Fear & Loathing at the Jefferson Burdick Exhibit

 

We’d just gone careening past the72nd Street stop.

            That was when my wife turned to me and said, I think we’re on the wrong train. Wrong train, I thought. I looked at her as if the words coming out of her mouth were foreign. Intelligible. There was no goddamned way we were on the wrong train. We were New Yorkers. Sixteen-year veterans of the city that never sleeps. I’d been studying the trains for years. I could get a tourist to hell in back if forced. I could at least get them around Brooklyn.

            Being on the wrong train was an impossibility.

We were on the D train. The D train went from 7^th Avenue over to 63^rd Street. Whatever had caused it to pass 63^rd then 72nd and now 86^th Street had not been our fault. It had not been our mistake, but another nefarious act by the MTA in the guise of weekend track maintenance. Their fault. Not ours. But wait? Then the lightbulb went on in my head.

            My wife was right.

            We were on the wrong train.

            It was the F not the D that went over to 63^rd Street.

            The D went to The Bronx.

            No wonder there were so many goddamned Yankees fans on the thing.

            For the record, our train mishap wasn’t anybody’s fault. It was something called a mistake. Apparently, mistakes are common. For others. For me mistakes are colossal failures. Small ones stick with me for hours. Big ones; it takes me years to fully get passed them.

I don’t make mistakes. I fail. Then I’m mad at myself. I yell at whomever is with me. I don’t recommend being this way as a guidepost in life. I hate myself for being this way. But I can’t help it. This has always been the case for me. Just once I’d like to laugh off a mistake. Be carefree when faced with a blunder.

I fear at my age I’ll never change.

            Mistake = failure.

            That’s how it’s always been.

            I seethed on that D train as we passed stop after relentless stop, going express. Going to hell. Gone was getting off the train at 63^rd street and then taking a leisurely stroll up Lexington Avenue. Gone was casually finding something good to eat for lunch. Maybe Vietnamese? Maybe ramen? Something new but delicious. Gone was another leisurely stroll up to the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

            Why had I even wanted to go to the museum anyway?

            Museums have people.

            I’m not big on people.

            Plus, there’s a pandemic raging on.

            But the MET was putting on an exhibit of baseball cards from the collection of Jefferson R. Burdick. For those of you who don’t know who Burdick is…a little interlude before we return to my misery, if I may.

            Jefferson Burdick (1900-1963) was an electrician from Syracuse who was also an avid collector of printed ephemera, i.e. postcards, posters, that sort of thing. Burdick’s collection also included quite a large amount of baseball cards. Some 30,000 baseball cards. Burdick began to donate large batches of his card collection (as well as donations of other printed ephemera) to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. He donated 303,000 items in total which the MET still has to this day. Burdick even worked at the MET for 15 years, creating a cataloging system that he published as The American Card Catalog (ACC) in 1939, 1946, 1953, and 1960. The T206 baseball card set received its name because of Jefferson Burdick.

            You know…this set…featuring this guy.

            And I wanted to see that exhibit.

            Had been thinking about it all week while trying to keep my soul intact at my job.

But now my wife and I were at the mercy of this ever-loving D train and whatever would be its next stop. We blew passed 96^th Street. We blew passed 103^rd. We raced by 110^th Street. 116^th. I worried we were going all the way up to The Bronx. More and more people clad in Yankees gear were getting on the train. Unmasked A-holes in faded Derek Jeter jerseys still living vicariously through 1990s baseball glory. The D train didn’t stop again until 125^th Street at the cusp of Harlem.

            My wife bade good riddance to the D train.

We waited for a downtown C train.

A C-train that would get us back to 86^th Street

But on the west-side of the city.

With the entirety of Central Park now between us and the MET.

We’d miss our timed entry for sure.

No Burdick exhibit for me.

            I sulked the whole train ride back.

            Mistake = failure.

            I get fatalist when I fail…er…make a mistake. Some would say I get nihilistic. Everything goes to shit. Everything is rushed. Everything is now ruined. I’m apathetic to a fault. Lunch doesn’t matter. Our destination doesn’t matter. I hate the city all of the sudden. Nothing matters but my mood and ambivalence about the course of the rest of the day.

I feel bad for my wife when I get like this. There’s no reasoning with someone who has suddenly thrown in the towel on a perfectly good day, opting for a temper tantrum instead. Because of a simple mistake. But was it simple? Again, I’m a New Yorker. I’ve clocked sixteen years in this city. I shouldn’t be making mistakes like the one I made. The D train goes this way. The F train goes that way. It’s simple. They even make maps that will show you, if you can’t remember.

Christ, what a loser I am.

Mistake = failure.

We roamed Columbus Avenue looking for food. I don’t like the Upper West Side. It’s rich, which means it’s a bore. There are no little holes selling noodles in strange and spicy broths. No Indian food kept warm with Sterno or gas. The Upper West side is bistro upon bistro serving brunch. The Upper West side is well polished brumch people eating eggs and sipping mimosas before noon.

