I took a big step for a kid of the late eighties and early nineties this weekend.

I purged my baseball card collection.

Americans of my vintage grew up with the myth of baseball card collecting as _Investment_. Our parents' generation passed down stories of the baseball cards thrown away by their parents while they were away at their first years of college.

These stories always followed a similar pattern and shared common details. It was always, for example, the first year of college, and they could always recount the now-valuable cards they had - no doubt perfectly stored, in mint condition even today, wherever they were now.

They'd thumb through the price guides with us (fact: I spent more on a Becket subscription than my collection is now worth), then see a newsprint black and white photo of some card, then look up and into the far distance and back in time, and tell us, dreamily,

that they had that one, for sure, until mom threw them all away while they were off at college.

We'd look back at the cards from the 60s, now worth hundreds or thousands, and dream of our future riches.

Baseball card collecting was booming, and the card manufacturers were printing millions of cards to keep up. With the market flooded by kids like me spending every last paper route dollar on cards, the rarity of cards in the marketplace was inflated as well.

Cards printed in runs of tens or even hundreds of thousands were "rare", and we all flocked to conventions and card shops - driven there by our parents, still reminiscing about that now invaluable collection mom trashed during that first year of college -

to ogle them - under glass, wrapped in plastic - or offer trades for them, or to buy them, sure that they would reach the astronomical prices our parents' lost cards now demanded.

Five or ten bucks for a rectangle of cardboard that would certainly fetch thousands or tens of thousands times that one day? You'd be crazy not to buy them.

Well, the popularity of the hobby tapered off. I don't know how quickly, but now we're thirty or so years later, and baseball card collecting isn't nearly what it was then.

Industry revenue peaked in '91 at $1.2B; it's below $300M today. https://bleacherreport.com/articles/132275-the-baseball-card-industry

The fact is that the cards printed between the mid eighties and the mid nineties are basically worthless. There may be a few that are worth /something/, but the supply is such that they must be in absolutely perfect condition, and be a unique version (gold foil, etc).

Very few things that I've owned since I was ten are in absolutely perfect condition.

Something can be "rare" despite there being many thousands of identical objects if their are millions of people who want it. But when demand drops, that turns into a whole lot of pieces of cardboard wrapped in plastic.

I'd held on to the plastic tubs of cards for decades, planning to some day give them the final organize they deserved. Well, they don't deserve anything, they're just bits of cardboard, but I felt I could conduct some ceremony to imbue them with the value they once promised.

After all, I did really enjoy collecting them. I do vividly remember sorting them, trading them, playing with them. Opening the packs was thrilling, right down to trying to chew the awful gum. I used to simulate games on the living room floor. The Tigers won every time.

I do not regret the money spent on them; it was, in terms of fun and time spent, a better investment than the arcade, the other thing I spent money on when I was ten.

I have never been good at video games; you'd be surprised how fast ten bucks goes when you stink at the games.

I need to clear out the storage space in the basement for some renovation we're doing, so I finally set aside a couple evenings and popped open the tubs. Sorting them was arduous and triggered a lot less pleasant nostalgia than expected.

First, my eyes were burning, and it was truthfully 100% because of the dust, which was overwhelming. Second, my neck and shoulders hurt; a ten year old can spend all evening sorting piles of cards in a way a forty year old probably should not. Advil and Benadryl were required.

I quickly realized that the pleasant memories were not tied to very many specific cards. I quickly piled up the Ken Griffey Jr rookies I was so thrilled to acquire, and more obscure Tigers I remember staring at fondly. The rest were just noise. Junk.

I did set aside a few of the more valuable ones which had survived in fairly good condition. This is less because I think their value will ever rebound - I probably spent their future appreciation on the new small tub for them - then because I find it easier to purge in phases.

And then I dropped the tubs on the local donation center.

Americans of my vintage were assured that we'd be rich one day, and given a lot of advice about how to achieve that based on the previous generation's experiences.

Our parents didn't take on a Mickey Mantle rookie card's value in debt to go to college. Maybe they didn't get to keep the cards, but they got that value for free.

I've never watched the KonMari show or anything, so I'm not sure I have anything to add to that thread, or that these metaphors are novel.

Except these metaphors were also literal tubs taking up literal space in my home, and I spent two evenings getting migraines from the dust.

If you have a similar stack of tubs, set yourself free.

They aren't gaining value, and they aren't doing you any good sitting in those tubs. They have no financial value and are negative fun. Grab the two you really remember fondly and frame them!

Anyway if you're looking for an nearly complete set - somehow missing the Lou Whitaker and Tom Brookens cards - of '88 Tops, DM me and I'll tell you where I donated them.