But no Willie next year means no Willie baseball card next year-and therefore no. It has been remarked more than once, in this the final season of Willie Mays, how unfortunate it was that he go out with a batting average of. It makes us feel old, and it makes them seem somewhat too mortal. Looking back on those faces today, we find them saddeningly human. Back when we were all boys of summer, the men of summer seemed to have granite jaws, intense, fearless eyes, arms of steel, and the look of real, honest‐to‐God heroes. There is' trivia galore, which is always fun.Īnd there are some tough lessons to be learned. If you were born just before, during or right after World War II, the nostalgia is sweet-and often as thick and hard to chew as a wad of that pink gum. This is an easy book to pick up-it has a lot of pictures-and a difficult book to put down-the authors mean well and they were probably good guys. and announced, ‘We wuz gonna give you a piece, Marv, but we wuz afraid you'd drop it.’” Pass it on.” Regarding Marvin Throneberry of the Mets: “When Mary complained that he had not been given a piece of birthday cake Casey leaned over. That's right-Reno Bertoia.” Regarding outfielder Neil Chrisley of the Detroit Tigers: “Psst! Neil Chrisley's real first name was Barbra. Regarding outfielder Reno Bertoia of the Washington Senators: “Quick, name a major league baseball player who was born in San Remo, Italy, lived in Windsor, Ontario, Canada, and couldn't hit. The rest of the book is a lot of reproductions of baseball cards, accompanied by the authors' memories, speculations, prejudices, and wisecracks. And there's the final chapter in which four minor truths are revealed: (1) the chalky powder on the cards was impossible to get off your fingers (2) you could hardly ever get a Ted Williams (3) you could hardly ever not get a Cliff Mapes (4) your mother disposed of your collection of cards one summer afternoon when you were outside play And there's a chapter about what it's like to visit the Topps Chewing Gum Company in Brooklyn, where most baseball cards are created. There's a chapter on the Greasy Kid decade, the fifties, when a boy's seasons were measured in wooden airplanes, yo‐yos, Christmas vacations and baseball cards. Their book is a trip down memory lane, a remembrance of the moldy‐oldy faces of the great game of baseball. They grew up at a time when male fantasies were a lot cleaner than they are today. I have but a slim chance (remember Dean Chance?) with my Elroy Face-knock down your leaner leaving Elroy a quarter‐ouch closer to the wall (remember Lee Walls?) than Choo Choo. Your Choo Choo Coleman slides along, ending up leavers on the wall. My Wayne Terwilliger comes up heads, your Bobby Del Greco comes down tails. Or my Richie Ashburn for your Gino Cimoli, even up, since we're each holding doubles.Īnd then there's matching. Your Ted Williams for my Granny Hamner, Sherm Lollar, Ted Kluszewski, and Lauren Pepper. If you are lucky enough to have got it-a rare Ted Williams, for example-flaunt it and enjoy. Got it.” This is running commentary on somebody else's stack of baseball cards.
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