Vintage Fridays: Eddie Watt, 1972 Topps #128

Fun facts about Eddie Watt:

-The youngest of four kids, he became the first member of his family to attend college when he enrolled at Iowa State Teachers College. His alma mater later became known as Northern Iowa University.

-In 1961, he was scouted by the Cardinals, White Sox, and Orioles, but the first two clubs each offered him a $350 signing bonus. The O's sweetened the pot and got him for $400.

-While splitting the 1964 season between Class A Aberdeen (S.D.) and AA Elmira, Eddie went a combined 17-2 with a 2.04 ERA.

-He made his big league debut on Opening Day of the 1966 season - April 12 - and earned the save in Baltimore's 5-4, 13-inning win at Fenway Park. The stocky righthander struck out George Scott and got a pair of groundouts from Tony Horton and Rico Petrocelli in a flawless inning of work.

-Though Watt didn't appear in the O's four-game sweep of the Dodgers in the 1966 World Series, he still earned an $11,683.04 share. In five years, he'd come a long way from a $400 bonus!

-His career-best performance in 1969 helped the Birds claim the first of three straight American League pennants: 5-2 with a team-high 16 saves and a 1.65 ERA in 71 innings.

-After Eddie's playing career ended, he managed in the Padres' farm system for four years, racking up a .524 winning percentage from 1978-1981. Later he coached in the minors for the Astros, Phillies, and Braves before retiring in 2003.

Vintage Fridays: Frank Robinson, 1972 Topps #100

The Orioles signed Pedro Alvarez this week, who doesn't seem to bring much to the table besides his prodigious power. He doesn't hit for average (.236 career), strikes out a ton (809 K in 742 games), and isn't even a passable defender at first base (23 errors last year...how?). But he does have something in common with Frank Robinson. Much like Robby once hit a ball clear out of Memorial Stadium, Pedro walloped a ball completely out of PNC Park last May. I have a pessimistic sense that the O's might be boom-or-bust to the extreme this year, but when they square up those balls, they should be awfully fun to watch.

Vintage Fridays: Jim Palmer, 1972 Topps #270

Today's home opener was less than good for the Orioles. If you like a chilly, gray, 12-5 whuppin' at the hands of the Blue Jays, that's your prerogative. As always, however, the team did a first-rate job with the pregame festivities. The highlight was a ceremony celebrating Jim Palmer, as April 17 will mark the 50th anniversary of his major league debut with the O's. He was presented with a cake and a $50,000 donation in his honor to autism research; Palmer's son Spencer is autistic. Finally, he was asked to throw out the first pitch to his longtime battery mate Rick Dempsey. Naturally, Jim threw from the pitching rubber atop the mound, and he delivered the ball on a line to Dempsey's glove, eliciting a rousing ovation from the sellout crowd. Some things never change.

Vintage Fridays: Mike Cuellar, 1972 Topps #70

Who wants to play catch with Mike Cuellar? He promises not to throw the screwball without warning. He also breaks his promises.

Vintage Fridays: Don Buford, 1972 Topps #370

Whoops, the night has gotten away from me. So here's Don Buford, giving us all the side-eye. I don't know what you did, but he looks pretty pissed off.

Vintage Fridays: Andy Etchebarren, 1972 Topps #26

One of the many wonderful things about Andy Etchebarren is his unusual and unwieldy surname. When the name on the back of your jersey is 11 letters long, the nameplate ends up leaking down into your armpits. I've also noticed this phenomenon with Steve Lombardozzi, one of the newest Orioles. Lombo is a utility infielder who grew up in Howard County, just south of Baltimore, and his father (also Steve) roamed the Twins' infield in the 1980s. Steve's also got an 11-letter last name, and it fills up the back of his O's jersey quite nicely. It's not quite Jarrod Saltalamacchia territory, but it's still a fun sight when tuning into a game.

Vintage Fridays: Paul Blair, 1972 Topps #660

I haven't paid close attention to the Orioles Topps want list hosted on my 1965 Topps blog for quite some time. I'll check in on it if I'm out bargain-hunting for vintage cards and I come across a member of the home team, or on the off chance that Ed or another fellow collector finds one of my needed cards. But off the top of my head, I couldn't tell you which cards have proved elusive...except of course the 1957 Brooks Robinson rookie. That's a doozy. Nor have I bothered to take inventory of the base cards I need from the last five Topps flagship sets, which mirrors the way that I've almost completely checked out on the modern product.

