Chapter: The Michigan Shift (1989)

The Flint mall was buzzing with the kind of electricity only the sports card boom of the late 1980s could generate. Rows of folding tables stretched down the concourse, packed with plastic binders, acrylic display cases, and dealers eagerly talking shop. I was a long way from Missouri, up in Michigan for construction work, spending my free weekend doing what I loved most—hunting for cardboard gold.

As I browsed one of the tables, a local dealer struck up a conversation. It didn't take him long to realize I wasn't a local.

"Hey, you're from Missouri," he said, pulling a pristine card out of his display case. "Look at this. I have a 1975 Topps George Brett Mini. I want eighty dollars for it."

I looked at the shrinking version of the classic '75 design. The colors were incredibly vibrant, and the centering was dead-on.

"I got it off of Charlie," the dealer added proudly.

I blinked. "I have no clue who Charlie is."

The dealer chuckled, shaking his head. "You don't know Charlie? Yeah, I can tell you're definitely not from around here. Charlie says if you can find anything wrong with this card, don't buy it."

He paused, looking toward the mall exit. "Actually, Charlie was just here. You just missed him."

I took the card and examined it closely. I knew how fragile the 1975 Topps set was. The bright, dual-colored borders usually chipped if you so much as breathed on them wrong, leaving glaring white spots on the edges. But as I turned this mini Brett over in my hands, I couldn't find a single flaw. It was absolutely perfect. If the grading companies had existed back then, that card had "Gem Mint 10" written all over it.

I stood there at the table, facing the ultimate collector's dilemma. Eighty dollars was a lot of money to drop on a single vintage card in 1989, even for a flawless hometown hero like George Brett. Meanwhile, at the very same show, the hot new kid on the block was stealing the entire spotlight: the brand-new 1989 Upper Deck set.

Upper Deck had just hit the market, and it changed the hobby overnight. It didn't feel like the cheap cardboard we grew up with; it was premium, glossy, and came in tamper-proof foil packs with anti-counterfeit holograms on the back. Everyone at the show was chasing that legendary Number 1 Ken Griffey Jr. Star Rookie.

Ultimately, the pull of the future won out. I handed the Brett Mini back to the dealer, kept my eighty dollars, and invested my money into the new Upper Deck cards instead.

Decades later, I still wonder about that flawless mini Brett. Knowing now that "Charlie" was Charlie Conley—the legendary dealer who had bought out entire warehouse pallets of unsold 1975 Mini cases straight from the Michigan distributors—I know exactly why that card was so perfect. It had traveled straight from the factory press into a dark warehouse, preserved in time until it landed in that Flint mall.

If I had bought it and kept it pristine, that eighty-dollar card would be worth tens of thousands today. But that's the beautiful, unpredictable nature of the hobby. I chose the Griffey revolution instead, and standing at the crossroads of those two legendary eras is a memory that's worth plenty all on its own.

Chapter 1, Part 1: The 1970s — The Heat, the Wax, and the Gold Cup

 Chapter 1, Part 1: The 1970s 

 The Heat, the Wax, and the Gold Cup

The summer of 1973 had a specific temperature: blazing. I can still feel the heat radiating inside my mother’s 1968 Chevy Malibu, a beautiful car that felt like a rolling oven because it didn't have air conditioning. We had just made a run—probably to the local grocery store or the dime store—and I was sitting there, sweat dripping, holding a crisp new pack of 1973 Topps baseball cards.

When you opened a pack back then, it wasn't just a visual experience; it hit all your senses. First came the distinct snap of the wax wrapper, releasing that unmistakable sweet aroma of the pink flat slab of bubble gum mixed with the scent of the fresh cardboard itself.

Digging through that pack, looking at those iconic vertical team ribbons at the bottom of the cards, was pure magic. I remember staring at one card in particular that stood out from the rest: card #181, Jack Brohamer of the Cleveland Indians.

Now, Brohamer wasn't a household name like Willie Mays or Hank Aaron, but to a kid sitting in that hot car, his card was mesmerizing because it featured the Topps All-Star Rookie Gold Cup stamped right on the front. Pulling a "Trophy Card" felt like finding hidden treasure. In 1973, you didn't care about "mint condition" or future market value. You just cared about the pure excitement of holding a piece of the big leagues in your sweaty hands while the summer roared outside the car window

The Rubber Band Survival Guide

Once those cards made it out of the Malibu and into the house, the game completely changed. My younger brother, Brad, wasn't a collector at all. We were total opposites in that department, so I was flying solo on managing my growing pile of cardboard.  That’s when I learned my very first lesson in card storage, and it had absolutely nothing to do with "grading" or "investing." It was about pure survival. My mother had a strict, non-negotiable rule: "If you leave them scattered over the house, I'm going to throw them away. If you take care of them and keep them picked up, they're yours." And she meant it. One day—the exact date is a painful blur—she followed through on the threat and threw a massive chunk of my collection right into the trash. To keep the remaining cards alive, I had to adapt. I didn't use a shoebox like a lot of kids; I managed to get my hands on an old cigar box. But the real savior was the rubber band. Today, if you go online, hobby purists will scream, "No, no, no! Don't ever put rubber bands on your cards! It ruins the corners!" But in the 1970s, that thick brown rubber band was a shield. You’d wrap a rubber band tight around your stack, shove them into a paper sack, and tuck them safely into the cigar box. Those rubber bands might have slightly bowed the Jack Brohamer card or dinked a corner, but they kept the cards together, kept the house clean, and kept my mother from tossing my treasure into the bin. It was the premier storage system of the decade.

A Lifetime in Baseball Cards: A Collector’s Journey

 A Lifetime in Baseball Cards: A Collector’s Journey

I bought my first baseball card in 1973 when I was 12 years old. What started as a simple childhood interest turned into a lifelong hobby that has followed me through every stage of life.

Over the decades, my collection has grown into something I would describe as substantial and meaningful—not just in size, but in memory. Each card represents a moment in baseball history, and for me, also a moment in my own life history.

I attended my first card show in 1977. At the time, I didn’t realize I was stepping into something that would become a long-running tradition. I’ve since attended shows and conventions in the 1980s, 1990s, 2000s, 2010s, and into the 2020s. Very few hobbies offer that kind of continuity across so many eras of change in both baseball and collecting culture.

One memory that stands out goes back to 1975, when baseball cards increased in price from 10 cents a pack to 15 cents. At the time, it felt like a major setback. As a young collector, that small increase was disappointing and even discouraging. I remember being genuinely upset about it.

But that change also pushed me to find part-time jobs so I could continue collecting. Looking back, that moment ended up strengthening my connection to the hobby. I didn’t end up buying fewer cards—in fact, I likely bought more in the years that followed than I had in the previous two combined.

Among all the sets over the years, the 1975 Topps set has remained one of my personal favorites. It stands out not only for its design and era, but for what it represents in my collecting life.

At the center of that set for me is the rookie card of George Brett. Over the years, it has remained at the top of my list as one of my favorite cards I have ever owned. It isn’t just a key rookie card—it’s a personal landmark tied to a specific time in both baseball and my own life as a collector.

Card shows themselves have also changed dramatically over time. What once were smaller local gatherings eventually grew into large conventions filled with collectors, dealers, and displays. Yet despite the growth and change, the core experience has remained the same: people who love the game, sharing stories and trading pieces of baseball history.

Neil Smith and Bart McClaughry at the Customer Appreciation Day at Trade Fair Mall in Harrisonville MO.