5 Baseball Cards My Mom Loved

Whether she knew it or not

First, a bit of self-indulgence, then the main course — this is a long one. Feel free to grab some coffee, or just check out now. No hard feelings either way …

Summer of Suck

So if you’ve read along with me the last few weeks, you’ve probably noticed that I’ve been complaining a lot about things being a bit wild and wooly, timewise.

Sorry about that.

Here’s the rub, though — my mom passed away in July.

And, even though I’m an old dude, that sucks worse than dropping your retirement fund on a 1952 Topps high-number wax pack and ripping it open to find only a couple of 1990 Donruss 3-piece puzzle cards with some pieces of Yaz missing.

It blows. It hurts. It’s awful.

But baseball cards give me at least some semblance of solace in all of this, like they have for so many of life’s ups and downs, and way downs.

Blame Mom

A big part of the reason for that is that my mom herself is to blame for my collecting obsession.

She bought me my first cards in 1981 and tried to convince me they were as good as or better than toys.

I hated the cards, hated baseball, resented her for not bringing home a rubber-band paddle ball or a Magic Slate from the grocery store instead.

But mom kept right on, mixing in a pack of cards here and there, a Christmas pack under the tree.

Bleh.

After two years of fighting it, though, something clicked in the spring of 1983, and I fell in love with baseball, and with baseball cards.

Mom Was Right (Duh!)

And, thanks to Mom, I had a veritable treasure trove of “old” cards to pore over while I learned about the game that would come to dominate my dreams, both the waking and sleeping variety, in the decades that followed.

Given all that, it’s probably no surprise that Mom never threw out my baseball cards — not a single one.

In fact, even in recent years, through all her health problems and my gray hairs and the various heartaches and heartbreaks that tend to churn up a human life, Mom (and Dad) would still drop some cards on me from time to time — birthdays, Christmases, just becauses.

One for the Road

The last one was a 1989 Topps Tony Phillips that she found in a box of trinkets at a garage sale. It was the only baseball card in the whole place, and she knew I had to have it.

Of course, that card instantly became a jewel of my collection, and it’s even more so now.

A Tiny Token

Like so many snot-nosed kids, I’ll never be able to thank my mom properly for everything she was to me and did for me and made of me.

But I can at least give you a bit of Mom flavor here in this space, with a cardboard tribute to the woman who made all my inane ramblings possible.

So …

Here are 5 baseball cards my mom absolutely loved, whether she knew it or not.

1964 Topps Pete Rose (#125)

This was the first card my whole family went ape crap over. First me, when I spotted it in a dealer’s case early in 1984 just as Rose was taking aim at 4000 hits with the Expos.

Then Mom and Dad, when I showed them the card and promised them I’d walk the house and re-roof the dog if only I could own this beauty.

They went off to the side of the showroom to whisper adult things while I paced around with sweaty palms and a stuttering heart.

And then they came back to me, solemn looks on their faces, and said it was just too expensive.

I was disappointed but understood. And besides, Mom and Dad promised me a McDonald’s on the way home, which was music to Chunky Boy’s ears.

So we piled into our matte blue 1976 Dodge pickup, and dad fired up the engine. Then, on his way to de-capping my knee with the on-the-floor gearshift, Dad dropped something in my lap instead.

It was the Rose. My Rose.

I still don’t know how they managed the transaction without me seeing it since I was glued to their every move. But I do know there’s such a thing, at least on special occasions, as Mommy Magic.

1983 Donruss Cesar Cedeno (#43)

This is the card I most associate with my baseball awakening, to put a point of grandeur on the thing.

In my heart and mind, 1983 was the sunniest year on record, and there was reason to smile every time you turned around.

No one better captured that feeling than Cesar Cedeno in his blazing white Reds uniform and Friday-night-lights smile.

I’ve written about this card plenty over the years, but it really was the single-card embodiment of that Summer of Cards, when every pack was a wonder.

But the real embodiment of those golden months was Mom, of course. She was there at my side every step of the way, supporting my habit during our weekly trips to the grocery store and helping me sniff out cards at mom & pops from Crawfordsville to Jasonville, from Terre Haute to Greenwood.

And guess who helped me hone my Wiffle ball swing in the backyard? Yeah, you know who.

