When I go to a card show, since I go to so few, I like to take my time. By taking my time, I don't mean staying there for five hours. I don't have the patience for that, and I'm not much of a gabber, so there's no chance I'll get in a 30-minute discussion about the '74 Topps "Washington N.L." variations. But I do like to scope the room, which is very large, and at least scan every table. I scout out dollar boxes and expand my horizons by visiting mojo tables. Generally, I like to fill my senses with each show. But not this time. This time I was with my 13-year-old daughter. She doesn't care about sports in the least. And you know 13-year-olds. If they're forced to do what they don't want to do, it's as if they're in solitary confinement. They won't try to find something interesting, they won't try to help out, they'll just plug in their ipod and turn on the vacant stare. Normally, this wouldn't rush me, bu...
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