knows he possesses the most prized card of the Black Babe Ruth. He’s one of about 12 people on the planet who can say that.
In an effort to avoid being bested by their pal Leela, Tony and Bernie (the lovable twins from Mike DeNero’s Neighborhood) allow me to present Tony and Bernie’s “Big Apple” Stash. As the lads are twins, and are usually forced to share, why stop at toys, snacks, and sportscards? They will also take turns authoring this column, a monthly ode to their favorite vintage sportscards picturing New York legends. This month, Tony takes a stab at waxing poetic about one of his all-time favorite players. Unlike Bernie, Tony’s spelling skills are well honed, especially for a 5-year-old. Enjoy!
My Man, El Duque
by Tony
"El Duque" was the quintessential Yankee - at least that's what my daddy tells me. My daddy says that never has a more dynamic, entertaining, gutsy, and effective pitcher donned the Pinstripes than #26. Whether it be due to his unique pitching motion (or rather, pitching motions), his hop-and-a-skip over the foul line on his way to the dugout after closing out an inning, or his sheer dominance in the postseason, El Duque will live in the hearts of Yankees fans (like me and my daddy) forever.
I really like his 1999 Topps baseball card because the picture captures El Duque in all his regalia - high leg kick, ready to hurl a devastatingly deceptive, not to mention effective, pitch at a helpless batter who was cruelly given nothing but a 34 ounce piece of lumber with which to attempt to hit it. Poor batter!
Yep, El Duque was one in a billion - a showman with a flair for the dramatic that was 
only surpassed by his ability and heart. Because of his uncanny ability to make the art of pitching appear to be an effortless task, it is easy to overlook the fact that El Duque's journey from Cuba to the Yankee Stadium pitcher's mound was wrought with terror and uncertainty.
El Duque was Cuba's greatest pitcher - but sadly, his career was cut short after the Cuban government blacklisted him from baseball after his half-brother, Livan, defected to the United States. Finding himself working at a local mental hospital with no possibility of playing baseball again, El Duque escaped from Cuba with his wife on Christmas Day 1997. Their journey to freedom came courtesy of a small boat that landed them in Anguilla Cay, and uninhabited island in the Bahamas. They were rescued three days later.
Fast-forward thirteen years, and El Duque, who is now somewhere between 41 and 50 years old, has not pitched in a Major League game since 2007. However, don't bet that he won't return to the big leagues despite his age (whatever it may be) and injuries that plagued him over the past five years. A couple months ago, the Washington Nationals signed him to a minor league contract. He started in the GCL, the Gulf Coast League, and has moved up to the Nats' Double AA affiliate in Harrisburg, where he has (as of the date of this writing) pitched 8.1 innings in relief, struck out 11 batters, and has a cool 1.08 ERA.
Why would he toil in the depths of the minors at such an advanced age? He loves to play! As El Duque said recently to a reporter, "In Cuba, we had 14-hour bus rides with no air conditioning, no food, no music, no anything. This? This is nothing. This is fun. We get to play baseball in new shoes and clean uniforms."
I hope the Nats promote him in September -- I would love for my daddy to take me to the ballpark to see him pitch ... it would be pretty cool!
Yunesky Maya, Me, and the Offending Ball
(Sunday, August 22, 2010)
By Mike DeNero
There it was, resting in the weeds a foot behind the right field chain link fence, parked under the wooden billboards, which extended just above the top of the fence, the first game-used ball I would ever bring home from a baseball game. Moments 
before I found it, it had been launched there by one Seth Loman (no relation to Willy), a 24 year-old first baseman who plays for the Winston-Salem Dash, the Class A, Carolina League affiliate of the Chicago White Sox. The problem is that he hit it off my newest favorite baseball player, Yunesky Maya.
