Clean it! Hell no. Bad idea.
Me: Yeah don’t do that. Don’t ever clean a baseball card.
555-4439: The card was my grandfathers. I have his entire collection in a safe deposit box.
Safe deposit box? Who even uses those anymore?
No one, that’s who.
Me: What are you doing with the other cards? How many are there?
I’m interested to know which players she has and what she wants for them—before she lists them one by one on the damn internet.
555-4439: Quite a few legends. Maybe a dozen total that are worth anything, the rest aren’t players anyone cares about.
I’ll be the judge of that—I care about each and every one of them. I would be willing to give her a price for the collection as a whole, if she’s willing to entertain it.
I get why she’s selling them one at a time—in this day and age, no one would be willing to give her what the collection is probably worth. Six figures at least.
I have cash to spare and I’m itching to spend it on history. If the rest of the cards are in as excellent condition as the Hank Archer seems to be, I want to see them. In person, close up.
Me: Have you figured out a price for the entire collection?
555-4439: Don’t be ridiculous—you can’t afford it.
I love how cocky and sure she sounds, giving me the set-down. Does she honestly believe a man who can shell out $25,000 for a scrap of cardboard in a clear box can’t afford to pay more?
I can pay more.
I can pay lots more.
However, the art of negotiation has taught me not to show my cards (pun intended) and despite haggling for this purchase without my agent, I feel capable.
Me: I’m definitely interested to know which players you have in the collection as a whole before you sell them off individually.
555-4439: I’ll have to check. I had them appraised—as I mention in the ad—but don’t have the list memorized. I feel like…
The message comes through, sentence unfinished, and I stare, waiting.
555-4439: I don’t know, don’t quote me on this, but I think there is a Dwight Powers?
Powers. P-A-U-E-R-S.
Dwight Pauers—she spelled his name wrong.
My heart races.
555-4439: And a Toby Jenkins? Or is it Lenny? I don’t remember.
Me: Leroy Jenkins?
555-4439: Yes! That’s it.
Holy shit. It’s starting to sound like she has the entire World Series winning team from 1928 in her hands.
Sweat beads on my forehead and I wipe it with the back of my hand.
Me: Cool. I’d love to see those. Can I send you a deposit so you’ll hold them?
555-4439: Are you still buying the Hank Archer first?
Me: Yes.
555-4439: What day works for you? You want to look it over and all that first, I totally get that. I am free Wednesday through Friday after two. Then Sunday at nine.
Wednesday? Fuck, that’s two days from now.
I’m itching to hold that card.
Me: Wednesday works. I can meet you around four if that’s cool. What spot isn’t going to weird you out?
555-4439: LOL How about…
555-4439: The parking lot of the police station down on 54th?
Great. They’re going to think we’re doing a drug deal in the parking lot. Or someone will see me and all hell will break loose and the last thing I want is to be photographed by fans in the parking lot of a cop shop. I don’t need my ugly mug plastered all over tabloids, television, or social media.
I mind, but my buddy won’t.
“Wallace, what are you doing Wednesday after practice?”
“Masturbating. Why?”
“I need you to do me a solid.”
My teammate sighs heavily, burdened by a task he’s not even privy to yet.
“Fine.”
Me: Sounds like you have a deal.
555-4439: What’s your name, so I know who to look for?
I glance over at Buzz.
Me: Friends call me Buzz. I’ll be driving an annoyingly clean black Beemer with creepy tinted windows and wearing a Chicago Steam cap.
555-4439: LOL are you being serious? You’re already skeeving me out. Tinted windows? Beemer, aka pimp car?
Me: Basically, yeah.
555-4439: Oh lord, I better let my friends know I’m meeting a random man in a random parking lot.
Me: It’s the police station—you’ll be fine.
And you won’t be alone—far from it—not once the cops take one look at the catcher for their hometown professional baseball team.
555-4439: My name is Miranda, by the way. You can call me Randi if you want.
Me: Randi?
I think I’ll stick to her actual name and call her Miranda. I create a new contact in my phone so I’m not confused the next time she texts me and to make it easier to find her when we’re negotiating.
Contact: Miranda Baseball Cards
Satisfied, I hit save, tapping on her incoming message.
Miranda Baseball Cards: Do you want me to bring the other cards along when we meet for this one, or…?
Me: No, no—we should work out the details first. You can do more research and tell me what you want for them. I don’t want you to feel rushed or taken advantage of. Come up with a number and we’ll talk.
Not to mention it’s not safe for her to be meeting dudes in parking lots with valuable merchandise. Granted, this is me we’re talking about, but she doesn’t know I’m not a creep. She doesn’t know I would never take advantage of her—or anyone else, for that matter.
I’ve paid my dues. I’m one lucky son of a bitch who prays every day and thanks the good Lord for blessing me.
Shit, listen to me getting sentimental.
What the fuck is my problem?
Wallace has his feet up on my coffee table and is stuffing part of the meat and cheese tray he brought into his mouth. Sure, he’s a mooch, but on occasion he remembers to contribute, like today with the snacks.
We don’t have practice today because we have a scrimmage tomorrow for spring training, so we’re chillin’. The rest of our buddies/teammates aren’t scheduled to arrive for a bit.
The plan is to watch another team—the team we play for
