My grandmother on my dad’s side grew up right down the street from Ebbet’s Field, smack in the middle of the heyday of the Brooklyn boys. Hearing stories about her family rubbing shoulders with local legends (including but not limited to) Don Newcombe, Pee Wee Reese, and later Don Drysdale (who may or may not have dated her sister briefly), I always find myself captivated by the firsthand experience of a hometown fan in what was essentially the “golden age” of baseball. A couple hundred miles North, my grandfather was born a home run away, as he used to say, from Doubleday Field in Cooperstown - 11 years after the Hall of Fame’s inception. Fast forward many years, and one could only imagine the stories I’ve heard about their tenures in the baseball community, told firsthand from people who were right there in the middle of it. These anecdotes played a formative role in shaping my identity in regards to the National Pastime, but no account would be complete without mentioning my Grandpa Joe, who established my love for card collecting at a young age - one of the powerful antecedents that quietly streamlines the game’s appeal off the field. In short, I wouldn’t be the fan I am today if I wasn’t able to partake in the generational anecdotal component, along with the “shoebox treasures” (shoutout the Hall’s exhibit) that allow us to follow baseball no matter how far away from the game we are.
How “a piece of cardboard” enamored fans throughout the country one pack at a time is a bit of a mystery. I couldn’t tell you what the actual appeal was, but there’s something magical about ripping into a pack with the off chance of pulling the elusive 1989 Ken Griffey Jr. rookie card, for example (I could probably pull a Dave Gumpert card and be equally as satisfied). The fact that a hobby could win the hearts of collectors gradually and become the multibillion dollar empire it is today is something within itself. But money is never what transformed cardboard into memories. With that, I’d like to share my experience, as I do, with collecting, and weigh in on this hobby shrouded in history.
It started in my backyard when I was about 8 years old. Grandpa Joe had just generously given me my first shoebox of baseball cards, and I really had no clue the spark that small box would produce, and the extent to which it would change the course of my life. Throughout my formative years, the family would come over and file into the living room, sitting around, chopping it up, and (surprise) watching the Yankees. I knew the names of the players just from the conversations I inattentively overheard, but never actually watched a game start-to-finish while retaining the information before. However, a few days after the first installment of cards given to my brother and I by Grandpa Joe, I decided to reluctantly open the shoe box. Before I knew it I was asking my dad about some of the players depicted in the Donruss “Diamond Kings” 2003 set. From that moment on, my 8-year old self was captivated. I’m not joking when I state that I probably spent a cumulative total of 3 hours per day asking my dad “Is this guy good?” about anyone from Pumpsie Green to Gary Pettis to Vladimir Guerrero Sr. Let me go off the record and apologize to Pops, I know it was excruciating hearing me drone on and on, but these interactions definitely shaped my ball knowledge to this day to an extent that he probably doesn’t even realize the full effect of. The second that I considered myself all in, it just snowballed from there. I would spend every waking hour begging my parents to grab a pack on the way out of Target, organizing my cards by team in boxes and binders, and doing research on the best and most lucrative sets to collect. In short, I was a legit collector by the age of 9 with “a collection that could rival any,” as written about the kid on ESPN by Women’s Basketball Analyst Charlie Creme (my claim to fame). Eventually, I got into the vintage sector, filling pages with cards from the golden age. I vividly remember how elated I’d get showing my grandparents the new ‘53 Bowman Jim Gilliam card I bought at a show with Grandpa Joe’s money, and the sentimental value of my family conversing over past cards that my brother and I had collected. It wasn’t just us - my cousins were in on it too, churning out T206’s at 10 years old. On Easter, most kids get candy in their baskets. Surprise surprise, we got cards. The overarching theme goes further than that - our families would do anything to keep our collecting spark alive. I will never forget their creativity of leading us on an odyssey for a “new card store” and having us end up at my Aunt and Uncle’s house, where they’d give us “store credit” for cards to pick out from Uncle Pat’s collection, or sending us on a scavenger hunt that would end in a 1962 Howie Koplitz common card just to hold our ambition to find new cards over. These are the moments that keep me so invested in cards, and I still hold the little things in my memory bank - eventually passing them on to my future kids.
On top of that, my story would never be complete without emphasizing my Grandpa Joe, the most established card collector that I’ve ever met. Boasting a collection consisting of every Topps base card ever made (excluding the Mays and Mantle rookies) along with endless boxes of autographed Yankees memorabilia, he has accumulated a lineup that would be any fan’s grail, and I can say that wholeheartedly. But it goes much deeper than that. Grandpa had the privilege of meeting a barrage of Hall of Famers over time, with the likes of Mickey Mantle as the flagship acquaintance. When my Uncle Mike passed away in 2006, he was invited to speak at the Hall of Fame, in fact, about Mickey Mantle’s influence in their family. My mom always tells me, with a little laugh, that Grandpa Joe and her brothers would drag her to the induction every summer, generating priceless memories from the experience. I will forever cherish hearing these tales from her and him both - I’ve never had a more powerful memory than sitting in the living room at the old house talking ball with my grandpa over a box of his doubles, or duplicate cards, beaming while pulling out a ‘62 Juan Marichal or screaming with excitement over his donation of a ‘50 Ted Williams.
