Toby

First of all the name is Toby, not Tubs. You want to call me Tubs? Go somewhere else for your cards.

I’m talking about baseball cards.

I’ve got over twice as many as anyone around, including a card from nine years ago, a 1953 rookie Ernie Banks, fair condition, which I got off this kid Larry Murphy for a paperback called Shameless Lady, which I got off this kid Phil Burlson for a worthless little dime-store turtle I was trying to get rid of.

So there you go.

Here’s something funny, though. I’ve got all these baseball cards, seven shoeboxes full, and I don’t even like baseball. I don’t like any sports. That’s one of the reasons I’m so fat. I’m only thirteen, eighth grade, and I’m already twice the size of anyone around, except my mom.

She’s truly huge.

She’s at Mass now, even though it’s Saturday, praying the Russians don’t blow us up. President Kennedy was on TV about it the other night, looking pretty serious.

“Thank God we’ve got a Catholic president,” Mom said.

And I said, “Amen, brother.”

She tried to get me to go pray with her this morning but I told her I’d go tomorrow, which is Sunday so I have to go anyway.

She said there might not be a tomorrow.

I told her, “Be that as it may.”

I like that. Be that as it may. I don’t know where I got it, probably Steve Allen. Anyhow, be that as it may, I’m also twice as smart as anyone around. Which, I admit, isn’t really saying very much.