by Dan Gutman
That’s why the Honus Wagner card is so valuable. Only about forty of them are known to exist in the whole world, most of them in bad condition.
I just found No. 41, and it was mint. Nobody had touched it in over eighty years.
I knew the piece of cardboard in my hand was worth thousands of dollars, but I didn’t know exactly how many thousands. I remembered that a few years ago some famous athlete had bought one at an auction, but I couldn’t recall who he was or how much he paid for it. It was a huge amount of money, that was for sure.
All my problems, I suddenly realized, were solved. Or so I thought.
I slipped the card in my backpack, being careful not to bend any of the corners or damage it in any way. A tiny nick in a card this rare might decrease its value by thousands of dollars.
Quickly, I gathered up the rest of the junk in the attic and hauled it out to the curb.
I had almost forgotten about Miss Young, but she called me over just as I was about to run home.
“Aren’t you forgetting something, Joseph?”
She held out a five-dollar bill and shakily placed it in my palm. She grabbed my other hand and looked me in the eye.
“Thank you for helping out an old lady,” she said seriously. “And because you did such a fine job, I want you to have ten dollars. I bet that’s a lot of money to a boy your age.”
Ten bucks? In my head I was thinking that I had a fortune in my backpack.
“Yeah, I could use ten dollars,” I sputtered. “Thanks Miss Young.”
“Buy something nice for yourself,” she called out as I dashed away. “Money won’t do me any good.”
“I will,” I called out as I left. “Believe me, I will.”
Mom wouldn’t be home from work for an hour or so. I grabbed my bike, hopped on, and started pedaling east on Chestnut Street past Sheppard Park and Founders Square.
As I cruised down the streets I was filled with an overwhelming feeling of joy. Happiness washed over my body. Nobody could touch me. Nobody could hurt me. Nobody could tell me what to do. It was a feeling I had never experienced before.
I didn’t know if I should tell the whole world about my good fortune, or if maybe I shouldn’t tell anybody in the world.
As I whizzed down the street, I felt like everyone was looking at me. I felt like everyone must somehow know what had happened to me. They knew what I had in my backpack. It was as if the news had instantly been picked up on CNN and broadcast around the globe.
Those feelings lasted about a minute, when a different feeling came over me. A bad feeling. The baseball card wasn’t mine to take, really. It was Miss Young’s card. If anybody deserved to get rich from it, it was her. She had been nice enough to pay me double for cleaning out her attic, and I had stolen her fortune.
Almost as quickly, my brain came up with reasons I shouldn’t feel badly. Miss Young herself said that money wouldn’t do her any good, so why shouldn’t I keep the card? After all, she told me to throw the stuff away. If I hadn’t found the card, she wouldn’t have found it. It would have ended up buried in a landfill someplace, worth nothing to anyone.
Finder’s keepers, right?
And besides, I thought, Miss Young isn’t going to live much longer.
I felt bad, again, thinking that last thought.
I was feeling very mixed up. Deep inside I knew the right thing would be to give Miss Young back her baseball card.
But that didn’t necessarily mean I was going to do the right thing.
“I’LL GIVE YOU $1,000 CASH. RIGHT NOW.”
5
BIRDIE’S HOME RUN HEAVEN WAS A COUPLE OF MILES EAST from my house, in River City Mall on Broadway in Louisville. I pulled into the parking lot and skidded my bike to a stop in front of the door. The neon lights behind the window spelled out “COMICS,” “COLLECTIBLES,” and “BASEBALL CARDS.” Below was a sign that said, “BUY…SELL…SWAP.”
“I need to speak with Birdie,” I told the teenager working the counter.
“Birdie’s busy,” he said with a snotty tone in his voice. The teenager obviously thought he was hot stuff because he had a job in a baseball-card store.
“It’s important,” I shot back.
Ordinarily, I’m a pretty shy kid, but somehow having the Honus Wagner card in my backpack was giving me a surge of confidence.
