Jeff Bordick rose from his seat and pedaled hard. Everyone said the baseball card crackling between his spokes sounded like a motorcycle, but he didn’t think they were really listening. Sounded more like a bird, like one of those plump and shiny robin redbreasts that hop around the yard until someone bursts outside and spooks them. The card flapped like robins fleeing to safety, their little wings beating, only their sweet chirp missing.

Jeff had sacrificed Carlton Fisk to hear his birds fly. Not that he had any problem with Fisk. He had five of the same card and, oh well, there was a problem: Fisk was a Red Sox.

The jingle-jangle from Mister Softee’s loudspeaker succumbed to the knocks and purrs of his rolling freezer as the truck puttered past Henry Street and into view. The truck hummed past the eight-year-old boy, who finally slowed his pedaling because he could no longer restrain himself.

Jeff raised his arm and yelled, “Hey, wait!”

It worked. The truck stopped. Its refrigeration roared over its music when Jeff reached it, wheeling his bike at his side. The driver, dressed all in white, slid open the window and cool frosty air rose like fog before disintegrating as it met the summer heat. 

“Banana Boat? Shake? Cartwheel?” the man asked.

Jeff shook his head. He reached up and dropped two quarters on the man’s slick aluminum counter.

“Two packs of Topps,” he said.

The man slid the quarters across the counter and into his palm, turned, and then laid two deep yellow pocket-sized packets before Jeff. Jeff grabbed them, mumbled thanks, and then ran off, the packs between his fingers as he pushed his bike alongside him. Mister Softee edged his truck down the road hoping to sell somebody that Banana Boat.

Most kids would have preferred the ice cream, but Jeff figured on the best of both worlds. He’d get to sort through two dozen of his heroes and be rewarded with two razor-sharp rectangles of sugar-infused pink chewing gum.

Jeff waited until the ice cream truck’s tune faded into another part of the neighborhood before settling his backside over an angled rail at the edge of Mr. Weatherly’s wood fence, where he wrestled a fingernail under the waxy plastic edge of the first pack of baseball cards.

There was a faint pop when Jeff broke the wax and the plastic edge of the pack crinkled as he peeled it back. The air smelled of worms, a residue from last night’s storm that had left the soil soft, but the air musky. That is until the pack was opened and Jeff split the stack of cards in two to raise that sugar-coated slab to his nostrils: its sweetness overcame the wormy smell, and only after it had did Jeff slide the gum off the cards and into his mouth.

He flipped the cards over and saw one of his Yankees on top: Mickey Rivers dropping his bat to race from the batter’s box after lacing a ball over the infielders’ heads. Well, “Mick the Quick” was one of Jeff’s Yankees until a couple days ago when he was traded to the Rangers. That made this card special to Jeff, who on the day of the trade had sacrificed one of his Texas Ranger duplicates to cut out the red pennant with the word Rangers splashed across it and paste it over the familiar Yankees-labeled orange pennant printed near the bottom edge of Mick’s card. This bit of handiwork made Mickey Rivers a Texas Ranger officially in Jeff’s world. It was nice to have an unmarred Mickey Rivers card again, one forever preserving him as a New York Yankee. Jeff hoped this pack would get even better.

Breaking his gaze from the Mick, Jeff slowly shuffled through the stack of remaining cards. 

There was Pete LaCock, a semi-immortal scrub because of the nickname on his APBA game card: Goldilocks. “Goldilocks Pete LaCock,” Jeff and his cousins always sang in unison whenever they used the Royals to play. 

John “The Count” Montefusco of the Giants.

Chet Lemon, a White Sox. 

Bert Blyleven, Pirates, in a neat full-body pose after delivering a pitch to the plate. 

Jeff gasped at Terry Crowley’s full-face, the Oriole was one of just a few dozen cards Jeff needed to complete his collection—his day was made! He shuffled Crowley to the top of his pile, the lumbering DH overtaking Mick the Quick. 