Even the pizza joints carry a pretentious air.

And to hell with brunch.

My wife and I argued as we looked for somewhere to eat. She thought we could find somewhere decent for a bite, salvage the part of our day before the museum. I wasn’t so sure over here in la-la-land where there’s nary a Golden Arches or taco stand. I was content to brood over time and lament my sense of direction.

Still, I needed sustenance.

Not only was I sulky but I was what the kids call “hangry.” It was almost 1pm. I’d been up since six messing with my cards. I hadn’t eaten in some fifteen or sixteen hours. But our timed ticketed entry was at two. One hour to eat and get across that damned behemoth of a park. I wanted to give up the ghost and just get to the museum. Eat a lousy, over-priced hot dog from a vendor. Take the loss on a fine lunch. Call it a meal.

Suffice it to say, my wife and I weren’t really talking by the time we traversed Central Park. Or we were arguing which direction to go, because Central Park is all twists and turns and you’re never sure if you’re making it straight across or going out of your way. I’ve wound up ten blocks away from where I meant to be while in Central Park. It spits you out dazed and confused. It’s a miserable labyrinth.

Parks stress me out.

Full disclosure, I don’t like nature. This means I don’t like parks. Give me artificial light in an air-conditioned room (unless it’s at a job) and I’m happy. The majesty and landscaped beauty of Central Park is lost on me. I don’t understand why everyone looks so relaxed and happy in that park. In any park.

That being said, I certainly wasn’t in the mood for a park all things considered.

I was tired by the time we got out of the park. Tired and hungry and angry. A bad combination for a Saturday afternoon at the beginning of a three-day weekend. And it was hot. Not heat index hot. It was all sun and no clouds. What the stiffs call “a beautiful day.”

If I haven’t mentioned it on here before, I don’t like the sun.

I’d gleefully watch the sun burn out of the sky.

It was way after 1pm. I’d been on the wrong train. I’d been on the wrong side of the city. I’d been in a park. In the sun. The area around the MET was crowded. There was a snaking line of masked people waiting to get inside. I began to question my sanity. Why had I wanted to go to one of the most famous art museums in the world? On a Saturday? On a holiday weekend? During a pandemic.

Oh…because of baseball cards.

Yeah, well, fuck Jefferson Burdick and his cards, I thought.

I just want to go home.

I told my wife as much. It was a good thing she was wearing sunglasses because she would’ve burned a hole through me with her eyes. We’d come all this way. We’d been on the wrong train. We’d suffered the West Side. We’d traversed the park. And I was pulling this shit?

Yeah…I was.

I also have the huge problem of not thinking before I speak.

That’s a bigger failure than making a mistake.

We ate lunch in silence. I had that over-priced hot dog from a vendor and it was just as depressing as I thought it would be. We had to eat standing, across the street, because that was where the only shade was. As I stood there, I watched people waiting in line to get into the MET. I watched happy families playing with their kids. Kids playing in the fountains in front of the museum. Everyone happy. The MET people. The park people. The brunch people. Everyone enjoying themselves and their day.

Except me.

Because I got on the wrong train.

Mistake = failure.

Yet we soldiered on.

The Burdick exhibit itself was…small. But I should’ve expected small. The MET’s website listed the exbibit as only containing 100 cards from his collection. But I wanted bigger. Felt I deserved bigger. For the train ride. For the mistake. For the failure. For having to watch pasty white people eat runny eggs and sip mimosas. People who never got on the wrong damned train in their life. If they even had to take trains to places. Limo and cab people.

            For having to eat a shitty hot dog on the street.

            For arguing with my wife and ruining her day.

            But the exhibit was eleven panels of cards on four walls, tucked away in a corner of the American Wing. In that room that has all of the wooden shelves. And pictures and other museum items under glass. Rows and rows of pots and kettles. I never understood a room like this in a museum. Like their “junk” room. No way to really display so might as well just overwhelm.

            I figured screw it.

            I went looking at cards.

            The first panel housed the Buchner Gold Coin Cards, or N284, from 1887.  These are some of the oldest tobacco cards out there, and certainly some of the oldest, if not thee oldest (I’d have to really check my memory banks from a 29-year-old trip to the Baseball Hall of Fame to find anything older), baseball cards I’d ever seen. They lightened my dark mood upon site. There is truly something uplifting in seeing baseball history preserved from this long ago. Card history as well. That damned Burdick was onto something…even if he did technically ruin cards by taping their backs to paper and cardboard.

            Which I actually did with my 1981 Topps cards…but I was seven.

            All the same…impressive.

            For a deeper dive into the Buchner Gold Coin Cards, the fine folks at Sports Collector’s Daily offer THIS.

            The next panel of cards that we came across were the white border T206 cards and the brown background T207 cards.

The T206 cards came out between 1909-1911, and could be found coupled with products from the American Tobacco company. The T207 cards are from 1912 and just as with the T206, they could be found in a variety of tobacco products.

And the fine folks at PSA can do a way better job of explaining them than I can both HERE and HERE.

