Temper Tantrum

Most of yesterday afternoon was spent at my sister-in-law's birthday party in Joliet, IL.  That sounds all well and good until you realize my sister-in-law is only eight years old and her festivities were hosted by my in-laws at the local Chuck E. Cheese, a.k.a. a giant pit of chaos, teeming with sugar and pizza-fueled demon spawn... errrrm... I mean beautiful bundles of joy.  Needless to say, there were plenty of tiny bodies to dodge as they ran around like madmen in hopes of high-fiving a high school kid being forced to wear a sweat-stained rat costume and dance for his meals.

In all actuality, my cynicism is a bit over-the-top; truthfully, the event went off without much of a hitch and everyone, especially the birthday girl, appeared to have oodles of fun with, surprisingly,  nary an outburst.  The star of the day was basically able to buy out half of Chuck's prize stock with the bundles of tickets she earned.  Plus, I basically had to pry my wife away from the skee-ball lanes so that we could move on with our day.  Fun was had by all.

Though I do enjoy a cheap, greasy pizza (truly, I do - that's not cynicism), most of my fun was had after the birthday party had ended.  You see, the rat-infested arcade is just a couple of miles down the road from a card shop and I was able to convince my wife to let me swing by the storefront, after all was said and done.  The discovery that her Doodle Jump game from Mr. Cheese's was also available as an iPhone app kept her entertained as I meandered about The Baseball Card King.

   

After having spent the entire afternoon with a bunch of over-stimulated kids, I fully expected to encounter at least one or two temper tantrums during the course of the day - it just comes with the turf.  What I did not expect was that said tantrum would occur in the card shop and NOT the mecca of free-reign children that is Chuck E. Cheese.

That is actual irony, Alanis Morissette. (sorry, I spent a lot of my weekend listening to 90's on 9 on XM radio)

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, while I flipping through the box of '55 Topps in search of Tony Jacobs' lone baseball card and the binder of random Cubs singles, there was another pair of individuals opening boxes of Archives Signature Series.  The store is made up of two levels and the objects of my search were located on the upper floor; as I browsed, I could hear the shouting from all the way upstairs.  In short, the gentlemen were none too happy with what they pulled from their purchases.

The quote that really caught my attention was "I feel like I'm getting bent over and f*****d in the a*****e," at a volume level that was far above a whisper - when is it ever okay to shout that in a store?  This was followed by a continuing shower of profanities and complaints about the low value of the cards he was pulling as he doubled and tripled-down by purchasing a couple of more disappointing Archives boxes.  I don't know what cards he ended up with, but they definitely weren't Mike Trouts.  Then, the focus of the customer's ire shifted to his friend and the shop-owner, slamming them for not buying back his "spoils" so that he might recoup some value and accusing them of shady dealings.  It was really quite awkward; I'm just glad that I was on a different floor while most of this was going on.

I am a decidedly low-end collector and I have a notably narrow collecting focus.  This is why I don't ever buy boxes of product, especially something as "bang or bust" as Archives Signature Edition.  The chances of one pulling something that makes the price point worth it are slim and the chances of it fitting into my collection are infinitely slimmer.  To me, baseball cards are a relaxing, joy-bringing hobby -  if I wanted to gamble, I would buy some scratch-off tickets or take a road trip to Las Vegas. Of course, people can collect however they so choose, but investing/gambling are not for me.

However, should I ever take the plunge, I would never take out my inevitable frustrations in public and on my fellow collectors or the vendor, especially is such a hostile and profane manner.  Just minutes before the "show," there has been a kid in the store with us... I mean, come on... have some dignity and/or class.  It was a sorry display and more befitting of one of those kids "all jacked up on Mountain Dew" at the prize counter in Chuck E. Cheese, a few tickets short of their desired stuffed animal, than a full-grown adult in a hobby shop.

Anyway, while all of this was going on, I struck out on my Jacobs quest; however, I did succeed in finding a pair of needed "Cubgrades" for my Cubs All-Time Roster Collection binder... cards, I'm sure, that would have thrown our angry friend into a tizzy should they have fallen out of his boxes.

This beat-up '63 single is far from mint and lacks anything flashy.  It's rounded corners and slight wrinkles put it into my price range.  As it turns out, it is crew-cut Dick Lemay's only card as a Cub and was thusly required as an upgrade for his CATRC representation.  Previously, his card from the previous year had been slid into said pocket, as a placeholder:

Obviously, a Giants card is not as appropriate as a Cubs card in this Northside rooter's mind.  That said, while the former lists him as a member of the Wrigley natives, it obviously shows him in a Giants uni in the main photo, with a crude "C" super-imposed on his hat on the inset.  Nevertheless, it is the best option on the market, as the obscure reliever only received these two cards during his brief, three-season MLB career.

All of these "flaws" considered, I highly doubt that, had Dick signed this card for the Archives checklist, our non-FCC compliant friend would have been too thrilled.  Meanwhile, I was happy as a clam to come across this imperfect gem.

Accompanying LeMay in my purchase pile was another piece of well-loved vintage:

The front of this 1955 Bowman isn't too bad - though the corners are less than crisp and the edges are quite chipped.  Most of the damage that brought Brosnan down to my price range comes on the back-side:

Those are some pretty hefty gum stains over the player bio and pitching record... and these aren't super-short-printed, gimmicky, variations that'll sell for big bucks on the Bay either.  Nope, just regular, old-fashioned sugar marks left over from a long-since chewed stick of bubblegum.

Overall, the card is more than passable in my book and adds another "Cubgrade" to my premier binder.  Until yesterday, Jim Brosnan had been a *shudder* Cardinal in my book:

As much as I love the '59 set, as a whole, anytime I can replace a Cardinal card is a good time - Cubbie blue looks much better on the journeyman hurler (who came up with the Chicagoans) anyway.  Plus, who doesn't love the color television set?

All told, this pair of vintage discoveries that filled collecting needs cost me  a measly four bucks and I was more than content.  Meanwhile, Mr. Pottymouth downstairs was spending upwards of $100 in search of high-end autographs he could flip on the secondhand market and getting absolutely hosed.  Different strokes for different folks, but that is why I could never be a "sick hits" collector.  That said, no matter how one collects, this hobby (like anything in life) is fraught with it's own, unique frustrations.  But, as the old saying goes, a man's true character is revealed in defeat and the downstairs temper tantrum certainly peeled back the curtain on that collector's temperament.

I was more than happy to get out of that establishment, as the rant was still simmering while I was checking out.  The moral of the story is the behavior of a middle-aged adult should never be outshined by unsupervised children on the Chuck E. Cheese floor.

Act your age, not your shoe size, people!