When I was a young boy, I was forbidden to cross the main street. If I was caught, there would be dire consequences, perhaps the worst things that could happen from a nine-year-old’s point of view.
I would have been grounded.
My father might have taken a belt to me.
My favorite toys would have been taken away.
Still, I risked it all on a regular basis. There was a drugstore on the other side that I had to get to. They sold the one thing that was more valuable to me than anything else in the world—baseball cards.
Like many young boys, I loved baseball. I went to as many games as I could. I saved ticket stubs, programs, and autographs. I collected helmets, pictures, and pennants.
I knew every player on every team. I studied baseball history.
And my pride and joy was my baseball card collection.
Some of my fondest childhood memories involve baseball cards. I remember the challenge of going to the store unnoticed. I remember the aroma of Topps bubble gum.
Most of all, I remember the anticipation I felt when I first looked at the cards.
Would I complete the series?
Would I get the hometown heroes?
Nothing I knew at nine years old could match the joy I found in baseball cards.
Willie Mays, Hank Aaron, Roberto Clemente, and Frank Robinson were the star players then. On the playgrounds of suburban Cleveland, however, Ray Fosse or Charlie Spikes was an even swap for any of them. Gaylord Perry, Chris Chambliss, or Buddy Bell might even merit a throw-in.
Those deals might make Brock for Broglio look like a bargain for the Cubs, but everybody went home happy.
As I got older, my interest in baseball cards faded. My collection disappeared with my childhood and I moved on to more adult hobbies.
Years passed. I grew up, went to college, got a job.
My first job was with Young Athlete Magazine, a startup that covered youth sports in suburban Chicago. I was assigned to write an article about sports collectibles. My publisher told me there was a sports collectibles show nearby, so I attended.
It was like stepping back into my childhood. Every card I used to own was on display. I was immediately transported back to afternoons spent in my bedroom playing my own version of fantasy baseball.
I created my own teams. Played my own games. I even kept statistics. I spent hours alone with my cards.
But something was different at the show. I paid pennies for those cards in the ’70s. Here they were selling for $10 to $20 each.
I had thousands of cards. The child in me was thrilled to see them again. The adult in me thought I had given away a fortune.
The value of those cards from the ’70s was nothing compared to the older cards. There was a 1933 Goudey Babe Ruth valued at $500, a 1952 Topps Mickey Mantle for sale at $1,500, and the holy grail of baseball cards, a T206 Honus Wagner for $25,000.
The Wagner card got its value for its scarcity. When Wagner learned that tobacco companies were using his image on cards, he forced them to stop. The Baseball Hall of Fame estimates up to 200 were printed. About 50 to 75 are known to survive.
I struck up a conversation with the card’s owner, William Mastro. He told me how the sports collectible industry was booming. I asked if I could photograph some of his cards for the article and he invited me to his home to see his entire collection.
Mastro’s home was like a museum. I hadn’t been to Cooperstown at that point in my life, but I couldn’t imagine it being any better than this. Baseball memorabilia everywhere. Babe Ruth’s glove. Balls and programs with Ruth’s autograph. And, of course, the Wagner.
I got to hold it.
I got to photograph it.
I wish I fully appreciated then what an opportunity that was.
Earlier this year, I saw a video about a T206 Wagner that sold for more than $5 million. I wondered what happened to the card I held. Did Mastro still have it?
I searched the Internet and learned that William Mastro acquired a T206 Honus Wagner in 1985—the same year we met at the card show. It was later sold to Wayne Gretzky, and it became one of the most famous cards in the hobby. It was the first card ever graded by PSA (Professional Sports Authenticator).
It received an eight—amazing for a card printed in 1910.
The card is currently owned by Ken Kendrick Jr., who also owns the Arizona Diamondbacks. It hasn’t been sold since 2007, but its estimated value exceeds $10 million.
Bill Mastro went on to found Mastro Auctions and was convicted of mail fraud in 2015 for engaging in shill bidding to artificially drive up prices. During the court proceedings, he admitted to trimming that Wagner card to make the edges sharper, a practice considered unethical in the hobby. That makes the Gretzky-Wagner, as it is known today, both famous and infamous in the hobby.
Nostalgic for my youth, I purchased a complete set of 1985 Topps baseball cards at the show. This included rookie cards of Roger Clemens, Kirby Puckett, Mark McGwire, and Dwight Gooden. As a Cubs fan, I had heard of Gooden. I had no idea who those other players were.
The nostalgia faded and real life took over.
Young Athlete folded.
I moved to Baltimore and continued to build a career.
I met a woman and we built a family.
Baseball cards became a memory from my youth.
I thought one day I would share my passion for baseball with my son. But as Jake grew up, he showed no interest.
