I’ve always sought signs and moments that could prompt my movement forward. Let a song push your step or some advertisement capture your thoughts.
I collect them like baseball cards, these little signs. Its a simple transition, really. I happen to walk by the counter, spy a shiny pack with a star outfielder and a barely visible price tag. Quick check of my pocket for the money and the pack was mine.
First things, first. What is in there? One of the “1 in 500 packs” selections? A hot rookie? And which Red Sox? Oh, I wanted a Red Sox. Preferably not a relief pitcher. So I rip that pack open, caution thrown to the wind. Always from the back, slide the cards out the top, kind of like a bag of chips. The back of the bottom card in the pile stares at me but I quickly flip to the front and carefully identify each of the villains in the lineup. Mark Langston, Mike Stanley, Carlos Baerga, Mickey Morandini, ooh Frank Thomas, Steve Avery, NOMAR!!!! Jackpot. My sign. A good day ahead. Save that guy, put it in between the other 14 cards so the shape and edges remain. Hold that sign, grip that hope.
I don’t buy baseball cards anymore. Ok I lied. I’m sorry. The last pack of cards held a sign as well. This was not full-throat, Robert Plant-screaming, wake up the neighborhood, a blazing bush sign. Completely the opposite. Ohhhh man. So I bought a pack of 1995 Leaf baseball cards and flipped through the small collection. I got lucky and found a sign. A Derek Jeter rookie card. The Derek Jeter rookie card. Book valued at $80. Crap.
Sign of my last summer it was. That false and crashing hope.
I found a new sign. Oh did I. Wake up. As I will.