It was unlikely anyone else would best Crowley, but Jeff went on: Frank Taveras, another Pirate on his card, but more local now since his trade to the Mets.

Ruppert Jones, Mariners.

Don Hood, Indians, with his big fat slugstache: two fat, practically pulsating, slabs of hair inching in opposite directions under Hood’s nose, a sliver of skin somehow showing in between.

“The Bull,” Greg Luzinski, an All-Star card, Phillies. 

Ron Cey, Dodgers.

And finally, another All-Star, one that caused Jeff to chuckle: Carlton Fisk, Red Sox.

Jeff stuck the unopened pack in his back pocket to save for after dinner. His young world currently revolved around Terry Crowley, who smiled at him from the top of the small stack of cards he’d just sorted through. He had to get up to his room and mark down Crowley on the proper checklist.

*

One day the TV told Jeff that Thurman Munson had died. In a plane crash. Jeff wanted to cry, but he couldn’t cry. He’d never known anybody who had died on him except maybe The Duke a couple months ago, but The Duke was an old man who smoked a lot and Jeff had only ever seen him in that old black and white stagecoach movie on this very same TV that now told him Thurman was dead. He saw Thurman in living color on TV all the time, except winters, for as long as he could remember. He’d even seen him close up in real life at Yankee Stadium a few times.

This was certainly a tragedy. A personal tragedy for Jeff Bordick.

Jeff’s head swum as he stumbled under the hot sun into the backyard. He saw one of the older boys, John, was tinkering out back next door. Jeff edged towards the fence and cleared his throat until John looked up from the bike he was working on and took notice of him.

“Did you hear about Thurman Munson?”
“Dead,” John said. He pointed into the sky over the yards in back of them. “Plane went down right over there.”
“Over there?” Jeff was skeptical. “The newsman said Ohio.”
“That’s right. There’s Ohio right over there.”

Jeff didn’t know what to make of this. “Wow,” he said. His aunt and uncle had moved to Ohio a couple years ago and he only ever saw them at Christmas now. Ohio had to be further from New York than over there, didn’t it? He’d have to ask Dad about this later.

He left John and walked over to the bee bush, a thick shrub overloaded with obnoxiously pink flowers this time of year. Sweet-smelling by June, the flowers hung so heavy by August that their cloying aroma made Jeff nauseous. Even worse, it attracted every bee in the world. A few feet ahead of the bee bush was a small area cleared of grass that served as home plate when Wiffle Ball was played in Jeff’s backyard. Jeff couldn’t remember why he and the other kids had decided to throw the ball at a bush filled with bees over and over again, but nobody wanted to change anything around after it had become custom. Jeff stood between the bee bush and home plate, faced the mound, ignored the buzzing all around him, and squatted down like a catcher. Like Thurman.

Now he was ready to cry, but he wouldn’t as long as John was outside. He patted his left palm with his right fist, pretending that he had on a catcher’s mitt. Thurman’s mitt. His throat was tight.

Jeff sprung to his feet and ran back to the house, pausing just outside the back door, away from John’s view, where he allowed his throat to loosen and let the tears stream from his eyes.

After a good cry he wiped his eyes with the back of his arm. He sucked in a few deep breaths and felt a little better. But then he remembered: the Yanks had just traded Cliff Johnson a couple months ago, but Johnson hadn’t been catching much anyway. And even Thurman hadn’t caught much this week. He played some first base because he was all beat up and some guy named Narron was catching. Was Narron the new catcher?

Jeff wanted to throw up.

*

Jeff pulled out his packet of Yankees and packet of Orioles cards, peeled the rubber band from each small stack and set about the serious business he attended to during every televised game.

He looked up at the TV and quickly took in the Yankee defense before sorting through his cards. Then, as though he were reading a tarot deck, Jeff began dealing cards on the carpet in front of him.

