Growing up, I was an avid collector of STUFF. I collected everything. I mean, obsessively.
From a young age, I collected Matchbox Cars and Legos. I discovered action figures, and that became my thing — Star Wars, GI Joe, He-Man, Starting Lineup, Muscle Men, you name it. I eventually got into music and collected tapes and CDs, and those collections grew exponentially thanks to the BMG and Columbia House offers I found in Parade Magazine. In college, it was movies. By then, I could find the VHS tape or DVD of pretty much any film on Amazon. After college — when Napster became a big deal — I filled my hard drive with MP3s.
I became aware of my collecting obsession in my 20s and have since eased myself into minimalism, thank goodness. I discovered I would get really into something for a relatively short period of time, and then I’d move onto the next thing. It was something of a pattern. It had to stop.
But there was one collection that lasted through the entirety of my childhood…
Baseball cards and football cards.
Oh man, did I invest a fortune into my card collection. A good chunk of every allowance or the majority of my lawn mowing money got thrown into cards.
Last year, a giant box arrived in the mail from Mom and Dad. It weighed about 40 pounds. Inside — the first half of my card collection. About a week later another 40 pound box arrived.
I stowed the boxes of cards away, but I was ultimately happy to have them in my possession again. I figured maybe one day I might have the time to revisit them.
Just this week, while looking up some Washington Football Team news, I stumbled back into The Hobby and got lost in miles of Twitter feeds dedicated to sports cards. Within 48 hours, I was back in the community — and what a GIANT community it is. There are hundreds, thousands, probably tens of thousands of collectors buying, trading, selling, auctioning, shipping, gifting, searching for gems, and commenting on each other’s cards.
After about thirty years, I cracked open my personal collection. And wow, all the feelings came back.
In “Naughty Week,” there is a chapter that flashes back to the 1980s. It’s an origin story of sorts, intended to explain Jack’s path to becoming The Santa Claws Cat Burglar. But at its heart, the chapter is a love song to The Hobby — featuring the ever-elusive Cal Ripken Jr. rookie card.
Below is that chapter. I hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it.
Chapter 26
LITTLE JOHNNY DOLAN
Schultz’s Collector’s Cards and Sports Memorabilia opened in Old Town Bethesda in April of 1988. Johnny Dolan was ten years old, and it had been two years since The House of Cards, his favorite baseball and football card shop in Wheaton, had closed down. Johnny visited Schultz’s every week since it had opened, and he was saving his money for one single item.
Johnny loved the Baltimore Orioles. Even though they were in the middle of their worst season ever and would finish the year with 107 losses, his loyalty never waned. He collected every Oriole baseball card he could find—Eddie Murray, Mike Boddicker, and Brady Anderson were some of his favorite players. But there was one player he revered the most, one player who blew any other player out of the water, and that was Cal Ripken Jr.
Like all Orioles fans, Johnny could count on the veteran shortstop day-in and day-out. Ripken never missed a game, and he was always good for a base hit. He wasn’t much of a base-stealer, but what he lacked in speed he made up in rock solid fielding abilities. In just his second full year in the Major Leagues, Ripken led his team to victory over the Philadelphia Phillies in the 1983 World Series.
During the 1984 season, Cal Ripken Jr. solidified himself as young Johnny’s favorite player when Johnny’s dad took him to the home opener at Memorial Stadium. They got there early so they could catch batting practice. Johnny mustered all the courage he could to call for Cal to come over to the third base line where Johnny and his dad snuck down from their assigned upper deck seats. Johnny must have yelled loud enough because Cal trotted over, looked him square in the eye, and said, “What’s your name, buddy?”
“Um, I’m Johnny Dolan,” Johnny said, completely starstruck.
“Hey Johnny Dolan, I’m Cal.” Johnny would never forget how blue Cal’s eyes were. They were bluer than blue—blue like the Smurfs, and they shined like gemstones.
“Can I have your autograph?” Johnny asked politely.
“Sure, what can I sign?”
A crowd started to form around Johnny and his dad, wanting to get close to the All Star. Johnny worried he would miss his chance, but in the moment, he froze. Finally, his dad slipped off Johnny’s brand-new Orioles baseball cap and handed it to Cal along with a permanent marker. Cal signed the orange brim of the hat and slipped it on Johnny’s head.
The fans pushed forward, wanting their time with Cal, but duty called. As Cal strode off toward the infield, Johnny removed his hat to look at the signature. And there it was, written in dark black ink: To Little Johnny Dolan. Best Wishes, Cal Ripken Jr.