The teenager went in the office and came back out with Birdie, a burly guy with glasses. Birdie Farrell is pretty famous around town because he worked as a professional wrestler for awhile before opening Home Run Heaven. He was a “bad guy” wrestler, and when he was getting beaten up, the crowd would chant, “Bye Bye Birdie.”
I never really liked Birdie, and I don’t think he liked me either. One time me and a few other kids were in the store looking at cards, and Birdie accused me of shoplifting. I hadn’t stolen anything, but he would watch me like a surveillance camera every time I came in. It seemed like Birdie took one too many head butts in his career, and it made him paranoid or something.
I tried to avoid the place if I could, but the nearest baseball-card store besides Birdie’s was too far away to get to by bike.
Besides, Birdie would be able to authenticate the card for me. Somebody told me he used to have a T-206 Honus Wagner card framed on the wall of the store. When baseball-card prices were just starting to skyrocket and word got around how valuable the card was, Birdie took it down. I guess he sold it or swapped it or put it in a safe or something.
“What can I do for you, Stoshack?” Birdie said. I could tell from his voice and the look on his face that he really meant, “Why are you bothering me, Stoshack?”
I didn’t say anything. I just opened my backpack and carefully took out the Honus Wagner card. I placed it on the counter and watched Birdie’s face.
His jaw dropped as soon as he saw it. His eyes opened wide, his eyebrows arching upward. I could see beads of sweat appear on his forehead.
“Where’d you get this?” he demanded.
“Found it.”
“Found it where? Just lying on the street?”
“Sorta.”
The teenager who had been snotty to me was now looking at me as if Elvis had walked into the store. He leaned over to get a good look at the card, but Birdie took out a magnifying glass and pushed the teenager’s head away roughly.
Birdie peered at the card for nearly a minute. He carefully turned it over with a pair of tweezers and examined the other side. Finally, he lifted his eyes and met mine. He had regained his composure.
“I know what you’re thinking, kid,” he said to me. “You think you found a 1909 Honus Wagner T-206. Well, you’ve got an authentic Wagner here all right, but it’s Heinie Wagner, not Honus Wagner. Heinie Wagner was another Pirate in the same card set. I hate to bust your bubble, but there are thousands of cards just like this one floating around.”
My heart dropped like a bungee jumper.
“Are you sure?” I asked, almost pleading for him to say no.
“Positive,” Birdie said. “Tell you what. You’re a nice kid. I’ll give you ten dollars for it.”
I was crushed. I had already begun making plans for how I would spend the thousands of dollars I would get for the card. And then it turned out to be worth next to nothing.
I considered Birdie’s offer. Maybe I should take the money, I thought. Ten bucks is ten bucks, and that would make twenty dollars I’d earned for the day. Not bad.
“So do we have a deal?” Birdie asked, sticking out his hand for me to shake. The snotty teenager watched silently.
I looked Birdie in the eye. He was sweating like crazy. I could see it right through his shirt. Why was he acting so nervous about a simple ten-dollar deal? I wondered.
Suddenly, I realized that Birdie was lying to me. Heinie Wagner wasn’t on the Pittsburgh Pirates. He played for the Boston Red Sox. The guy on this card had “PITTSBURG” across his chest and the only Pirate of that era named Wagner was the great Honus Wagner.
“No,”
I finally said. “I think I’ll see what another dealer has to say.”
“Wait,” Birdie said urgently. “I’ll give you one hundred dollars.”
“I thought you said the card was worth ten dollars.”
“One thousand dollars,” Birdie said desperately. “I’ll give you one thousand dollars. Cash. Right here, right now. I’ve got the money in the back.”
“Thanks for your honesty and your generous offer, Birdie,” I said in my best sarcastic voice. “I’ll just take one of these protective cardholders.”
I flipped two quarters on the counter and carefully inserted the card between the two sheets of clear plastic. I slipped the card inside my wallet and put the wallet in my backpack. Birdie was watching me carefully, fuming. He doesn’t like it when twelve-year-old kids make a chump out of him. But I didn’t care. Having the card gave me the confidence to turn down Birdie’s offer.