Maya was born and raised in Pinar del Rio, Cuba, which means that when he made it to the Cuban National Series (Cuba’s MLB equivalent) he played for his hometown team, the Pinar del Rio Vegueros (cigar makers). For being one of the league’s star pitchers, he was paid somewhere in the ballpark of $10-$15 per month (as is everyone else in the league), a salary which was drawn solely from the work he did at his day job. I am curious to know what his “day job” was, as while the island’s best ballplayers are celebrities, they generally live in poverty, as does most of the island’s population (for example, Orlando Hernandez, know affectionately as “El Duque,” perhaps the greatest Cuban pitcher ever, lived in a one room shabby pink “house” that was divided into two rooms by a makeshift wall of concrete blocks). 
Maya ultimately became Cuba’s best starting pitcher, amassing a career 48-29 record and a 2.51 ERA, enough to earn him a spot on Cuba’s national team, appearing in the 2006 and 2009 World Baseball Classic – in the summer of 2009, he was expelled from the national team for “grave problems of indiscipline,” (i.e., attempting to defect) as reported in Granma, Cuba’s official newspaper.
Shortly thereafter, in September 2009, he fled Cuba and ended up in the Dominican Republic awaiting clearance to play baseball in the United States. While I do not know any details of how he defected, I know that his family remains in Cuba and, based upon several accounts I have read Cuban baseball players’ journeys to freedom, I imagine the story is not a pretty one.
A few weeks ago, my team, the Washington Nationals, signed Maya to a four-year contract worth a reported $6 million. He arrived in D.C. on July 31st, where he was introduced to the Nationals crowd during the middle of the 4th inning of the Nats/Phillies game. Although he reportedly speaks no English (but plans to learn quickly), he stated, through an interpreter, that he wanted to meet President Obama. Clearly, Maya thinks big – we like him! 
Fast-forward to today, Sunday, August 22, 2010. Maya is making his debut for the Class A Potomac Nationals after pitching a handful of innings in the Gulf Coast League earlier in the week.
I arrive at G. Richard Pfitzner Stadium (capacity: seemingly about 2,000 people) in Woodbridge, Virginia at 12:50 p.m. for the 1:05 start (parking in the grass, $4 bucks). Maya is finishing his warm-ups (see photos above) and is on the “bullpen” mound about five feet from the first row of seats just past first base.
Although he has a blister on his pitching thumb the size of a quarter (see photo of Maya looking at his thumb during warm-ups at left), he’s ready to pitch and appears to have pumped himself up for the occasion.
I head to my seat three rows behind first base ($12 bucks). I estimate that the “crowd” totals 1,000, but if I count the puppies and dogs (it was Bring Your Dog Day) and the team mascot, Uncle Slam, there are probably 1,050. Maya makes his way to the mound, but on his way, he stops at the foul line, bends over, and grabs some dirt. He repeated this ritual each inning – it reminded me of when El Duque would do a hop-skip-and-jump over the foul line on his way back to the dugout after retiring the side.
After Maya mows down the first three Winston-Salem Dash hitters in about five minutes, I make my way to the Ben’s Chili Bowl hut and order a chilidog and Diet Coke ($9 bucks – pretty steep prices for the minor leagues). As I walk away from Ben’s, I feel a hard thump on my backside. As I quickly turn around, I notice that Uncle Slam has provided the “coaches slap,” but since his blue, four-fat-fingered hand is so immense, it felt more like a wallop than a smack! Incidentally, a few innings later, he performed WWF wrestling moves on some local teenagers who were mulling around. I guess he let me off easy.
After I down the chilidog, which I think was actually a half-smoke, I returned to my seat to watch Maya mow down the competition in the 2nd and 3rd innings. In the middle of the third, one of the kids in the stands won a Fruit Roll-Up for being able to simultaneously rub the top of his head and belly for 10 straight seconds! An amazing feat!
In the top of the 4th, the wheels started to fall off for Maya. After a series of hard-hit balls, bloops, and walks, the Dash put a crooked number on the scoreboard – 5 runs. Maya finally retires the side, and I make my way to the funnel cake stand and order a mini funnel cake ($3 bucks) (see picture at right above).
To start the 5th inning, Maya gives up a blast just over the right field fence to Seth Loman. “Maya’s out of here and so am I,” I say to myself. As I exit the park (by simply opening a chain link fence door), I think to myself, “why not go try to find the home run ball – it’s obviously the first HR surrendered by Maya on U.S. soil.”
