So, I was rummaging through the attic the other day, you know, looking for some old tax papers or something equally boring. Ended up pulling down this dusty old box labeled ‘Stuff’. Inside, buried under some questionable fashion choices from the 90s, I found my old baseball card binder. Haven’t seen that thing in probably twenty years.

I sat down right there on the floor and started flipping through the plastic pages. Lots of names I barely remembered, some big stars too. Then I hit this one page, and there he was: Britt Reames. Yeah, the pitcher. Had a couple of his cards, actually. One from his Cardinals days, I think.
Finding That Card Again
Seeing his picture, that uniform, it just kinda snapped me back. I wasn’t even a die-hard baseball nut back then, not like some kids. But I definitely went through a phase. I remember getting those cards. Sometimes trading duplicates at school, sometimes spending my allowance on a fresh pack hoping for someone good. Mostly got commons, naturally.
The Reames card wasn’t anything special, value-wise. Probably worth pennies now, if that. The corners are a little soft, you can tell it wasn’t kept in a museum. But finding it felt… interesting. Like unearthing a little piece of time you forgot you had.
Made me think about how random memory is. Why did I remember this guy specifically when I pulled out the card? Couldn’t tell you. Maybe it was the way he looked on the card, the stance or something. Who knows.
It’s funny, you collect these things as a kid, thinking they’ll be worth a fortune. Most of them end up just being reminders. Reminders of going to the corner store, the smell of the gum in the pack (remember that terrible gum?), arguing with your friends over trades.

Anyway, I put the Britt Reames card back in its little plastic sleeve. Put the binder back in the box. Didn’t find the tax papers, naturally. But finding that card was kinda cool. Just a quiet little moment remembering being a kid, collecting bits of cardboard with pictures of guys playing a game. Simple stuff.