Johnny wore that same hat four years later on his way to Schultz’s Collector’s Cards and Sports Memorabilia, which had finally opened its doors to the public. In his pocket, Johnny had forty dollars that he had saved from mowing lawns. The money was meant for one single item: Cal Ripken Jr.’s rookie card.
Johnny knew exactly what it looked like from the August 1987 issue of Beckett Baseball Card Monthly. On the card, Ripken stood posed in his right-handed batting stance wearing his home jersey, his head tilted forward, his blue eyes peering over his left shoulder, his unseen hands gripping the bat upright behind his right shoulder, framed by the iconic 1982 Topps red-on-orange elongated vertical swoosh that bordered the left side of the trading card and turned at the bottom left corner until it ran into the name Cal Ripken. It would be the only time the position of third base ever appeared next to Ripken’s name, as he transitioned to shortstop the following year.
Ripken’s signature was printed in thin black lettering over the blank space of his jersey. It was back when Topps printed the player’s signature on the cards. Johnny took pride that he had Cal Ripken Jr.’s real-life autograph right there on the brim of his hat. Johnny gripped the forty dollars in his hand—a combination of ones, fives, and a single ten-dollar bill that, to Johnny, smelled like fresh cut grass. As he turned down the block, he visualized the transaction for the one piece of Johnny’s baseball card collection that was missing. It was to become the crown jewel.
Halfway down the block, Johnny noticed three older boys he didn’t recognize coming his way. They were about fourteen, and they noticed him too. Johnny moved to the right side of the sidewalk. They shifted over, threatening to block his path. Johnny moved over to the left, and the older boys shifted too. Johnny’s heartrate increased as he drew nearer. The boys were smiling now. Johnny smiled too. Maybe they were just messing with him.
Johnny slowed, and he was just ten paces away when he shifted over to the right side of the sidewalk again. The smiles on the boys’ faces disappeared and, as before, they got in his way.
Johnny stopped. Maybe the boys would just walk past, he thought. But they stopped too, and stared at him like lions stalking a helpless ten-year-old boy.
Johnny started walking again, and as he neared the boys, he tried to move around them. “Excuse me,” he said politely.
As he slipped to the left, trying to get around the older boys, the one wearing a Mötley Crüe T-shirt grabbed the prized Orioles hat right off his head.
“Hey!” Johnny shouted desperately. “Gimme that back!”
The boys laughed at him. Mötley Crüe held the hat high above his head as Johnny lunged for it. “Oh, you want this?” he taunted, dangling the hat out of reach.
“Come on!” Johnny jumped, flailing his arms.
Mötley Crüe looked at his friend in the Stüssy hat. Stüssy looked at the third boy who pushed his hands into his jean jacket, impressed over how much Johnny struggled for the baseball cap.
“He must really want his hat back,” Jean Jacket observed.
“Oh, really,” Mötley Crüe said, waving the hat out of Johnny’s reach.
“What’s so special about it, dork?” Stüssy teased.
Johnny suddenly turned quiet. The hat had indeed been very special to him, but the last thing he wanted was for these bullies to know why it was special.
Mötley Crüe looked at Stüssy and Jean Jacket, briefly taking his attention off Johnny. Johnny lunged once more for the hat, but Mötley Crüe pulled it up at the last second and pushed Johnny away.
“Please,” Johnny begged, out of breath, “can I just have my hat back?”
And that’s when Stüssy saw the black permanent marker on the brim of the hat. “Hey, whose signature is that?”
Mötley Crüe turned the hat and read the signature. “Whoa,” he said, “it’s signed by Cal Ripken.” He read it aloud: “To Little Johnny Dolan. Best wishes.”
“Awww, isn’t that sweet?” Jean Jacket teased.
Johnny grabbed for it again, but Mötley Crüe turned his shoulder, blocking the attempt as he unsnapped the clasp on the back of the hat to resize it for his own fitting. He placed it on his greasy head and turned to his friends with his hands stretched outward. “What do you guys think of my new hat?”
“Give it back!” Johnny shouted. He scanned the area for a grown-up who could come in and intervene on his behalf, but there was no one around. He thought about running up to Schultz’s to find an adult, but by the time he’d get up there the teenagers would be long gone.
“You want it back,” Mötley Crüe stated intimidatingly, “it’s gonna cost you. How much you got?”