So, I make my way to the fence and there it is, sitting in the weeds about one foot behind the right field chain-linked fence, a heavily game-used Rawlings Official Carolina League baseball (see picture at left). As I pick it up, I realize that it is the first time I am bringing a ball home from a baseball game – I have been to nearly 100 Major League games, and have gone home empty-handed each time, though I have been close on occasion).
As I make my way back toward my car, which is parked closer to third base than first, I re-enter the ballpark (by opening the fence door again) and peek onto the field to make sure Maya has been pulled for a relief pitcher. He has, so I start walking toward home plate to eventually exit closer to where my car is parked. As I pass the Nats’ clubhouse (essentially, an air-conditioned box of a “room” connected to the 
back of the dugout), I see Maya standing outside the door in his uniform (minus his jersey - see picture at right) trying to make a call on his mobile phone (I can just picture him saying to himself, “Six million bucks and I still can’t find a cell phone that gets reception inside the P-Nats’ dugout!”).
I quickly snap a photo on my i-Phone (see photo at left) and after determining that his call has not gone through, I approach him to get him to sign the offending ball. Just as I reach him, another fan shoves a ball in front of him to sign. Maya obliges and I can tell that he has a quality signature, as he took his time to sign his name nicely on the sweet spot. After the fan thanks him, he takes the offending ball and pen from my hands and signs it right on the sweet spot, just centimeters away from some dirt spots and the bat mark where Loman’s bat smacked it. I thank him, shake his hand, and make my way to my car.
After the game, I learn that the quarter-sized blister on his pitching thumb prevented him from throwing two of his five pitches (the change-up and splitter). I guess if you take 60% of your arsenal to the mound, even the Winston-Salem Dash can score some runs off you.
Regardless of his performance in Class A today, I know that Maya will be successful here. His next start will be in Class AAA Syracuse and he will probably be called up to the Big Leagues on September 1st. He will be successful because he has experience, guts and high expectations for himself and he’s certainly not going to be rattled if he goes out to the mound a couple times in September and gets shellacked! I wish we had 24 other Yunesky Mayas on the Nationals.
If you would like to see some more photos and film footage from the game, as well as a transcript of Maya’s post-game press conference, please click here to a fabulous blog called Nats320 – A Washington Nationals Blog.
Mike DeNero's Neighborhood was created by superstar cartoonist Jim Hunt – check out his website at www.jimhunt.us. To view a synopsis of the comic strip, past months’ strips, and sketches of the four characters with whom you will soon become quite familiar (Bernie, Tony, Leela, and, of course, Mike), please visit our custom eBay page dedicated to Mike DeNero's Neighborhood by clicking on the comic strip above or by clicking here.
In an effort to avoid being bested by their pal Leela, Tony and Bernie (the lovable twins from Mike DeNero’s Neighborhood) allow me to present Tony and Bernie’s “Big Apple” Stash. As the lads are twins, and are usually forced to share, why stop at toys, snacks, and sportscards? They will also take turns authoring this column, a monthly ode to their favorite vintage sportscards picturing New York legends. This month, Tony takes a stab at waxing poetic about one of his all-time favorite players. Unlike Bernie, Tony’s spelling skills are well honed, especially for a 5-year-old. Enjoy!
T206 Fred Merkle (Portrait)
by Tony
Hello everyone; Tony here. Glad to be back writing the current installment of my column, which Mike DeNero wants me to write every other month (my twin brother, Bernie, writes it on the months I get a break). My card of the month is the T206 Fred Merkle (portrait), who is pictured as one of the newest members of John "Muggsy" McGraw's New York Giants.
I absolutely love this card for a few reasons. First, it passes with, flying colors, two of the tests I give to all cards: is it visually appealing? The bright red background enhances the detailed portrait of a presumably 20-year-old rookie (the card was released in 1909 or 1910, so the portrait was likely 
taken in 1908 – I assume the card’s image is derived from a Carl Horner portrait). Which brings us to my second reason for loving this card and test number two: does the card picture an athlete early in his career? Certainly.
