Reggie had been drinking again. I smelt it on his breath.
“Do you know where we even ARE right now?,” I asked him.
“Tallahassee, maybe. Tahoe?”
I rolled my eyes and finished packing up what supplies would fit in my backpack.
“See ya around, Reg,” I said and then circled towards the freeway. I knew I would never know a baseball card quite like that again.
I never did see him again, through threw a mutual acquaintance I heard that he finally made it back in time and saved all those ’52 Topps high-numbered from being dumped in the harbor. Part of me was jealous, but I was also happy he made it, and even a little proud that I had some small part in the mission.
He deserved it.
[Ok, I’m done with this dumb blog. Experiment over. Bookmark deleted. Not coming back. WordPress sucks. We’re done here. Thanks to all zero readers for not reading. LOL]
You probably know about Willie Dixon from the new blog Blue Tears of a Dodgers Fan is running a contest where you can win a 1948 Leaf Satchel Paige. One of the entry prompts is to write a post on how nature is like cards. I’m getting this entry in just under the wire, as the entry period closes in mere hours of posting.
Today I just realized the big tree in my backyard is a weed! MIND BLOWN!
I never noticed the leaves before, but yes, it’s clearly a weed. A weed that has been reaching up into the heavens for generations, undisturbed.
It must have been a wee little weed sapling back when Native Peoples walked this land. shook.
This weedtree is closer in age to the time of the dinosaurs until it’s germination, than the the length of time that it has been growing. Just think about THAT for a while.
The voices of the mystic spirits fill its leaves when the breeze gently passes through its leaves.
If you look closely at the leaves as they dance– especially on the very treetop– you can see the Native dancing ritual of this land back when it was open and free. They dance and chant songs in the night as the flames flicker in this very spot, in a time very long ago, yet nearly a wink of the life of Mother Earth.
I pull weeds just like this multiple times per year in my backyard. Now I understand these are ancient trees from the paleolithic era. The leaves are unmistakable. Long may they run. They tell the story of this land.
Ken “The Weed Man” Holtzman (“holtz” means weed in german) was also known as a wise man while toeing the rubber. He was also a very large man, even though doctors commented when he was a baby that he would most likely always be a very small person. The Weed Man showed them! He just kept on growing… reaching… learning.
There’s been a lot of talk on the blogs lately about which card is THE GREENEST OF ALL TIME… or “The Goat”. I think all of us can agree that 1975 Topps Ken Holtzman is the Goat. The card design is green… and slightly different green… and Mr. Holtzman (“The Weed Man”) is wearing a green shirt and green hat. Even the fence in the background is a dark green. If you squint your eyes, even the sky is an aquamarine shade of green, just like the skies of Ken’s childhood.
And that’s why I believe ’75 Topps Holtzman is the Greenest of All Time, and it is also like nature, which is also very green in nature. And the card grows on you like a gigantic weed, that up until this very moment, you assumed was just a normal tree.
Somehow I always knew it would come down to this. When Reggie held me to his belly and softly burped in my ear, there was little left to discuss. The new day rose to greet us.
Tebow was the key. The Quadmatrix was his baby. Or failing that, his red-headed stepchild.
Lucie was no saint, but she fed us and gave us a quiet room to sleep in. I don’t think I’ve ever slept harder. If the night would have been longer, we’d have slept for that too. But as it was, we were content with 6, maybe 7 hours, and that was the best we could hope for. The calm was gone. The storm was beginning.
“Mr. Tebow will see you when when you’re ready,” said Lucie.
Reggie and I took a deep breath and gave each other a subtle nod. It was this or nothing. We needed him and he needed us.
The stench of rust was thick as Reggie and I awakened after a night of sleepriding our motorcycles through the Mojave Desert. You’d think we would have relaxed our grip at some point, but we had only tightened our resolve through the night.
“You hungry?” I asked Reggie.
“No, I’m a baseball card. Cardboard to the core. But you eat up, my friend,” he replied.
I had a couple strips of bacon that had warmed themselves on my hog’s engine. Good not great. I’m not normally a religious fella, but I threw out a quick prayer of thanks and a request for happiness to whomever might’ve been listening.
I knew the quadmatrix wasn’t far from here. Another couple days tops.