When I was about 12 years old, my dad gave me his old baseball cards. Actually he didn’t give them to me so much as I absorbed them into my collection after the cards emerged from our basement, wet from a heavy Chicago rainstorm. Many were still glued – glued! – to dad’s yellowing childhood scrapbooks, which we held above a steaming teapot and tried to peel away from the backing. Some came out relatively unscathed.

At that age, I was an avid collector, buying packs of cards from the pharmacy whenever I could, sorting them into sets and putting…

Elliott Malkin

Parrot lover

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