But I've spent a lot of time in recent weeks filling holes in some of my 1970s Topps set binders (1972-1974 and 1976-1978), and that piqued my curiosity. How am I doing on my 1970s O's? Not too bad, if my own shoddy record-keeping is to be believed. I have all of the Orioles from 1970 and 1973 through 1979. That leaves me with five suspects on the loose for the whole of the decade. The rundown:

1971 Topps (3): #330 World Series Game 4 (Reds Stay Alive), #595 Davey Johnson, #700 Boog Powell (short print). One postseason recap card left to get, and it's the only World Series game the Birds lost in 1970. I can wait on that one. The others are higher-series cards, and Boog is a dastardly short-print.

1972 Topps (2): #680 Davey Johnson, #731 Orioles Team. Of the 1970s sets that I've put any effort into building, it's 1972 that I have the lowest expectation of completing. With its monstrous-for-its-time 787-card checklist and pricey high-number cards, it's no wonder. If I can at least keep an eye out for this duo, I can earn the satisfaction of completing the team set. For now, though, Paul Blair is the uppermost Oriole in my 1972 set.

Vintage Fridays: Merv Rettenmund, 1972 Topps #235

Before I got totally sidetracked and stopped updating my website for a year or more at a time, Orioles' uniform numbers were kind of my thing. But I need some help with this one, folks. As you can see, Merv Rettenmund is posing in his best batting stance among the palm trees in sunny Florida. But I can't say for certain which Oriole is standing behind him near home plate. Mystery Bird is wearing number one, but that number was last worn in the regular season by 29-year-old rookie shortstop Chico Fernandez in 1968. Fernandez had two singles in 18 at-bats and was never heard from again. Al Bumbry would come along later in 1972 and wear #1 until he and the team parted ways in 1984, but there's no way that blurry orange name plate says "Bumbry".

I think it's Chico. Merv debuted with the O's in 1968, and he and Fernandez were both still in the Baltimore organization in 1969, though the latter played just four games at Rochester that year. I would never suggest that Topps was recycling three-to-four-year-old pictures on their cards back in the day, but...okay, that's exactly what I'm saying. I seem to remember hearing that the card company ran up against some resistance from Marvin Miller and the MLB Players' Association in the early days of the union. In the pursuit of better compensation for the use of player images, Miller urged the players not to pose for new photos. This was especially noticeable in the 1969 Topps set, which was chock-a-block with early-to-mid-1960s player shots.

If my guess is right, I'm sure Chico Fernandez would have been thrilled to appear on a baseball card three years after his pro career ended.

Vintage Fridays: Earl Weaver, 1972 Topps #323

In looking for an Earl Weaver card to post last Saturday, I noticed that I haven't featured any of his vintage cards since 2009. That's far too long to go between classic Earl cards, so here's a great one from the trusty ol' Psychedelic Tombstone set (TM Night Owl). I don't know who's standing to Earl's left, nor what that person might be doing, but they've inspired an expression on the future Hall of Fame skipper's face that seems to say, "Ugh...THIS f***ing guy". As the palm trees and the blurry signs on the outfield fence tell us, it's Spring Training. Though Weaver is wearing his road grays, it's still possible that the team is working out at their Grapefruit League home in Miami.

If I had to venture a guess, I'd say that Jim Palmer is recipient of his manager's withering gaze. The righty probably just told Earl that his elbow is barking, and he thinks he'll have to spend the morning getting treatment in the training room. It's enough to make a guy reach into his custom inner jersey pocket for a cigarette.

Vintage Fridays: Mark Belanger, 1972 Topps #456

I'm still saddened by the news that the Rockies designated Jamie Moyer for assignment, which will likely bring an end to his 25-year big league career. It represents another signpost in my life's journey. The lefty made his debut with the Cubs on June 16, 1986, several weeks before my fourth birthday. I literally do not have any earthly memories that take place outside of Moyer's time as a major league pitcher.

But I suppose it's just baseball. Dozens of players retire every year, most with careers that last only a fraction as long as Jamie's has. Baseball Reference tells me that in 1982, the year of my birth, 132 men played in their final MLB game. Mark Belanger was among them, playing the last of his 18 seasons in an unfamiliar Dodgers uniform. Since I feel just a little bit older today anyhow, I thought I'd share a few other names with you.

