By John D. Pierce
Topps baseball cards came five for a dime with a flat strip
of pink bubblegum that left a good smell in the air upon opening — and a light
dusting of sugar on the face of the first player in the stack.
Dimes were hard to come by when I was kid, and usually
required skipping an afternoon snack for which they were designated. But no treasure
compared to a wax pack of baseball cards — filled with Christmas-like mystery
and expectation.
You just never knew where Al Kaline, Ernie Banks, Willie
Mays, Mickey Mantle — or the ultimate bonanza, Mr. Henry Louis Aaron — might be lurking.
Choosing a pack from the box on the store shelf was like spinning the roulette
wheel.
Duplicate cards were taken to school and traded during
recess and lunch — though some intense bartering for an unsecured Yaz card
might continue quietly during the teacher’s instructions.
Once I bought a pack of cards and, with unprecedented
patience, waited until back home to open it. That’s when I discovered Jesus.
Kneeling before an open shoebox on my bedroom floor, I was
eager to add these latest acquisitions to the treasured collection of cardboard
images of my ’60s heroes. When, suddenly, Jesus appeared.
And he played outfield for the San Francisco Giants. No
flannel graph lesson or Bible storybook had ever mentioned such.
Without the widespread diversity of today, I was
unaware that “Jesús” was a
common name in some Spanish-speaking cultures. My mother explained this
surprise to me and the back of the card indicated that this Jesus — with the last name
Alou — came from the Dominican Republic.
I was
familiar with his brothers, Felipe and Matty Alou. It seemed fitting that Jesus
would complete the trinity of brotherly outfielders.
Later a joke arose that there was a fourth Alou brother in
baseball — Boog Powell, the big sandy-headed first baseman for the Orioles.
But
he changed his last name, according to the unfolding joke, because he didn’t
want to be known as ... drum roll please … Boog Alou.