He turned his Thurman Munson upside-down to denote today’s catcher, some guy named Brad Gulden, who Jeff knew even less about than Narron. Topps hadn’t made a Gulden card (nor a Narron), at least that’s what Jeff’s checklists said, so Thurman would have to continue to serve his role from heaven. Then, a few inches above the flipped-over Munson and to the right some, he placed Jim Spencer face-up at first base. To his left dependable Willie Randolph at second and Graig Nettles at third, creating a diamond with the four cards in front of him. Bucky Dent fit like a glove between Nettles and Randolph at the shortstop position. Above the infielders, Jeff set the outfielders in place from left to right: Lou Piniella, a flipped-over Roy White to denote Bobby Brown—another rookie without a card yet—and, very carefully, his Reggie Jackson, pretty much the prize of Jeff’s collection, even if Reggie’s candy bar gave him hives (he still bought one every so often to save the wrapper). Catfish Hunter, just plain Jim on his card despite his sloppy mustache, was set in the middle of the diamond to pitch.

Jeff didn’t know how to keep a scorecard. Instead, he found if he played the game on the floor with his cards, he was able to relive the action all over again when he looked at the box score in tomorrow’s paper. 

Before Catfish threw his first pitch, Jeff shuffled through his Orioles and found Al Bumbry, who he placed face up to the right of the flipped over Munson card: Bumbry batted left and so he was positioned where the left-handed batter’s box was in a real ballpark like the Stadium. Bumbry was cast aside after grounding to Dent who threw to Spencer to complete the put-out. Jeff shuffled through the rest of his Orioles stack to build today’s starting lineup. He found the next batter, Rich Dauer, and pulled Rick Dempsey and Eddie Murray along the way, but he sorted through the other cards three times and could not locate today’s starting second baseman Billy Smith. Jeff knew he had the Billy Smith card; how else could he tell you from memory that Smith had batted .260 last year? He must have misplaced the card.

Jeff reached into his shoebox and grabbed the first stack of cards he touched: Texas Rangers. He shuffled through his Rangers looking for the lost Smith, pausing ever so briefly to once more mourn the Yankees loss of Mickey Rivers, who seemed as banished from Jeff’s world as even Thurman Munson. Then, speeding up, Jeff went through the Astros packet. Then the White Sox. Jeff was ready to cry.

Jeff was distracted from the game, his mind occupied by a glowing image of a left-handed batting Billy Smith gripping his lumber while leaning over the plate. Jeff knew exactly what a 1979 Topps Billy Smith card looked like because—he had one, but … where was it? He scoured through all of the remaining twenty-four teams of bundled cards before he could accept that Billy Smith was missing. He still played along with the game, but was pretty sure he wouldn’t remember much about this one. 

*

Jeff worked the phones like a General Manager to locate a fair trade. Jeff would have paid any price for Billy Smith, but the other kids needn’t know that. Finally, on his fourth phone call, Willie Cawthorne claimed to have the missing Orioles card.

They met the next afternoon behind the taxi stand by the train station. Just down the block for Jeff—though his mother would kill him if she ever knew he had crossed Broadway—and only a few blocks from Willie’s home.

 “You got a Thurman?”

Jeff’s heart sank. Yes, he had a Thurman. One Thurman. His only Thurman. Was that the price for Billy Smith?

Jeff nodded. Sure, if he did this deal he’d reclaim Billy Smith but then he would need Thurman Munson to complete his collection. That said, Billy Smith would probably be called to his carpet the next time the O’s played the Yanks. Thurman had played his last game. It would be a cutthroat deal, but Jeff saw advantages.

Jeff asked to see the Billy Smith card as he sorted through his box to locate Thurman.

Oh sweet left-handed swinging Billy Smith, Orioles scrub and sometimes starting infielder. Billy Smith, who had two hits on the day Jeff lost him, including one that ultimately won the game for the Orioles, an RBI single off the mighty Goose Gossage (which drove in Terry Crowley, of all people).

“What’s that?” Jeff asked, his nose wrinkling as though the dog had just soiled his room.

“Billy Smith,” said Willie, who extended the card towards Jeff with one hand while reaching for Thurman with the other.

