Archive for Memorabilia

The image you see below is from a series of otherwise rather stupid photos of people wandering through haunted houses and making the precise faces you would expect to be made by those who wander through haunted houses. All of this is forgettable save for the harrowed young man in what appears to be a one-off cap of the dear, departed Expos …

Is he frightened of the imaginary ghouls afoot? Perhaps. Or has he worn that exact mug of unflinching horror ever since the moment he learned of the Bartolo Colon trade? Yes, it turns out. It also turns out that this is … your Daguerreotype of the Evening.

Tonight’s Daguerreotype of the Evening required alarmingly little deliberation on my part. After this sentence concludes, I think you’ll understand why …

The fact that the framers were fond of drawing celebrities of the day as ducks — every time Hamilton droned on and on about this or that, Jefferson would doodle Vivaldi as a giggling mallard, for instance — to this day informs originalist interpretations of the Constitution. So in some ways, a bewinged and bebilled Jim Edmonds fulfills Madison’s fondest hopes. Stated another way, if Jim Edmonds had never been rendered as a duck, then you’d be quartering soldiers in your home under threat of the hoosegow.

But all of this is obvious, of course.

You happen across American Bad Seed Pete Rose in a Cooperstown diner. You follow him to his car and ask him for an autograph. He declines. What you do next will, in some ways, define you and how you handle the daisy chain of adversities found in this, our miserable existence.

Do you merely acknowledge that celebrities have no obligation to indulge our bizarre whims and return to your chili-cheese fries? Or you do heave the unsigned ball across the road — at traffic level — and into the woods where James Fenimore Cooper once played army, heel-turn, stomp off into the distance, and squeeze out a few shitty-baby tears? If you’re the guy captured below on live-action video, then it’s an easy choice …

At this late hour, I thought all of us knew that Mr. Rose would walk through hell in a gasoline suit before he’d sign something for free.

(Autograph request: Off the Bench)

Topps, world-famous makers of cardboard cards, has, for the first time, issued a baseball card for a former president. Here’s an image, festooned with the autographs of said Leader of the Republic Emeritus …

By all means, click and embiggen! And please dig the autograph!

Regardless of what you think of President Zen El and his policies, it’s nice to see President Zen El happily lobbing the cowhide. Congratulations, President Zen El!

While attending a few garage sales in my hometown in Kansas, I seemed to have come across a relic that is many miles from its home: Jeff Francoeur’s little league bat, a PRO-LINE Little League SUPER-LITE Georgia Cracker, made in Atlanta, GA, Size 9.

It is the fabled bat that Jeff used to swing at pitches in the Atlanta area. It didn’t matter if he missed the ball or hit a warning track pop up, he always loved his Georgia Cracker. It was rumored lost when his parents had a garage sale after he joined the Braves in 2002. It was spotted a few times, but no one knew for sure of its location or owner.

I feel fortunate to have found the bat and hope to make a pilgrimage up I-35 to return the bat to its iconic owner soon. I will enjoy having it in my possession for a little while and maybe, just maybe, go take a few swings with it.

Astros hurler Brett Myers (Throws: Right; Bats: Right; Breathes: Mouth) has a bobblehead. The discerning observer who discerns will notice that Myers and his totem-self share the innermost wrath that makes the larger, more ambulatory Myers at once an intimidating hurler and smoldering menace. Absorb:

As renderings go, it’s impressive. Also impressive is this sneak preview of the forthcoming Ryan Theriot Bobblehead:

Bobble of head: Alyson Footer

So loyal NotGraphs commenter Card Archives (more on that name in a moment), who is also a broad-shouldered captain of industry, has done a thing and that thing is amazing.

I can’t begin to fathom the Mennonite’s toil that went into cataloguing every Topps baseball card ever, but I stand agape. And then I fall down, still agape.

So lose yourselves within his pages, stick-and-ball enthusiasts, and know that here at NotGraphs a hero walks among us.

It’s been said that a cynic is a man who knows the price of everything and the value of nothing.

I am a set collector, complete with price guides, plastic sheets and graded cards. Without even consulting a Beckett I can tell you that the book of a first series 1966 common card in Near Mint condition is $1.50; at the same time I can tell you that this card is in a considerably lesser grade.

How would you grade this card? The soft corners, poor centering and multiple creases plunge it towards the Good range and then the stain on the card sends it directly to the Poor category. Forget about $1.50 – if you tried to sell this card on ebay you would be lucky to get two cents for it.

Yet if asked to name the favorite card in my collection, this would be one of the first ones I would mention. This hand-me-down card from one of my older brothers of Johnny Stephenson, a worthless backup catcher who put up an almost impossible to duplicate .225 wOBA in 153 PA for a team that lost 95 games.

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Are you a gentleman? Because I’m a gentleman. A serial door holder. You could be 15 paces away, I’ll wait. There’s more: I’m known to carry groceries for old men and women in my neighborhood. Alright, I’m not really known for that, but if a tribal elder asked me to carry his or her grocery bags, I certainly would.

I do say “thank you” a lot. Probably too much. When I hand over loonies and/or a toonie for coffee at the drive-through every morning, I say “thanks.” It’s out of my control, really; I’m Canadian. Bottom line: I live with chivalry.

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Kommissar Cistulli has already regaled you with the back-story of Billy Ripken’s “Fu*k Face” card, which is beautiful in its awfulness and awful in its beauty. And now we learn that Fu*k Face has a legacy that’s as enduring as any other cherished artifact of Western civilization — like the Magna Carta or Vicky Lawrence. Let Billy’s lesser known older brother Calvin tell the story …

Peter Sagal, host of the show, asked Ripken if he ever gets tired of living up to his good-boy image.

“Does that ever get to be a drag?” Sagal asked. “Do you ever, like, want to go out and behave really badly, but you can’t because you’re Cal Ripken Jr.?”

“The answer to that is yes,” Ripken said. “I’d like to be able to behave really badly and not have it matter. … I’m OK with being out in public, except when you get in a fight with your wife or you get in a fight with your kids or your daughter calls you a name and storms off and you feel pretty helpless to do anything.”

Faith Salie, a panelist on the show, piped up: “Did she call you the name that was on the bottom of your brother’s bat?”

“Sorry,” Ripken said. “My daughter’s name is Rachel. Sorry, Rachel, but yes, she did.”

Because it will make me sound like the Man of Letters that I am not, I’ll leave you with a quote from something called “Mark Twain”: “Under certain circumstances, urgent circumstances, desperate circumstances, profanity provides a relief denied even to prayer.”

What should the elder Mr. Ripken take from this? Consolation, that’s what. The next time your daughter calls you “fu*k face,” it should be viewed as something more uplifting and adorable than whispered prayers at bedtime.

Remember, children of the world: Curse without ceasing.

(Curtsy: Da’ HBT)