Parting Ways with a Piece of '89 Upper Deck History

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 Parting Ways with a Piece of '89 Upper Deck History

If you’ve been collecting sports cards for fifty years like I have, you develop a certain appreciation for the shops that weather the storms, outlast the trends, and keep their doors open decade after decade. Earlier this week, after an appointment up in Kansas City, I found myself walking into a true fixture of the local hobby: The Baseball Card Store down on 87th Street in Overland Park.

Run by Scott Neal—who has been a staple of the KC card scene since the late eighties—this place is the real deal. They’ve seen the junk wax era, the boom-and-bust cycles, and even hauled inventory down to tables at the National. Walking in, you’re greeted by a row of guys behind the counter hustling to keep up with customers.

I had something special in my bag: a box of 1989 Upper Deck baseball cards that I’d been sitting on, completely unopened. Now, in my mind, when I say a box isn't "sealed," I mean it hasn't been sent off to the Baseball Card Exchange (BBCE) for acrylic encasing and an official seal. But in a busy retail shop where the counter crew fields questions from the public all day long, "unsealed" can mean anything.

When I laid the box on the counter, the young guy helping me asked the inevitable question: "Are they sealed?"

"No," I replied, meaning they weren't BBCE-wrapped. He gave them a quick look, realized what they actually were—factory-fresh, unsearched packs hiding inside a raw box—and his demeanor immediately lit up. Recognizing the weight of the product, he scooped them up. "I've got to go talk to Scott over here."

Across the room, Scott took one look at the box and let out an instinctive eye-roll. Let's be honest: in the card business, when someone walks in off the street with 1989 Upper Deck, nine times out of ten it's a box of loose, searched, or picked-through packs from a set printed to astronomical numbers. Everyone thinks they're sitting on a lottery ticket for a pristine Ken Griffey Jr. rookie.

You can't blame a veteran dealer for being skeptical at first glance. But the second Scott picked up a pack, checked the edges, and realized these were the genuine, untouched article, the entire mood in the room shifted.

Then came the classic dealer dance. Scott looked right at me with that veteran dealer grin and asked the oldest question in the book: "What do you want for them?"

I knew better, of course. Throwing out the first number always carries the risk of leaving a little meat on the bone, but after a long day of driving and appointments, I didn't hesitate. "Four hundred," I told him.

Scott offered a quick grin and a light jab—"Oh, not 399?"—before shaking hands and making it official.

Walking out of a brick-and-mortar storefront with four hundred dollars cash in hand for a box I'd tucked away for years isn't a bad way to wrap up an afternoon. It makes you wonder how many people actually walk through their doors carrying unsearched boxes from 1989, hoping to capture a little bit of that old magic. For Scott and his crew, it’s just another Tuesday. For a longtime collector, it’s just another great day in the hobby.