Jeff pulled Thurman back. Billy Smith, indeed, but he held no bat. Orioles was not emblazoned across the bottom of the card inside a yellow pennant—it was in purple script at the bottom left.

“That’s last year’s card,” Jeff said.
Willie shrugged. “What’s the difference?”

What was the difference? Jeff could still use the 1978 Billy Smith when the Orioles played on TV. Heck, he was even an Oriole on the card, an added bonus. But for Thurman? Jeff didn’t need much of an excuse to balk.

“No deal,” he said, returning Thurman to his Yankee collection and putting those in his back pocket.
“Hey,” Willie said. “I went to a lot of trouble to come here and now you won’t even trade?”
“I’ll give you my Mickey Rivers for that one.”
“Oh, all right,” Willie said, holding out the ‘78 Topps Billy Smith.

Jeff gave him Mickey Rivers. He still had his altered version of the Rivers card with the Rangers banner stuck over it at home. That would have to do. Besides, Mick the Quick’s absence felt a little less tragic each day. Jeff couldn’t say the same about Thurman. Now he had a Billy Smith card; not the Billy Smith card, but Jeff could make do with this one.

*

“I ought to put a bet on this game, you know what I mean, kid?”

Jeff peered around the wrinkled gray coveralls of the television repairman to admire the restored picture on the family TV, actually a humongous piece of furniture with two speakers built into it that also included a radio and stereo turntable.

The set had been on the blink for awhile now and lost its picture entirely the night after the Orioles game. Reggie was batting against some pitcher with funky blonde hair sticking out his cap for the White Sox. The quirky pitcher was yet another rookie who did not have a 1979 Topps card.

“You read the paper, kid?” the repairman asked.
“Just the box scores,” Jeff said.
The repairman leaned forward, his face inches in front of Jeff’s, and he whispered: “This is next week’s game.”

Jeff gasped. The repairman smiled and winked. Then he reached behind his back before quickly bringing his hand forward where his fingers wriggled before Jeff’s eyes gradually revealing a glossy bit of cardboard that ultimately revealed itself as a 1979 Topps #237 Billy Smith. Jeff covered his mouth, shocked by this revelation.

“How did you know?” Jeff asked.
“How could I not?” the repairman replied.

He turned and walked across the room to his toolbox. Kneeling down he flicked his wrist in Jeff’s direction and Billy Smith sailed across the room fluttering in somersaults as he reached Jeff and dropped into his open palms.

“The Yanks have a make-up game against the Orioles coming up.”
“Because of Thurman?” the repairman asked, his face turned away from Jeff as he put his tools away.
“I s’pose.”
“Well, maybe Billy Smith will come in handy for the O’s.”
“He did last week. Where was he for me then?”
“That’s life, kid.”
“Will I get the game on the TV now?”
The repairman rose, his tools packed, his job finished. “Why wouldn’t you?”

Jeff pointed towards the Yankee-White Sox game. “Maybe it already played on this TV, the way you fixed it.”

The repairman laughed. “Kid, I fixed it good, but c’mon. I was just messing with you. This is today’s game.”

“Oh. But what about—”

“What about what, kid?”

“Billy Smith?” Jeff’s voice dropped to a whisper. “How did you know?”

“I don’t know nothing, kid. Your card was stuck in the back of your TV. May have even caused your problems.” The repairman grunted as he lifted his tool box and headed towards the door. “Tell your Mom or Dad to come by the shop to settle up.”

“Uh huh,” Jeff said. Then: “Wait!” The repairman turned. “Where did Thurman die?”
“Ohio, I think.”
Jeff pointed. “Is that over there?”
“Way over there, kid.” The repairman turned the door knob, then paused. “Hey kid?” Jeff turned. “Don’t be so gullible.”

CLIFF ALIPERTI is a Long Island-based writer, who has blogged about classic film for several years at his site Immortal Ephemera. His fiction has appeared or is forthcoming in After Dinner Conversation, Sheepshead Review, Sledgehammer Lit, and elsewhere. You can find more about Cliff at cliffaliperti.com.