What did interest him were monsters and horror movies. In our search for age-appropriate content, we landed on Godzilla.
By the time Jake was seven years old, we had watched all 28 Japanese-made Godzilla films and the one made in America.
Many of the Japanese movies had English subtitles.
Jake had to keep reading logs for school. We read together. He logged the hours and titles. Then he reported back to his teacher.
One night, his mother was out and he didn’t want to read. I didn’t want to fight with him, so I popped in one of the old Godzilla movies.
“You’re going to read the subtitles to Buster and me,” I said. “Then you can put that in your log.”
Jake was thrilled.
His mother came home a couple of hours later.
“Did you do your reading tonight?”
“We watched Godzilla and I read the words on the TV,” he said so excitedly he was practically shouting. “And Daddy said it counts!”
His mother rolled her eyes.
When Jake’s birthday rolled around, I wanted to get him something special. My wife always saw to it that the kids got everything they wanted. I was looking for something he didn’t know he wanted.
Godzilla. That’s something you couldn’t find in the stores. But I’d heard about this website called eBay. You can get anything there, so I created an account.
Sure enough, there were many Godzilla action figures made by Toho—the Japanese studio that produced the movies. We collected dozens of them.
About the same time, I started my business. I redecorated my home office—a fresh look for this new chapter. I wanted some sports memorabilia.
I went to eBay to see if I could find some things from my childhood—posters and pennants from the ’70s that were long gone. Sure enough, there they were. I couldn’t believe how easy it was to find them.
“I wonder if they have baseball cards?” I thought. Of course they did—every card you could possibly imagine.
At first I just looked. I saw all of the cards I used to have. I wanted them again. I wanted to recapture my childhood. But if I started, I might never stop.
Then I remembered that collectibles show in 1985.
“Baseball cards are a good investment,” I was told. “I bought cases of cards for $35 and was able to sell them in four years for $500 each.”
I looked at some of the prices. They seemed to have increased by a factor of 10 since 1985.
When I was a boy, I collected cards for fun. They were stacked, wrapped with rubber bands, and thrown into cardboard boxes. They were handled the way young boys handle things. They were toys, not collectibles.
This time could be different, I thought. If I collect quality cards and keep them in good shape, it’s an investment. And if I buy inexpensive cards of modern players, they will have the same return in 30 years as the cards from my childhood.
I started buying collections on eBay—auction lots containing thousands of cards that I could get at affordable prices.
When the boxes arrived, it was like being a kid again.
The same anticipation.
The same joy of discovering the cards I wanted.
The same excitement to complete the sets.
I spent hours sitting on the floor of my office sorting through cards the same as I did when I was a kid. I felt a little guilty being a grown man playing with baseball cards, but I got over it.
As my new collection started to grow, I noticed some things. First, many of the cards started to look the same. Second, there were a lot of companies printing cards. It wasn’t just Topps anymore. Third, my collection was starting to take up way too much space.
I decided to focus my collection—only those players who had been voted into the baseball, football, or basketball Hall of Fame, or who had strong potential to be elected in the future.
I stopped buying collections and started buying players. I couldn’t afford pre-World War II players like Babe Ruth, Ty Cobb, or Lou Gehrig. But I had a pretty complete collection of every player whose Hall of Fame career began in the late 1950s forward.
I thought I was building something with great value. But I learned a couple things along the way.
First, the high prices I was seeing for those ’50s to ’70s Hall of Famers were for graded cards.
Grading was not a thing when I was young. But starting in 1991 with that T206 Wagner, companies began grading cards to ensure they were authentic. They also assigned a grade from one to 10 based on the card’s condition.
A grade of 10 fetches the highest price. My cards were raw (ungraded), which made them much less valuable.
I didn’t mind raw cards. In fact, I preferred them. That’s what I fell in love with as a kid. That’s how I liked to look at the cards as an adult.
I could have graded them. I chose not to. But I had to lower my expectations of the collection’s value.
The next thing I learned is that sports cards didn’t just mean Topps anymore. Beginning in 1981, Donruss and Fleer were granted licenses. By 1990, there were seven brands licensed by Major League Baseball to print cards. Not only that, but each brand produced multiple sets. In 1995, for example, Topps alone produced 12 sets of cards.
In 1974, Hank Aaron broke Babe Ruth’s home run record. Topps issued six cards in its 1974 set to commemorate the occasion.
In 1995, Cal Ripken Jr. broke Lou Gehrig’s consecutive-games streak. Approximately 200 licensed Ripken cards were printed that year.
And when Barry Bonds became the home run king, Topps issued one card to commemorate each home run—762 in all by the time the last one was released.