As I was leaving Home Run Heaven, the snotty teenager followed me out the door.
“Hey kid!” he yelled as I threw my leg over my bike. He came over to me and leaned close to my ear.
“Let me give you some advice,” he said. “Word’s gonna get around. Put the card in a safe place, and do it fast. That’s the most valuable piece of cardboard in the world, and a lot of people would like to have it.”
I didn’t like the sound of that.
FLOATING ON AIR
6
I FIGURED THAT BEFORE I DID ANYTHING ELSE WITH THE card, I’d better do some homework on Honus Wagner. I pedaled south down Third Street to the Ekstrom Library at the University of Louisville to see what I could dig up.
There weren’t any books about Honus Wagner, but almost every baseball book mentioned him. I knew Wagner was a Hall of Famer, but I never knew how great he really was.
Just for starters, he was one of the best hitters in baseball history. He hit over .300 for seventeen straight years. He won the National League batting championship eight times, and four times in a row.
Despite his size, he could run like a scared rabbit. Wagner stole 722 bases over his career, and led the league in stolen bases five times. Ty Cobb stole more bases, but Wagner averaged more steals per time reaching first than Cobb did, .213 to .207. Those are stats the average fan would miss.
He could field like an octopus. Shortstop is the toughest position to play, so managers usually put their best fielder there. Every baseball book said that Wagner was undisputably the greatest shortstop ever.
His hands were enormous, nearly as big as the gloves they used to wear in those days. Wagner would charge ground balls like a bull and scoop them up like a shovel. He grabbed handfuls of dirt along with the ball, so when the throw reached its target, the first baseman would be pelted by rocks and pebbles. It was like the tail of a comet.
They say his throws were always accurate from wherever he threw. He would pick up grounders down the leftfield line that got past the third baseman, and then throw the runner out at first with time to spare. One book said he threw out baserunners while lying on his back.
In 1908, Wagner totally dominated the National League. He won the batting title with a .354 average, when the entire league hit just .239. He also led in hits, doubles, triples, runs batted in, on-base average, total bases, slugging percentage, and stolen bases. Just about the only categories he didn’t lead the league in were runs and home runs. He finished second in those.
Some season!
In fact, many baseball experts think Honus Wagner was the greatest all-around player in the history of the game.
Interestingly, almost every baseball book mentioned that Wagner was funny-looking. He was sort of ugly and awkward. He didn’t look like a typical ballplayer.
He reminded me of me a little bit. I wondered if kids made fun of him when he was growing up. I wished I could meet him and ask him.
There was one last thing I wanted to look up—the value of the T-206 Honus Wagner baseball card.
The Louisville Library gets The New York Times, so I scanned the index for WAGNER, HONUS. There was nothing listed for 1995, 1994, 1993, or 1992, but in 1991 the paper ran one article that mentioned Honus Wagner. The index said it appeared in the March 23, 1991 edition. I went to the microfilm department and put in a request for that date.
A few minutes later the librarian gave me a reel of microfilm. I threaded it through the machine and advanced the film to March 23rd. I turned to the sports section of that day, and there it was…
Honus Wagner
Baseball Card
Goes to Gretzky
By RITA REIF
A multicolored baseball card depicting Honus Wagner, the great shortstop for the Pittsburg Pirates, was sold yesterday for $451,000 to Wayne Gretzky, the Los Angeles Kings hockey great, and Bruce McNall, the club’s owner. The purchase, at Sotheby’s in New York, represented the highest price paid at auction for sporting memorabilia, about four times the previous record, set in 1989 for another Honus Wagner card.
Issued by tobacco producers in 1909 and 1910, the Wagner cards are scarce because Wagner opposed smoking and objected to his name being linked to the cigarettes advertised on the backs of the cards. Only 40 cards depicting Wagner are known to exist; the one sold yesterday was described by Sotheby’s as being in “mint condition.”
A noise came out of my throat that must have sounded really weird, because everybody in the library turned to look at me.