The T206 set is the set that produced the infamous Honus Wagner card. And because of that I spent some time perusing the small sample of them. I began to realize looking at those cards that despite the trails of the day, we’d made it to exactly where I wanted to be there. I suddenly felt good. But then I felt bad. Looking at my wife looking at those cards with me, I pondered the arguments that we’d had. My tantrums on street corners. The moments of frustrated silence. A lunch eaten in with no conversation. And I felt bad. I felt ashamed. I felt like the worst human being on the planet.

            I felt guilt.

            As I stood there looking at the T206 and T207 cards I thought back to the morning of that day. The joy and promise that comes with making plans that you are excited for. Good plans are hard these days. My wife and I love to travel. Other than to visit relatives in Buffalo and Pittsburgh, we haven’t traveled in almost two years. That might not mean much to some, but traveling is part of the world we’ve cultivated for ourselves. Dreams fulfilled from when we were two young kids living paycheck to paycheck, and not even almost that.

            The loss of travel has been hard for us during this pandemic, aside from general fear of death and survival. There’s been a void. What I’m saying is that small plans have had to take its place. Just going to an art gallery now feels like a big event. A museum? A monumental excursion. We actually hadn’t been to the MET since 2019. And I screwed it up. Over getting on the wrong train. And then acting like a child about it.

            Guilt consumed me at the Jefferson Burdick exhibit.

            And, yes, I did apologize for my behavior.

            But…still…

            Let’s move on.

            The next two panels that we saw housed the Baseball Series (Gold Borders) AKA T205 tobacco cards from 1911, 

            and the Hassan Triple Folder, T202, cards from 1912, a product of the Hassan Cigarette company. I’d never seen a product like the Hassan cards before, two photos on the end and a black and white, sometimes action, shot in the middle. From what I’ve read the two player pictures on the end folded so that the card could fit into the cigarette packs.

            America’s encyclopedia (which I shouldn’t promote as a librarian) Wikipedia has the lowdown on the Gold Series HERE, and the folks at Cardboard Connection can help you out if you want to dig deep on the Hassan T202’s right HERE.

            The rest of the exhibit went as such:

           The Cracker Jack cards (and the first appearance in the exhibit of non-tobacco cards) came out in 1914 and 1915 and you can find out more about both right HERE and HERE

               Hey! Our first bubble gum cards! Really enjoyed looking at the Tattoo Orbit cards from 1933. Sports Collectors Daily has a fantastic article on the by Bob D’Angelo right HERE.

 

               Alright now we’re getting into more familiar territory (for me at least) with the Goudey 1933 cards. Spotlight on Lou Gehrig.

               And how about the Heads Up cards that Goudey put out in 1938

               Mr. Joe DiMaggio

               These Topps Team Cards from 1951...I'd never seen or heard of them before. But it was the first panel in the exhibit to mention the name Topps. I don't want to say my mood darkened again, but being faced with Topps, with its history, just kind of drudged up the whole Topps/Fanatics business again, leaving a sour taste in my mouth.  That said, here's a fine article on collecting those 1951 Topps Team Cards from Doug Koztoski at Sports Collectors Digest.

               I think these next few panels of cards will be familiar to most collectors.

               I took a close-up of that Ted Williams for my buddy Miller (at least his name on here) because his dad was a big Ted Williams fan as a kid.

                One day I'll own this one:

            

            If I can go back to the Hassan Triple Folder cards for a moment, and I say a moment, because my word count tells me that I’ve rambled on too long; well, those cards were the turning point for me that day.

            Yes, my wife and I were talking by then. We’d established a détente, if you will. I had apologized. But the Hassan cards were the first ones that she and I were really jazzed about together. And no, my wife is NOT a card collector, although she knows the lingo now with me back in the game these two plus years. They were the first panel where we discussed the cards like we discuss regular art. The first panel where that morning vibe for the day seemed possible.

            Overall, I loved the Burdick exhibit. I loved it for its cards and for the history it gave me that day. I loved it because it got me out of that funk (yes, even after what I said about the 1951 Topps Team Cards) or feeling that my hobby is somehow going to go away when Fanatics rules the universe. I know that isn’t true. But it still feels like that to me. Cards will exist. And there will still be history to witness in The Hobby.

            More than anything I want to thank the Burdick exhibit for righting my head. For taking all of that anxiety and stress, my inability to process a simple mistake, and just pushing all of that back inside for a while. Deep inside. A kid fear I’ll work to not let out.

            And maybe next time a mistake can just be that.

            A mistake.

            Thanks for reading! Happy Collecting!

            If you’d like to learn more about the 1933 and 1938 Goudey releases you can do so HERE and HERE.

            Same thing if you’re curious about the 1951 Bowman and 1954 Topps releases. You can find out more HERE and HERE.

         Next Friday: Wasn’t I supposed to write about racism and 1990 cards? Yeah…well…sometimes you just can’t find the words. But I’m going to try it again for next week. If it happens it happens. If it doesn’t, I’ll at least try to not be as long-winded as I was this week.