"It's in the Cards"

By Jerry Zezima

I am not a good enough athlete to have my own baseball card, and I am not animated enough to have my own Pokemon card, but I am a man of culture, which I get from yogurt, so I could have my own trading card.

That was the estimation of a friendly and knowledgeable guy named Daniel, who works at the card store where I went with one of my sons-in-law and his two sons, aka my grandsons, who love to collect and trade cards, mostly Pokemon, sometimes baseball but not yet one featuring the goofy mug of their maternal grandfather, aka yours truly.

“Could I have my own trading card?” I asked Daniel, who looked at me quizzically.

“That depends on how much space in the culture you have,” he replied.

“I have a lot of space between my ears,” I told him.

“Are you a baseball player?” Daniel inquired.

“I was in Little League,” I said.

“When was that?” he asked.

“Right after baseball was invented,” I said. “But my two daughters had their own cards when they played softball. I was the team manager. We were terrible, but not because of them.”

I went on to tell Daniel that my older daughter is the mother of my grandsons, who are 9 and 7.

“The older one plays organized baseball,” I said. “He’s a slugger, so maybe he can have his own card.”

“What do you do?” Daniel wanted to know.

“As little as possible,” I said. “But when I absolutely have to do something, I’m a writer.”

“What do you write?” he asked.

“Stuff that has no redeeming social value,” I replied. “I’m a nationally syndicated newspaper columnist and an author.”

“Some writers and artists have their own cards,” Daniel said. “But they’re not worth as much as baseball and Pokemon cards.”

“What’s your most expensive card?” I wondered.

Daniel pointed to a glittery one in a glass case.

“It’s Mega Greninja ex, a Pokemon card,” he said. “It sells for $1,600.”

“That’s a little above my price range,” I said, adding that I planned to buy both of my grandsons a pack of Pokemon cards. Cost: $9 each.

I also told Daniel that my younger daughter’s husband, who had given me and my wife a bunch of baseball cards to bring to the boys on our visit, is a physicist who has two cards of his own.

He got them for solving the Ginter Code, an interactive puzzle hidden in Topps baseball card sets. He solved it the first time with two other guys and the second time by himself.

“He’s a really smart guy,” I told Daniel.

So, I added, is my other son-in-law, the father of the boys. He’s a journalist whose parents didn’t throw out the baseball cards he had as a kid.

“They actually brought them to me on their last visit,” he said.

“The baseball cards I had as a kid got thrown out,” I said. “I had a lot of guys who are now dead. I could have been a millionaire.”

My grandsons thanked me for buying Pokemon cards for them. The older one regaled me with stories of his skillful trades with friends.

“I know what I’m doing,” he said. “I get really good deals.”

I was impressed that both boys have their cards — Pokemon and baseball — neatly organized in binders.

“I like players on the Red Sox and Nationals,” the younger one told me. “And there’s one guy on San Diego I like.”

“Do you guys think I could have my own card?” I asked.

“For what?” the older one wondered.

“Being a writer,” I said.

“Is that because you can’t play baseball?” the younger one said.

“It’s because I’m not a Pokemon character,” I answered.

“Sorry, Poppie,” the older boy said, “but I don’t think you’d be a good trade.”

Copyright 2026 by Jerry Zezima