1985 Reds Yearbook Dave Parker (#39)

My mom and dad were married for more than 53 years and together for about 60. She was true blue, and so is my dad.

But that doesn’t mean she was blind to the, uh, attributes of other men. This card is a case in point.

The first game I ever went to was at Riverfront Stadium in June of 1984. The Reds played the Padres, and we sat in right field.

Mom, Dad, and I spent much of the game screaming encouragement to both Tony Gwynn and Dave Parker.

Gwynn gave us a polite tug on the bill of his cap, once.

Parker waved to us at the beginning of every inning and even flashed his pearly whites a few times.

Mom seemed to take a shine to him.

So much so that his mom-bestowed nickname in our family from that evening on was … ahem … Buns.

1985 Donruss Razor Shines (#401)

We were going to make an encore appearance on the Riverfront in 1985, but something came up that summer that kept us moored closer to home.

Maybe it was band camp or a new puppy or a big card buy that I traded the game tripe for. Can’t remember for sure.

So, instead of watching the Reds Renaissance, we headed to Bush Stadium to watch the Indianapolis Indians take on … the Mudville Nine? Not sure.

It was kind of a bummer because a) it was the minor leagues and not the majors and b) the Indians had changed affiliation from the Reds to the Expos after the 1983 season.

Sigh.

But I soon found out that minor league games were amazing for their intimacy and exhilarating for the decapitation factor that came along with seats on the first-base line.

And then there was this dude, with the impossible name, the big smile, and the hard hustle.

I swear, Razor hit five home runs and stole 10 bases that night.

More importantly, he clicked for Mom and Dad. They’d ask me, “How’s Razor doin’ this year?” well into the 2000s, when he was in his 40s and coaching in the bushes.

Every Razor Shines card was a celebrity in our house, and Mom was quick to sniff him out whenever she’d go to a show with me in the late 80s.

1989 Topps Tony Phillips (#248)

I already told you about this one. But gosh darn, this is one beautiful card, for everything it is, and for everything it means. Now, at least.

It was the night before Labor Day in 2021 when my wife and I dropped in on my parents. Dad was working in the yard of my childhood home, just like I always picture him.

Mom was having a good day, so she was camped out in the garage, sorting through some yard sale finds.

It was warm, and the golden evening light made the cornfields swallowing their yard from every direction look like something from a Steinbeck novel.

It was so perfect, I had to snap some pictures on my Flintstones camera cell phone.

I saw the card as soon as I walked into the garage. You’re a collector, so you know how it goes — if there’s one baseball card in a warehouse stacked floor to ceiling with reams of unspooled paper, we’ll spot it. Or smell it.

I must not have been subtle about it, because Mom noticed my noticing.

“Oh, I found that at a garage sale. It was in the bottom of an old dresser buried in a broken-down barn underneath a fallen oak tree.” Or something like that. Mom had the nose, too.

“I didn’t know if it was any good.”

She knew. It was perfect.

The Fridge (Bonus Mom Card)

Right, the 1986 Topps William Perry (#20) rookie card is not a baseball card. But it is a Mom card, so it stays.

See …

As a 1970s and 1980s Indiana kid, I’m a Colts fan by virtue of Hoosier pride, but I’m a Bears fan by birth.

And in 1985, I was in hog heaven, just like all my hog-farming friends. We spent January rocking out to “The Super Bowl Shuffle” on our ice-encrusted school bus.

When I got home, or before I left for school, I’d dance it alone. Or, I would have danced it alone if Mom hadn’t joined in.

She was a good sport, through and through.

And who do you think was shouting “Fridge!” loud enough to wake up the cemetery across the road whenever #72 plowed his way into the end zone?

The only thing Mom would have enjoyed more would have been if Cobra had been on the field.

—

Truth be told, I could have picked any 5 cards in the world above and they would have fit the bill.

If I made the case, Mom would have said that case was perfect. She would have loved every card, every sentence, every typo.

She was Mom, after all.

Thanks for indulging me.

Now, go squeeze your mom if you can. And go squeeze the other people you love, too.

Don’t squeeze your cards, though. You know — creases and paper cuts.

See you next week, with something a bit less maudlin.

—Adam