If you know me, you know that Jackie Robinson is my favorite player of all time, through his influence, quotability, and the highlights of his playing style that I pulled up on Youtube as a ‘youngin. So you could imagine that I was ecstatic when Grandpa Joe gave me a framed Jackie ‘55 Topps with that iconic landscape-style and yellow background for Christmas, right? Well, that’s an interesting story. Now of course, I wish you could see my reaction, ripping the wrapping paper, seeing that yellow corner and knowing exactly what I held in my 10-year old hands (may have knocked over a decoration or two in excitement), but let me start from the beginning of that very Christmas.
Pulling up in our old Toyota Highlander, we all packed my aunt and uncle’s house, said our hello’s, set our gifts down, the usual. Instantly, my brother Mike made a beeline to the living room to scope out his presents, seeing if they were baseball cards. It’s a recurring theme in our family, as you know. I made my way downstairs to wrestle with my older cousins, as we did back then, and Shmike came downstairs screaming at the top of his lungs: “Joe! Joe! You got a Jackie Robinson ‘55!” No matter how excited I was over the pseudo-illegal news (we had to wait until after dinner for us kids to check out our haul), I couldn’t act it. In fact, I was pissed! Collecting was my world at ten years old, and 42 was my grail card - the anticipation was basically down the drain at that point. To retaliate, we put together a scheme where we hid Mike’s gifts, replacing them with random household items. Playing my part, I put on a show and acted shocked when I pulled the Robinson card. Realistically, the excitement was real - I didn’t have to act, even though I already knew what I was receiving.
This card still sits as the pinnacle of my collection, thanks to Grandpa Joe. Coupled with the sentimental value (shoutout Shmike), the story has proven to be the epitome of my card collecting endeavors. The fact that my family was able to support this framework, understanding how invested we really were, pushed this narrative through their unending support and outside the box thinking. In fact, I really think that us kids reignited my parents’ love for the game, and that’s something within itself - just like our grandparents did for us.
To revisit the grandparents point, both of my grandfathers had to rebuild their collections from the ground up after college. I’m not even kidding, it’s the classic universal “my mom threw my cards out” story. My grandfather Bob, who is the inspiration to my “Baseball’s Unsung Heroes” series, would always tell it in the most hilarious way and simultaneously live vicariously through his grandkids’ collections with an infectious smile every time we eagerly showed him a new card that Grandpa Joe had passed along to us. Along with that, hearing about how Grandpa Joe had to trade his way up to the lucrative cards he has today made me wonder - what if my mom threw my cards out? I’m glad I never have to think about that as a reality, as she knows the place that our cardboard collections hold in mine and my brother’s hearts. However, it’s a funny cautionary tale with a great payoff that I have no choice but to laugh at every time. This reinforces the bond between generations young and old, and I wouldn’t trade it for the world. Rest in peace, Bob. We all know you’re telling that story up there. I would give anything to hear it one more time.
His wife, Angela, keeps his stories alive today, offering the aforementioned perspective of a young girl growing up by ways of Ebbet’s Field. I can’t help but put myself in her shoes, when times were simpler and ballplayers integrated with the community like it was a rite of passage. For example, my grandmother’s dad was a realtor, and various Dodgers would just waltz into their house, grab a glass of water or milk, and make themselves at home! I couldn’t imagine that in this day and age. Imagine Aaron Judge walking into your house and grabbing a beer, that’s basically what it was. The first ever Cy Young winner Don Newcombe lived a block away. Hall of Famers and cornerstones of the Bums’ offense Duke Snider, Gil Hodges, and Pee Wee Reese all lived in a complex where Grandma’s father was the realtor. During the golden age, the whole family was basically in cahoots with the who’s-who’s of the major leagues, and that obviously reinforced their love for this beautiful game. In fact, this experience propelled my Grandma to track the game through scorecards, learning from her brother, my great uncle Ralph. This interlink between lineage and the whole family, generation to generation, sharing themes of symbiotically increasing each others’ love for baseball is something special, and I’m here to continue that legacy in the next.
If we’re being real, I never would’ve started collecting without this amalgamation of stories and the ambience of my grandparents, parents, aunts, uncles, cousins, and siblings reinforcing each others’ love of the game. From moments like the ones I’ve mentioned to pulling a Mookie Betts autograph (before he was THE Mookie Betts), and my dad saying “too bad it’s only Mookie Betts,” these are memories that will stick with me for life, and I can’t wait to continue the legacy for my children one day, for grandchildren in the next generation. To Grandpa Joe, thank you for everything. You have no idea how much you’ve impacted my life. To Angela (the first writer in the DeGroat family), your stories will continue to shine through from this generation to the next, and I honestly live vicariously through these past experiences. To Uncle Pat and Dad, your guys’ creativity is something else, thanks for listening to me ramble about some random shortstop from the 50’s and giving me back an example in return. To Shmike, you’re the man. To my little sister Stella (who’s already amassing a solid collection of her own at 9), I LOVE your enthusiasm over Johnny Bench cards and welcome to the hobby! And finally, to Bob, we miss you and your stories about some random benchwarmer from 1890. Love you and hope you got your collection back up there.