That’s a lot of cards. As a collector, I was thrilled. Even though I was collecting fewer players, there were still a lot of cards to chase. Then I heard the term “junk wax era.”
The junk wax era refers to a time in the ’80s and ’90s when sports cards were massively overproduced. Sports cards gain value with scarcity. There is nothing scarce about most cards printed during the junk wax era. Another flaw in my investment plan.
Finally, the value of a player’s card is determined by his performance on the field. A Hall of Fame career meant higher prices. A journeyman’s career meant my grandchildren would probably be able to purchase the card for the same price I paid.
I knew that. It made sense. I collected cards of players already in the Hall of Fame and loaded up on those I thought were a lock to get in. It never occurred to me that something they did off the field would make a difference.
Then the steroid scandal hit.
I had thousands of cards of Roger Clemens, Barry Bonds, Mark McGwire, Sammy Sosa, Alex Rodriguez, and Rafael Palmeiro.
All sure-fire Hall of Famers.
All linked to performance-enhancing drugs.
All cards essentially worthless.
Another flaw in my investment plan.
I started collecting cards again in 2004. By 2023, I had amassed an impressive collection.
I loved that collection. Every time I looked at it, I remembered what it was like to be a kid.
Playing with my friends and emulating our heroes.
Taking the rapid transit downtown to go to Indians games.
Those quiet afternoons in my bedroom.
Reading through the Baseball Encyclopedia, discovering the exploits of Babe Ruth, Ty Cobb, Walter Johnson, and their contemporaries.
Later, sitting in the bleachers at Wrigley Field listening to stories about the curse of the billy goat and the ’69 Cubs.
I loved sports. I really loved baseball. My collection was an expression of those feelings.
I began to understand, though, that the value for me was in the memories, not in the cards.
I justified holding on to the cards for their monetary value. But now that I understood the hobby better, I realized that value was not what I thought it was. I also realized the hobby is not what I thought it was.
Perhaps it was time to give it up.
In addition to sports cards, I loved superheroes as a kid. I still do. My favorite is Superman.
I’ve watched every Superman movie and television series that has been made, including The CW’s recent Superman & Lois.
As I was wondering what to do my collection, a Superman & Lois episode titled The Dress aired. Lois Lane was nominated for an award and found a beautiful dress to wear to the ceremony, but she couldn’t afford it. Madly in love with her, Clark Kent bought the dress.
“That wasn’t cheap. Please tell me you didn’t sell a kidney,” Lois joked.
“I wish,” Clark responded. “It was my baseball card collection.”
“Even your Cal Ripken rookie?” she asked.
After more discussion, Clark told her, “You’re worth more than any rookie card.”
That was the moment I knew what would happen to my collection.
I had wanted to be with Jill since my Young Athlete days. I finally had the opportunity to make that happen. She deserved a ring worthy of that 35-year wait.
Kevin was engaged to be married to Brittany later that year. They were at our house for dinner just a few days after that episode aired. Brittany talked excitedly to Jill about wedding plans and said, “I’ve already ordered my flowers.”
She decided on a bouquet made of wood so it would last forever.
I asked whether she was going to throw the bouquet. She said no, there wouldn’t be a bouquet toss.
I pulled out my phone with Jill in the room and texted Brittany.
“I was going to ask you to toss the bouquet to Jill so I could propose to her that day, if it’s okay with you and Kevin.”
Brittany looked at the phone and ran into the next room to see Kevin. I heard excited voices. I walked in to tell them that, if they were not comfortable with the idea, it was okay. But they were completely on board.
I walked back to the kitchen, and Jill was none the wiser. The next day, I got a text from Brittany.
“Ordered a second bouquet to toss.”
I immediately started the process of photographing and listing my cards. I scheduled auctions to end on Sunday evenings as recommended by my friend Jim, who was experienced at selling cards on eBay.
Also on Sundays, Jill, her sister Laurey, and I visited their mother, Jenice. We were sitting on Jenice’s couch watching game shows one Sunday when my phone buzzed.
“Auction ended. Item sold.”
I had forgotten about the eBay listings.
I showed Jill. “My card just sold.”
My auctions ended one right after another. My phone kept buzzing for two hours.
I texted Laurey while Jill sat next to me.
“Engagement ring fund.”
Then I watched as she tried to hide her excitement from Jill.
The cards sold. The ring was purchased, and on Kevin and Brittany’s wedding day, I was all set.
Everyone was in on it. I’m not good at keeping secrets.
Jill lined up with the single ladies. Jenice stood a couple feet behind her to get the best view.
Laurey and Jessica watched together. Then Jessica walked over to Kevin and took his arm to watch their mother’s engagement.
I was photographing the wedding. Cindy, the mother of the bride, grabbed my camera to photograph the proposal.