Third, and most importantly, through this card, Merkle tells me a story. He tells me that he is barely two years out of high school during the summer of 1908 and that New York City is quite far from his home in Toledo, Ohio – and while he relishes the opportunity to play for the greatest club in the game, he misses his family and the sweet comforts of home, especially during the long train rides to St. Louis and Chicago. He reveals that he was scared to death to meet his new manager, John “Muggsy” McGraw, when he arrived at the Polo Grounds in late September of the previous year, after the Gants purchased him from Tecumseh in the Southern Michigan League. He reveals that he is quite in awe of some of his new teammates – Christy Mathewson (even though he’s known as the “Christian Gentleman”), Rube Marquard, “Iron” Joe McGinnity, “Turkey” Mike Donlin, Roger Bresnahan, and Fred Snodgrass, to name a few – especially since he’s the youngest member of the team. He admits that he’s a bit scared of the filth and the hustle and bustle of New York City. He explains that while he’s aware that he’s a green rookie, he knows he can play ball with the best the league has to offer and he is frustrated that he has yet to crack the club’s starting lineup, even for one game. He tells me that he’s excited to have his portrait taken in the Carl Horner Studios in Boston today (September 1, 1908), so that he can send a copy to his family back home, and that he hopes to be in the starting lineup versus the Boston Doves (soon to be known as the Boston Braves) later today at the South End Grounds. He knows that if Mr. McGraw will just give him a chance to crack the starting lineup, he’ll give a good account of himself and earn a starting spot … for good.
One of Rob Dewolf's passions is collecting cards of Cleveland Hall of Famer Napoleon Lajoie. A former minor league baseball player who advanced to Triple-A in the Padres organization, Rob's current job in the newspaper field requires him to get up at 4 a.m., six days a week. Hence the name of his column, which happens to be when he finds time to write about various aspects of the hobby. Rob lives in central Ohio with his wife and daughter.
Local Shows Were About More Than Cards, Cash
by Rob Dewolf
As we celebrate the coming of another “National,” let us also pause with a moment of silence for a long-departed friend of the hobby: the local, monthly card show.
This week the 31st National Sports Collectors Convention will take place. Tens of thousands will flock to the Baltimore Convention Center. Enough money will be spent to make Congress blush.
Hall of Famers from three major sports will be on hand to trade their autographs for a fee, while card companies and auction houses will have smiling representatives stationed behind their tables in an effort to generate goodwill and business -- not necessarily in that order.
Cities that have hosted previous Nationals include Los Angeles, St. Louis, Chicago, Anaheim and Detroit. At one convention, 10 T206 Wagners were on display.
Needless to say, the National is a big deal where lots of big deals are made.
So like many, I celebrate its annual arrival. But I do so with a trace of regret.
Regret that the National pretty much has become the one "card show" I attend each year. Why? Because there simply aren't that many card shows anymore. Certainly not like the ones that helped lay a foundation for my love of sports collecting.
Growing up in northeast Ohio in the 1970s, I was a typical kid collector. Bought packs of cards at the Quik Stop on Route 62 and Monty's gas station on Wales Road. Traded doubles in study hall and put together multiple sets of whatever was in season. Discovered through hobby publications like The Trader Speaks and Sports Collectors Digest that my card transactions didn't have to be with just friends and classmates.
Buying cards via the mail certainly expanded my cardboard horizons, but it wasn't until the Canton Sports Card Collectors Club was formed and started hosting monthly card shows at the Nazir Grotto hall did the final piece fall into place. Attending these shows with Bob and Bill, two other "serious" card collectors at my school and the ones I hung out with most often, was something like a regularly scheduled epiphany. Here was a place we could go and pay fifty-cents admission to see tables and tables of baseball cards we could buy -- right then and there! No having to ask our moms to write checks, then mail the payments and wait weeks for our purchases to arrive. And no settling for just the current offering from Topps. We were able to choose from a cornucopia of T cards, Goudeys, Bowmans and 20-year-old Topps cards.