Four hundred and fifty-one thousand dollars! I never would have dreamed the card was worth that much.
Alongside the short article there was a picture of the baseball card Wayne Gretzky had purchased. It was identical to the card in my backpack. I was sitting on almost a half a million dollars.
I’m not quite sure if I pedaled my bike home from the library or if it just floated on a cushion of air.
What could I do with a half a million dollars? Well, first I’d buy my mom a house in the nice part of town, and a car that didn’t break down every few months. I would finally get a computer for my room, and some cool software. I could put some money away for college. My mom could quit her job, of course.
Without any money problems, Mom and Dad would probably fall back in love and we’d be a family again. We’d hire some servants to do the shopping and cooking and cleaning and all the other stuff Mom hates to do.
And after all that, I’d buy every baseball card that was ever printed.
As I pedaled home, I felt like the luckiest kid in the world. I also felt a funny feeling all over. It was the tingling sensation, but more than that. I felt a presence, a mysterious feeling that somebody was with me. I couldn’t quite figure it out, but I would soon.
ONE LAST PEEK
7
I WAS DYING TO TELL MOM ABOUT THE CARD, BUT I WASN’T sure how to handle it. Mom’s a bit of a goody-two-shoes about doing the right thing all the time. She might do something crazy like force me to give the card back to Miss Young. I almost busted a gut trying to hold back the news during dinner.
“Is something bothering you, Joe?” Mom asked as we scraped our plates off into the garbage.
“I’m just excited about my ballgame tomorrow, Mom,” I lied.
“Who are you playing?”
“The Galante Giants.”
“Those lunatics?”
“Yeah.”
I did my homework and watched some TV after dinner before crawling into bed. Just before clicking off the light, I opened my backpack and took out the Wagner card. I wanted to look at it one more time before I went to sleep.
The tingling sensation started as I held the card in my hand. It was a pleasant, buzzy feeling, like a cat purring in my ear.
My eyes felt droopy. I was thinking about Honus Wagner and what a great player he was. I was wondering if he was that good when he was a kid, and if the other kids made fun of him because he looked funny. I wished I could meet him.
That was the last thing I remembered before dropping off to sleep.
Sometime during the night there wa
s a stirring in my room. I thought for a moment it was the house creaking, but the sound was loud enough to make me sit up in bed out of a deep sleep.
I jumped. Air escaped from my mouth in a startled gasp. I brought my hand to my mouth to cover it. My eyes were wide and they strained to adjust to the light from my night table.
There was a man in my room. He was sitting in the chair at my desk, calmly watching me. He didn’t look like he was a thief robbing the house. He was wearing a baseball uniform.
“Who are you?” I asked, dumbfounded.
“Who are you?” he replied softly.
“Joe. Joe Stoshack. My friends call me Stosh.”
“Then that’s what I’ll call you. Pleased to meet you, Stosh.” He stood up and stuck out his right hand to shake. The hand was enormous, about the size of a canned ham. It enveloped mine completely, but gently.
I looked the guy over. He was a big man. Not tall, but solid. About 200 pounds. He must have been in his mid-thirties, sort of weird-looking, with big ears and a big nose. There were bags under his brown eyes, and a tinge of sadness in his face. He somehow reminded me of Abraham Lincoln.
As he sat back down in the chair, I could see his legs were bowed like mine, but even worse. His chest seemed to be as big as a barrel. There was plenty of room on it for the letters PITTSBURG. There was no H at the end.
“Honus…Wagner?” I whispered, rhyming “Honus” with “bonus.”
“Honus,” he said, rhyming it with “honest.” “My friends call me Hans. It’s from the German name Johannes.”
“Am I dreaming?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe I am. Sure doesn’t feel like a dream though, does it?”
“No. I just went to sleep, and when I woke up you were sitting here in my room.”
“And I was at the ballpark shagging flies, and the next thing I knew I was here.”
He was sort of weird-looking, with big ears and a big nose. There were bags under his brown eyes, and a tinge of sadness in his face.