Shead a Tear for Fleer

The Sports Prof pens a stirring eulogy to Fleer, and quite likely to the baseball card industry as we all knew it. I, like the Prof, never once "flipped" my cards or jammed them in the spokes of my Huffy. I often attempted to jam my brother's finger in the spokes of my bike, but my Eric Davis rookie card? Surely you jest. I did spend endless hours of the greatest years of my childhood organizing, ranking, sorting and trading those cards, though, and it's sad that the current and future generations will apparently not do the same.

My cards are now stored carefully in a closet in my home, rescued a year or two ago from sure doom at the hands of my mother's ever-expanding wardrobe. I long for the day when I have time to spend an entire weekend with them in intimate detail, not necessarily to estimate their monetary worth, but to rekindle the memories that they will always inspire. I can guarantee you that if my children choose to waste their brains on comic books and Pokemon rather than the glories of baseball card collecting, it won't be for my lack of effort.