A Final Card Trick

I remember a time when the back of a baseball card meant something. We'd spend hours staring at the stats; a beautiful cycle from a simpler time: scrounge enough loose change to buy a pack, grab the requisite best friend, and ride bikes to the corner store. We'd pour over the box of packs like a doctor examining a patient, as if our meditation would cause the destined collection of heroes to glow. The secret was, the best pack is always at the bottom... I mean, isn't it obvious? If a superstar lived on the top of the pile, someone would have obviously bought that one before we had arrived.

Even after making a choice, there was always a private moment prior to the unveiling of the cards. A secret prayer would be made; if a mistake had been made in selecting this particular package, this final wish to the heavens would cause a reorganization of the past. Like a magician causing an ace to rise to the top, everyone had a special method of invoking the card of their favourite star. Personally, I would stash the unopened cards in a pocket and ride to the schoolyard, afraid to open them before the cosmic reshuffling had taken place.

Opening the packaging was another sacred ceremony; carefully unwrapping the plastic to unveil our fortunes. Of course, the star was never on the top of the stack. We figured those in charge of wrapping up each package wouldn't ruin the mystery like that. It was a wonderful game of hide and seek; sorting through the veteran catchers and sure-handed shortstops in search of the ace pitchers, fresh faced rookies and silver sluggers. Every great hero has an alter ego; a plain clothed persona that they could hide behind to increase their mystique. Baseball cards are no different. For Superman, it was Clark Kent. For Batman, Bruce Wayne. For Ozzie Smith it was Manny Lee; for Nolan Ryan, it was Mark Langston.

The cards represented more than the photos on the front and the stats on the back. It was the substance between the two that held the magic; the feeling that because you had your favourite player's card, you somehow owned a share of the company. As a fully believing, never wavering shareholder, you knew that in the bottom of the 9th, when you needed a miracle, you could look at that card, and you wouldn't be let down. You were after all, part of the team; a card carrying member.

But, as are all memories, those days are behind us... and oh how far we have fallen. In a search to boost the stats on the back of the card, and the physique on the front of the card, our superstars have lost all substance. The company is bankrupt, the dreams are clouded; the magic is gone. The alter egos have been stripped away, and a current crop of stars have been exposed as frauds. Some of the same players that once hid behind the hobbled fourth outfielder and grizzled relief pitcher in my magical childhood have been unveiled in front of Congress. First it was Barry, then Jason and Jose. Mark and Sammy weren't far behind. Today, it was Rafael. To think, I spent all of those spiritual afternoons in silent prayer over a pack of cardboard pictures, in search of a bunch of cheaters.

I'd like to think they weren't cheating all along, that it was only after I had stopped pulling out their card in a time of need that they began their fall from grace. I just wouldn't feel right knowing that I had once been so devoted to something so phony. The truth is, our heroes needn't be brawny and superhuman. I never needed my heroes to run faster than a speeding bullet, or crush a baseball in a single swing; a clutch hit up the middle or sacrifice fly always got the job done. On those sunny afternoons, I was never looking for Superman or Batman in that magical pack of cards; I was looking for human beings. I always thought they were hiding to build up the suspense; so we could enjoy the chase and continue our ritualized dance. Now I realize that they all just had something to hide.