Gathering Dust

("20 Million Cards: A Sports Memorabilia Goldmine Uncovered in Virginia")

They sit, often for years at a time without seeing the light of day. A testament to a hazy past. But, as my daughter recently quoted a pearl of wisdom from her grandmother "to what end"? For if they are but a gathering place for dust, if they are too important to let go but not important enough to enjoy, what is their purpose?

This has come into laser focus with the recent passing of my wife's mom, the grandmother of the preceding paragraph. In the past weeks my wife has painstakingly gone through her mom's life, drawer by drawer and room by room. And while she has discovered nuggets in the catacombs, there have been mountains of items maintained for decades in the recesses of this apartment, and I am certain, my mother in law's mind, that were considered invaluable to her but truly of no value to anyone where they resided.

So, do I keep my baseball card collection for the balance of my days, referring to them once in a great while, finding a purpose for a fleeting moment or two, then stored away physically and mentally for years on end?

Even as my children attended probably hundreds of games at Yankee Stadium with me during their childhood days, their ardor for this game, their attachment to it, has become ever more attenuated. And my grandkids have not, at least in the present light, been attracted to a sport that was the cornerstone of my early days.

And even if the flame still flickered in any of them, would this collection hold any meaning? Or would it, as with the memories my mother in law stored in her closets, merely be pushed from the shelves of her life, to shelves of my kids and grandkids?

Even in the writing of this, I feel I have my answer. I am experiencing a literal tightness in my belly even contemplating the possibility of one day voluntarily parting with these cards. As though I would be not only disappointing myself but breaking away from my dad. He is gone 45 years this December and I grow ever more distant from our own days together at the Stadium.

Recently I went to visit a new friend who just turned 101. I brought with me some of my cards. When I left, I gave him two of them, a Willie Mays and, if memory serves me, a Duke Snider. Mays would pass away but days later. Maybe that card increased in value at that time. 

But for me, its true worth was in bringing a moment of pleasure to a man old enough to be my father. And maybe it was my convoluted effort, in some manner, to connect with the person with whom I shared so many hours of joy in our mutual passion for baseball.

Thus, even with "To what end" as hanging question in the air, even watching as my wife struggles mightily to rummage through 97 years of a life now ended, even as she vows we will not leave to our children a task similar to what she is now knee deep in, I know that those cards will remain with me for as long as I control their destiny. For they are a piece of my heart.