My girlfriend and I made a pledge to each other: in order stave off being shut-ins this winter, we vowed to get out and do the occasional “Chicago” thing. It keeps us from being jaded about living in one of the greatest American cities. It also allows us to do those tourist things that most urban vets would harrumph their way through.
This past Sunday, we walked past the former Marshall Field’s State Street store. Now operated under Macy’s flagship name, there was nothing more Chicago back in the day than walking past the display windows with their expansive holiday scenes & witnessing the Christmas tree in the Walnut Room. We were happy to witness these again…and I personally got an added bonus from our journey.
Scientists are still studying what stimuli trigger a memory. Some say it’s a smell, or possibly a sight. Whatever it was, a great memory from my childhood slowly warmed over my brain: the day my Dad purchased Ryne Sandberg’s rookie baseball card for me.
I’ve spent the last two days jogging my memory, asking my father, and doing a little internet research to piece together the details as best I can: I was right around 11 years old. It was a bright day in the Loop, as the sun bent around the shadows of the building into an upper floor window. I remember being bored as hell walking around the world’s second largest department store. Marshall Field used to famously say, “Give the lady what she wants.” I’m fairly certain the men of the Kristensen family were sacrificing just that for the good of my mother.
Then, Hallelujah! Tucked away in the corner of what we think was the third floor (it is long gone now) was the stuff little sports fans dreams were made of: a baseball card shop. Well, to be more specific, it was one or two revolving glass cases of matted and glossy cardboard statistical goodness. We hypothesize that it was probably a part of the stamp and coin department, as those two things went hand-in-hand at the time. Yes, a baseball card shop at Marshall Field’s!
The 1983 Topps Ryne Sandberg baseball card was no cheapy common card. It was among the elite, especially among Chicago baseball fans. This was something that Dad would normally emphatically deny me. With good reason, too. We lived comfortably when I was a kid, but my father worked nearly six days a week to make that happen. When I was old enough, I spent a good part of my teenage years learning to put in some labor at our family business as well.
But my dad was not beyond the occasional spoils; most of them revolved around sports, too. He took whatever Blackhawks tickets he could at the old Stadium when portions of a season ticket package became available. We ate Connie’s Pizza and soda like kings and I would get the occasional hat or t-shirt. I know why this was money well spent now.
This was the era when baseball cards had exploded so far outside their value that the burst bubble wasn’t too far behind. But facts and forecasts be damned, for that day… the Sandberg became mine.
Two lessons from that day: First, it took me about 25 years to really, truly appreciate that moment. And secondly, the investment predictably turned out to be a poor one (the card has lost about 90% of its value).
But when I go home for Christmas this year, I’m going to fish it out of my packed away memories. To me, it’s priceless.