Heaven had opened a branch in Canton, Ohio.
And it got better. It didn't take long for Bob, Bill and I to figure out that we could just as easily be behind the tables as in front of them. Why not? We were buying regularly through the mail and amassing fairly impressive "inventories." Bill, thanks to stories about his collecting in a couple community newspapers, was able to buy several large collections. Bob, the truly innovative thinker in our trio, saw the wisdom in purchasing large lots of 1940s and '50s cards through the mail and breaking them down to sell individually at shows. I know: It sounds simple now. But at the time it was an impressive display of business acumen.
So there we were, three high school freshmen -- the only "dealers" in the room who depended on their parents to drive them to the show -- sharing two tables. The night before we would meet, usually in the basement of my house, and lay out our respective merchandise on the floor, within a 3-by-16-foot space marked off by masking tape. If you don't think a lot of painstaking thought was spent on deciding whether to place a binder of 1960s minor stars or a box on 1970s high numbers at the front of your selling space, well, you've never been a teenager who only recently discovered that good money could be made without sweating your butt off mowing lawns or shoveling snow.
The Sunday afternoons spent wheeling and dealing usually were capped by a half-mile walk down the street to the Spaghetti Tree. After packing up our unsold wares and safely hiding them in one of the dusty rooms down a dark hallway of the Nazir Grotto, the three of us would wait for our ride home while gorging on pizza, pasta and enough Pepsi to gag Denny McLain. Most of the time we weren't even hungry; it simply felt great to spend some of the money we had just earned … BY SELLING BASEBALL CARDS!
The joy ride continued for a few years, and the thrills were numerous (including arriving one day to find that Bob Feller also had paid the requisite $5 fee to set up shop, but that's a story for another time). In my mind, the beginning of the end came when the first Beckett guide was published. While heralded at the time, it also laid the groundwork for monthly card shows to become little more than tables covered with monster boxes full of cards of Mike Greenwell, Tommy Glavine, Gregg Jeffries and the like.
But before rookie-card fever hit the hobby, followed by the modern card entering a coma in the 1990s, the local card show was the place to be.
Sure, they still exist in some form in some locales. In fact, there's a fairly successful one held every couple of months about a half-hour from my house. I've debated about going but have thought better of it. I know I'll compare it to its predecessors, and that wouldn't be fair.
Plus, there's not a Spaghetti Tree within miles.
Leela’s Tips & Tricks is Leela’s first foray into writing a monthly column – she usually just appears in Mike DeNero’s Neighborhood. As such, she does not have an impressive resume … yet. But give her a break; she’s only five-years-old! We hope you find her vintage collecting tips useful, her butchered attempts at composing sentences in what she calls “Canadien-French” amusing (if not refreshing, albeit confusing), and her unabashed love for her Montreal Canadiens admirable. Enjoy!
A New Venture
(Translation: Une nouvelle entreprise)
by Leela
Bonjour, collectionnuers de cartes! It’s me, Leela, providing you with some vintage cardboard education … my tip o' the month. Voilà!
Well, my beloved Canadiens are still playing golf in the off-season -- but just wait 'til next year! (Attendre l'année prochaine!)
Anyway, before I get back to enjoying my summer camp activities and the local pool club, I must provide you with my top of the month. My tip is that if you were forced to choose between all characteristics of a card’s condition (e.g., corners, centering, surface) and could only have one be perfect, the one you should choose is registration. There’s nothing that drives me more nuts than looking at a blurry card! Cartes floues obtenir me bonkers! I mean seriously, how can you stare at a blurry card?
Gotta go. My dry cleaner just called to say that my vintage red wool Maurice "the Rocket" Richard #9 Montreal Canadiens hockey sweater has been found – it’s been missing for a month! Last month, when I went there to pick it up, they handed me a Joe Pepitone jersey instead -- C'est stupide, incapable, âne. Je vais descendre à son magasin et l'ont battu à une pâte! So, I guess I’ll bring Mr. Pepitone back to the shop and swap him for my beloved Richard! Ah. Tout va bien dans le monde quand je peux porter mon chandail avec fierté Richard.