My brother was there to video the wedding.
My sister, a childhood friend of Jill’s, flew in from Texas to watch. She hid in the shadows with my brother’s wife so as not to spoil the surprise.
Brittany turned her back, counted down like she was going to toss the bouquet, and then turned around and handed it to Jill.
I took a knee behind Jill and held up the ring. It took a moment for Jill to realize what was happening. It took another moment for her to say yes. Then my baseball card collection transferred to her ring finger.
She was worth more than any collection of rookie cards.
When I couldn’t afford cards that I wanted in my collection—the T206 Wagner, for example—I bought reprints. Reprints are virtually identical replicas that, to an untrained eye, might be confused for the real thing.
Reprints don’t have any real value, but for me, they have an emotional value. They connect me to players I idolized as a child—players whose cards, even then, I couldn’t afford.
I have an uncut sheet of 1933 Goudey cards hanging on my office wall with images of players such as Babe Ruth, Lou Gehrig, and Jimmie Foxx. It’s from a reprinting of the set in the 1980s, but it looks like the real deal.
I love looking up at it and thinking about the days when baseball was the great American pastime.
When Babe Ruth dominated the diamond.
When Lou Gehrig told the crowd at Yankee Stadium that he considered himself the luckiest man on the face of the earth.
I enjoy thinking about what it would have been like to see those players and collect those cards.
I also have reprints of other expensive cards—Jackie Robinson’s rookie card, Hank Aaron’s rookie card, and every Mickey Mantle card made during his playing days. I have reprints of star players from my youth—Roberto Clemente, Frank Robinson, and Brooks Robinson.
Again, not worth much more than the paper they’re printed on.
Again, loaded with nostalgia.
Those cards I kept. I plan to display them in my office not because they have any value, but because when I look at them, they connect me to the passion I had as a boy, both for baseball and collecting.
Last month, Jim came to Chicago. His Yankees were in town to play the Cubs, and he had never been to Wrigley Field.
He also wanted to attend the National Sports Collectors Convention, known in the hobby as “the National.”
It was amazing. More than 1,800 exhibit tables with every card you can imagine, from the T206 Wagner to the 2026 Pete Crow-Armstrong.
More than 100,000 collectors walked the floor, searching for their “grail” cards.
The selection was mind-boggling. So were the prices.
Jim and I were at a table admiring some non-sports collectibles. The exhibitor had authenticated papers signed by George Washington and John Hancock.
A collector walked up and asked how much the vendor wanted for the Washington signature. They settled on a price of $10,000. The collector reached into his pocket, pulled out an envelope, and counted out $10,000 in cash. They shook hands, and he went on his way.
Jim and I stared at each other dumbfounded.
When we stopped for lunch, I was lucky to find a table. As we started to eat, a man a little younger than us and his father asked if they could share our table. We struck up a conversation.
The man told us that he only bought two cards, but he was pretty happy to have them. He pulled them out to show us. Both Mickey Mantle cards (1951 Bowman and 1952 Topps). Each cost about $40,000.
Again, dumbfounded. Who walks around with $80,000 to spend at card shows? And these were just two stories out of more than 100,000. The money in that building was staggering.
And the children. It warmed my heart to see so many children carrying their cards around the show, ripping packs, and looking to trade for their favorite players. Then I listened to the conversations. Hundreds of dollars for one card. Thousands for another.
One 11-year-old negotiated a sale of $14,000 for a card he pulled. I used to go to the drugstore with $5 earned from my paper route.
When I wrote the Young Athlete article in 1985, I contacted Topps for comments about the value their cards had come to possess. The spokesperson said the company was not concerned about that.
“Topps is in the child entertainment business,” he said.
That is no longer true. Somewhere along the line, card printers realized that scarcity drove value. If they could create scarcity themselves instead of waiting for it to occur over time, they could profit from it. And they have.
It’s a different hobby now—high-priced products, sales driven by the hope of pulling a short-printed card that can be flipped for a huge profit.
That was never what drew me to card collecting. I collected for the love of the game. I wanted all of the cards.
Now, base cards are discarded, literally left in piles on the show floor as collectors search for serial numbered cards, memorabilia cards or autographed cards. It’s not enough to have Shohei Ohtani’s card. Collectors want his one-of-one patch auto—and they’ll pay dearly to get it.
One collector just paid $11 million for an Ohtani card. That’s way out of my league. It’s not my hobby anymore.
I looked at all of the cards at the show.
I admired most of them.
I wanted none of them.
I walked away with nothing new.
And I came home to everything that matters.
This story is one of those that matter—the lessons from The Great Dog Pack that reflect what the Alex Lebovic Foundation carries forward.
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