Toby

I sat in the wagon and opened the waxy paper, that fresh bubble gum aroma jumping out at me, a pretty pink square of it sitting on top of the cards. Then into the mouth it goes.

Delicious.

All right, let’s see who we got here.

Dick Tracewski, shortstop, Dodgers. So now I’ve got three of him. Says on the back he’s “dependable.” That’s for sure.

Next up, Bubba Phillips, third base, White Sox, already got him. On the back a little drawing of a guy in a ball cap doing the sidestroke. Says, Bubba is also an excellent swimmer. Talk about desperate.

Next: Bengal Belters, one of those two-player cards, the Tigers’ Norm Cash and Al Kaline. I hate these. I’ve got a bunch of them: Tribe Thumpers, Cardinal Clubbers, and so on. Nobody wants them. You either have a Norm Cash card or an Al Kaline, not these freaks of nature.

Next, hey look at this, Sandy Koufax. Now I got the whole Dodger pitching staff, starters and relievers. Welcome aboard, Sandy. Handsome devil.

Last but not least—no, I take that back, last and least: Aaron, outfield, Braves, not Hank, his brother Tommie. Says on the back, Unlike his brother Hank, Tommie stinks, look at his numbers.

I put them all back in the wrapper and into my pocket, feeling like I’m worth a little more than when I got up this morning. Thanks to Mr. Sandy Koufax, just a little bit more.

And now it was time to start heading back.

“Let’s go, people.”