Au revoir … Vive Les Habitants! C'est tout!
1958 Topps All-American Roman Gabriel
by Bob Lemke
I've finally added a Roman Gabriel card to my checklist of 1955-style All-American football cards. But it wasn't easy.
I've always had G
abriel on my mental to-do list for the project, but had never run across a useable college photo. The Rams were always among my Top 5 favorite NFL teams in the 1950s and early 1960s, and when Gabriel finally got off the bench and became a starter, he became a player of more than moderate interest to me.
Maybe it was because he was the NFL's Joe Namath before there was a Joe Namath. He was literally tall, dark and handsome (he was once described as the "world's biggest Filipino) and his long hair made him stand out from the establishment quarterbacks like Johnny Unitas and Bart Starr, with their crewcuts. To a rebellious teen-ager (at least as rebellious as you could be in the mid-Sixties when you're white, middle class and living in a small Wisconsin city) who hadn't yet been brainwashed to hate pro football as a metaphor for The War, Gabriel was a player whose career I followed for a time.
I thought I'd struck paydirt in my card quest when I discovered Gabriel was included in the photo spread for Playboy's All-American team in the magazine's annual Pigskin Preview issue in 1961. I bought a copy on eBay for six or eight bucks, but when I got the magazine in hand, my hopes were dimmed considerably.
Creating a custom card from a magazine photo is always dicey. I knew from the preview I'd seen on line that Gabriel's image in the group photo was going to be small. It also turned out to be a bit fuzzy upon enlargement and the color printing was somewhat out of register. I diddled the image for a couple of hours last weekend, then plopped it onto the card's background. I didn't like the result (shown at left).
Another hour searching the Internet for a suitable image didn't turn up anything useful; everything was either too small or too low-res. Fortunately, the search turned up an image of the cover of the 1961 NCAA record book, with an action pose of Gabriel.
An eBay browse offered my choice from among a handful of copies. Most were priced in the $15-25 range, which is more than I like to pay for the materials I use. I spotted a copy that had some items clipped from the interior pages and my low-ball offer was quickly accepted.
I was able to colorize the black-and-white cover photo and achieve an acceptable result, the image shown here at top.
As is almost always the case, boiling down the copy for the back of the card to about 90 words was a challenge. Even though he never won an NCAA Championship or a Super Bowl, Gabriel had a great career and has led an exemplary life.
He was a three-sport star in high school and after sifting through college scholarship offers, elected to stay in his native state at North Carolina State. While he played freshman basketball and varsity baseball (a slugging first baseman, he once hit three home runs in a game), eventually he came to focus on football.
Even though the Wolfpack was mediocre during his three seasons as quarterback (11-18-1 from 1959-61), he caught the pro scouts' eye. He was both All-American and Atlantic Coast Conference Player of the Year in 1960 and 1961, and was academic All-American in 1960. He completed 285 of 506 passes in his collegiate career, for 2,951 yards. He threw for 20 touchdowns and ran for 15. During his days at N.C. State, his fans developed a new Wolfpack fight song, "Throw, Gabriel, Throw."
The Oakland Raiders made Gabriel the No. 1 overall pick in the 1962 AFL draft, while the L.A. Rams chose him with the No. 2 pick in the NFL draft. Back in those heady days of NFL vs. AFL bidding wars, Gabriel's football fortune was assured. He signed with the Rams, but later said that's because while he was being "baby sat" in a hotel room by the Rams' Elroy Hirsch, a phone call from the AFL with a $100,000 offer was intercepted by Hirsch, who being mistaken for Gabriel's agent, assured the upstart league that Gabriel was firm in his desire to play in the NFL.
Gabriel was among the first of the "big man" quarterbacks in the NFL, at 6'4" and 235 lbs. He had an incredibly powerful arm and took the Rams to two NFL Championship games. He was a four-time Pro Bowl selection and was league MVP in 1969. Plagued by knee and shoulder injuries, he went to the Philadelphia Eagles in 1973, when he was named Comeback Player of the Year, and retired after the 1977 season.