The image of Cal Ripken Jr.’s rookie card flashed before Johnny’s eyes. He had been saving for weeks for that card. He promised the card shop’s owner, Mr. Schultz, that he was going to purchase that card as soon as he had the money. There was another rookie card priced for twenty-five dollars, but it had a crease in the upper right corner. Johnny didn’t want that one. He wanted the one in mint condition, so he continued saving.
But in this moment, he really wanted the hat back. He was desperate to get it back. Maybe he should just give the bullies his hard-earned forty dollars, he thought. He could save another forty dollars mowing lawns. It would only take six to eight weeks, but it could be done. There was more than one Cal Ripken Jr. rookie card but absolutely no replacement for the Orioles hat signed to Johnny by the actual Cal Ripken Jr.
“Fine,” Johnny surrendered. “I have forty dollars. Take it, I don’t care. Just give me my hat back.”
Mötley Crüe’s eyes widened, and Stüssy’s jaw dropped. Forty dollars was a lot of money for three bullies to share in 1988. Jean Jacket’s smile wavered awkwardly. Of the three of them, it was pretty clear that Jean Jacket seemed like he’d be the one to regret all of this one day.
“All right then,” Mötley Crüe said, “fork it over.” He put out his hand to collect.
“Dude,” Jean Jacket interjected. “Don’t take his money, just give him the hat back.”
Johnny’s eyes snapped to Jean Jacket. Finally, an ally. Johnny closed his fist tighter around the cash. All of this would be over soon.
“Shut up, dweeb,” Mötley Crüe said to Jean Jacket. “I want his money.” Mötley Crüe stretched out his hand further.
“Y’all are idiots,” Jean Jacket stated, and then he started walking away. No! Johnny thought. The only one to come to his aid, the only one to stand up for the little guy, was now bailing. Johnny couldn’t believe it. If the Founding Fathers were made up of a bunch of Jean Jackets, there would be no United States of America.
Johnny loosened his grip around the cash in his hand. He knew what had to be done to get his beloved Cal Ripken Jr.–signed Orioles hat back. It took every bit of strength for Johnny to lift his hand. He finally dropped the bills into Mötley Crüe’s palm and reached for the hat. Mötley Crüe shoved the forty dollars into his pocket, then placed the hat back on his own head.
“Thanks, Little Johnny. You’re so generous,” he said. And then he started walking backward down the sidewalk, staring at Johnny menacingly.
“Hey, what about my hat?” Johnny pleaded.
“What hat?” Mötley Crüe said innocently as he turned around. Whether Stüssy approved of the unfair business practices that had just occurred, Johnny couldn’t decipher. The bullies disappeared around the corner as Johnny stood there on the sidewalk, frozen in his misfortune.
Johnny’s face turned red. A swirl of emotions cascaded through his body—disappointment, anger, rage, sadness. He whimpered as his eyes filled with tears. He wiped his eyes with his shirt, and he decided in that moment he would never allow anyone to take anything from him ever again. In fact, he was going to be the one to start taking.
And he would start right then with a certain Cal Ripken Jr. mint condition rookie card.
Johnny walked up the stairs of the Old Town Bethesda strip mall and headed into Schultz’s. A few other kids and a dad stood by a glass case looking at signed baseballs. Mr. Schultz saw Johnny enter and knew exactly why he was there. Johnny had come every Saturday since the shop opened.
“There he is,” he said, announcing Johnny’s presence and removing the Cal Ripken Jr. rookie card from its display case. He placed it on top of the glass and moved to help the other customers.
Johnny approached the card, dejected, but also with a newfound drive to take what he felt he deserved. If he hurt someone else as much as he had been hurt, then so be it. He lifted the clear, plastic card holder that encased the baseball card and peered across the store just as Mr. Schultz ducked into the back office. Johnny seized his opportunity. In a single motion, he slipped the Cal Ripken Jr. rookie card into his right pocket and turned for the door.
Johnny never looked back. He made it down the outside stairs, through the parking lot, and to the sidewalk. Mr. Schultz must not have realized what had happened, Johnny thought, or else he’d come screaming and yelling after him. Johnny knew he could never step foot in Schultz’s ever again. He turned sad at that thought, but he didn’t let it shade the fact that he had a Cal Ripken Jr. mint condition rookie card in his pocket.
Johnny never got caught for what he did that day, nor did he ever confess to anyone that he took the baseball card. But come Christmas of 1988, Johnny would understand there would be severe and irreversible consequences for his actions.
Naughty Week is now available in paperback, hardcover, ebook, and audiobook at your local library or wherever books are sold!