As a starting quarterback in Los Angeles, and given his physique and dark good looks, it was natural that Hollywood came calling. He played an unnamed prison guard in the 1968 LSD film trip Skidoo, and had his biggest role as John Wayne's adopted Indian son Blue Boy in the 1969 Western, The Undefeated, which also included in the cast teammate Merlin Olsen. He had a number of television appearances, including as a headhunter on Gilligan's Island, and also appeared in the Raymond Burr series Perry Mason and Ironsides.
Gabriel did some assistant coaching in the USFL with the Boston Breakers and Arizona Wranglers, and in the World League of American Football in 1991-92 was head coach of the 0-10 Raleigh-Durham Skyhawks.
Though slowed by a stroke in recent years, Gabriel has devoted enormous time and energy since his football days to raising money for charities in and around North Carolina. I'm glad I was finally able to add him to my checklist of '55-style college custom cards.
*****
Bob Lemke is a collector of bubblegum cards in the 1950s-1960s, Bob Lemke's hobby today is creating cards of current and former “players” in those "golden age" styles. He currently edits the vintage sections of the Standard Catalog of Baseball Cards and maintains a hobby blog at boblemke.blogspot.com.
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Contact us today to discuss your collection. You can call us at (571) 449-3470 or e-mail us at MDsportscards@gmail.com. We look forward to speaking with you.
Mike DeNero's Neighborhood was created by superstar cartoonist Jim Hunt – check out his website at www.jimhunt.us. To view a synopsis of the comic strip, past months’ strips, and sketches of the four characters with whom you will soon become quite familiar (Bernie, Tony, Leela, and, of course, Mike), please visit our custom eBay page dedicated to Mike DeNero's Neighborhood by clicking here.
Strasburg + Me = ?
by Mike DeNero
What does Stephen Strasburg mean to me? I’ve been seriously pondering that question since spring training.
I must confess that although I, as a wee lad, became a diehard Yankees fan in the mid-1970s, the Yankees and I started to drift apart when we both started seeing other people – me, the lovable, lowly Nats in 2005; the Yanks, players of whom I didn’t approve (e.g., Bobby Abreu, Randy Johnson, Johnny Damon, Jason Giambi 
– my Yankees were Louisiana Lightning, WPIX and the Scooter, Burger King cards in 1977 and 1978, the Reggie Bar, Mick the Quick, Big Dave Winfield, and, later, Jeter, Mariano, El Duque, and Matsui).
I moved to Washington, D.C. in 1998, and while I carried a torch for my beloved Bombers for the ensuing five or six years, the Montreal Expos (soon to be Washington Nationals) caught my fancy. Immediately upon the Nationals’ arrival in D.C. in 2005, I became a dedicated fan (and season ticket holder) who only occasionally secretly pined for the Bombers … at least until they became nearly unrecognizable to me, courting the likes of the aforementioned players, who I would never consider “Yankees” in the truest sense of the word.
I supported the Nats through thin and thinner -- tough times, save for Opening Night at RFK Stadium in 2005 and the opener in 2008 at the new Nationals Park (see picture of me in front of the Red Porch arm in arm with broadcaster and former Reds/Mets 3rd bagger Ray Knight, who is currently a Nationals broadcaster -- if you look closely to the right of Ray Knight, you can see the back of then Nats first baseman, Nick Johnson, who was presumably giving a pre-game interview on that Opening Night at Nationals Park).
One day, in late 2008 (another lean year for the Nats), my father, who still lives in New Jersey, told me that as one of the league’s worst teams, the Nats were 
in the “running” to get a young pitcher named Stephen Strasburg, a nineteen year-old kid phenom who pitched for San Diego State. “He throws the ball over 100 miles an hour,” my dad said. My reply? “We’ll see.”
Sure enough, the Nats won the right to draft the kid and did so in June of 2009. At the time, I was cautiously optimistic, as I seriously thought the Nats would likely be bullied by Strasburg’s agent, Scott Boras, and the deadline would pass without getting him to “sign on the line which is dotted,” as Alec Baldwin’s character in Glengarry, Glenross would say.
I recall being on vacation in late August of last year (2009) at the wonderful beach house my family rented in Sea Bright, New Jersey. Each night, I watched SportsCenter to see if the Nats had managed to sign Strasburg. As luck would have it, they got him with a few seconds to spare before the deadline. Optimistic? Yes, with a side order of pessimism (“Sure, they signed him. But the Nats will surely screw this up somehow,” I thought).
Fast-forward to spring training 2010. The reports from Florida were that he was already the Nats’ best pitcher, even though he’d never stepped foot on a pitcher’s mound in a Major League regular season game. Again, “we’ll see,” I thought.
Like many Nats (and other baseball) fanatics, I followed his every move in the minors as the early season progressed, knowing that he’d probably arrive in D.C. by early June and that I would be in attendance at his first Major League game.
As that early June target approached, I grew more and more anxious. On June 8th, my wife and I attended his first Major League start (see photo below) – we sat five rows from the rail in the upper deck, midway between home plate and first base. The outcome is already the stuff of legend – thus, no need to recount each strikeout and 100 mph pitch here. I, for one, got my money’s worth as soon as he blew away former Nationals underachiever and head case extraordinaire, Lastings Milledge, for his first Major League whiff.
A funny side note is that my wife recorded his final two (of fourteen) strikeouts on her new iPhone camcorder. At one point, with one strike on the final batter, who would be Strasburg’s 14th strikeout victim of the evening, a barely audible comment – “c’mon, mow this bum down” – can be heard from the froggy throat of yours truly. It was within moments that my wife and I agreed to try to attend each game he pitches in D.C. this season. Thus far, we’ve kept our vow (we’re currently four for four, and have great seats for this Saturday’s matchup against the Metsies and then the July 9th game versus the Giants).
But back to my question posed at the outset of this essay – what does Stephen Strasburg mean to me? I am still not entirely sure. I know it’s not grotesquely over-hyped, new “1 of 1” manufactured scarcity cards. I do know that because I (as does everyone else) have a family to support, children to help raise, a career to develop, and a small business to run with my business partner and good friend in our free time, the time I can (or choose to) dedicate to sports fandom is dwindling every day (as it should). But this baseball season is different, solely because of Strasburg.
Because he plays for my Nats, he represents to me something that each underdog (and heaven knows the Nats and, consequently, their fans, are underdogs) longs for or, if he’s lucky, has already witnessed – that precise, glorious moment at which he feels his fortunes begin to turn for the better.
After the Nationals made the final out in their final pre-Strasburg era game (an extra inning affair during which the Nats blew a two-run lead in the ninth inning), Nationals President, Stan Kasten, turned to a friend and said, “Thank goodness that era is behind us.” Kasten acutely recognized that the Nats’ final out in the pre-Strasburg era was the turning point – the worst days were suddenly beginning to appear in the Nats’ caravan’s rearview mirror.
While the Nats have struggled mightily since the June 8th Stras-Mania began (e.g., losing 1-0 to the Royals on June 23rd after Strasburg fanned 9 and yielded no extra base hits; back-back-back blown five and six run leads to the lowlier Orioles just last week; and a total of one run scored in the last three games Strasburg started), and will likely continue to struggle for the near future (at least as long as guys like Nyjer Morgan continue to bat leadoff, our middle infielders continue to kick the ball around the infield, and our non-Strasburg starters continue to roll the ball to home plate), it would be shortsighted for anyone to believe that Strasburg’s mere presence in the Nats’ dugout has not already resulted in the team’s fortunes starting to take a u-turn.
While witnessing Strasburg’s sheer dominance on the mound from my perch in the upper deck of Nationals Park on June 8th (see photo above), I began to believe. Not just in the Nats’ chances of becoming a baseball force within the next few years (although that’s a really fun, yet nearly unfathomable, thought), but in the possibility of the things in our everyday lives that can sometimes seem impossible – the beacon of light at the end of, at times, a seemingly endless tunnel.
It’s always been there, and it always will be, but sometimes it takes a 21-year-old fireballer to remind us.