There were 19 players who debuted in the 1960s and hung 'em up 30 years ago, led by Hall of Famer Willie Stargell. "Pops" played for the Pirates in every season from 1962 through 1982, 21 in all. Some day I'll take my (currently hypothetical) children to the Baseball Hall of Fame, and point to his plaque, and mention that he was still playing when I was a baby. I might even let them know that there were only 26 teams and 4 divisions. My kids will assume that I must be 100, math be damned. They've got some nerve.

Pinch hitter extraordinaire Manny Mota, immortalized two years earlier in Airplane!, appeared in one final game for Los Angeles at age 44. Yep, he was born in the 1930s. Also making a brief curtain call was Cuban legend Luis Tiant, who was (reportedly) "only" 41 and made a half-dozen rocky appearances for the Angels.

Besides Belanger, other former Orioles to bow out in 1982 included Grant Jackson, whose lefthandedness helped earn him an 18-year career; Lee May, whose 354 homers were second only to Stargell among that year's retirees; Ross Grimsley, whose comeback with the Orioles lasted 60 innings; and Don "Fullpack" Stanhouse, who also finished up back in Baltimore.

Vintage Fridays: Doyle Alexander, 1972 Topps #579

You know, these Psychedelic Tombstones (copyright of Night Owl) are starting to grow on me. There's just no other design that's quite like it in baseball card history. The odd, bright colors. The plain capitalized player names, no position listed for possibly the only time in a Topps base set. The trippy, drop-shadowed, art deco team names. Originally, I only had a handful of the Orioles and no other teams, so the blue borders didn't give me a good sense of the full spectrum of the set. I obtained a scant few from non-Baltimore teams, and finally broke through at the Philly Card Show back in March. Gorging on 10-cent commons, I reached the triple-digits for total 1972 Topps, making it undeniable that I was effectively going to shoot for set completion, whether I liked it or not. So when I spotted a cube of 240 of these bad boys at the hobby shop for $50, I couldn't let it go. Now my fledgling '72 Topps set is 352 deep, still a long way from 787 but a promising 45% start. Of course that 352 is front-loaded in the first few series, meaning that the short-printed high numbers still have a lot of damage to inflict upon my wallet and my sanity. However, I did accumulate some doubles in the blind purchase of the cube, so now I've got some trade bait to offer if you can help me build this set. I'll get up a want list soon, and then the game will begin.

This high-number of Doyle Alexander, I do have. It's a good representative of the set at its best and worst. Because it was in the fifth of the sixth series, it was printed late enough for Doyle to be tagged as an Oriole; the Birds had acquired him from the Dodgers in the Frank Robinson trade of December 1971. But because of the late change, Topps opts to go with the extreme up-the-nostril closeup, giving the airbrush artists as little work as possible. Just a dab of orange over the bill, and a blob of black to cover the bit of the crown that's not obscured by the underside. At the very least, this angle gives me the opportunity to fully appreciate Alexander's precisely groomed sideburns and impeccable facial structure. Incidentally, Doyle was the fourth Oriole to ever wear #13, worth mentioning on Friday the 13th. To my credit, I've showed enough restraint to limit my Doyle Alexander Friday the 13th posts to two so far.

Vintage Fridays: Chico Salmon, 1972 Topps #646

You might know that Chico Salmon was known as "Super Sub" because he played every position on the field besides pitcher and catcher. You might also know that despite this versatility, he was not particularly adept with the glove; one Orioles teammate cracked, "If Chico's hands get any worse, we'll have to amputate". If you really know your stuff, you'll be aware that Chico's birth name was "Ruthford". But did you know that he was a superstitious man who was deathly afraid of ghosts?

As a child in Panama, Chico was told terrifying stories of ghosts that could enter rooms through open windows or keyholes in doors. He carried his fears into adulthood, and reportedly insisted on sleeping with the lights on until he served in the army and had no choice in the matter!

So let that be a lesson to you parents: you might think that it's all in good fun to tell your children ghost stories or let them watch scary movies, but you never know what will stick in their minds for years to come.

Vintage Fridays: Frank Robinson, 1972 Topps #88

As mentioned yesterday, I am now miles away from my computer and likely up in the Pennsylvanian mountains without Internet access. So here is a pre-scheduled Frank Robinson weekend, kicking off with an impressive tri-player league leader card from "The Psychedelic Tombstone Set", as Night Owl calls it. You know of course that Harmon Killebrew and Frank Robinson are Hall of Famers, having combined for 1159 home runs in their long and illustrious careers. But Reggie Smith was no slouch - a seven-time All-Star who once won a Gold Glove as an outfielder. He played for 17 seasons, batting .287 with a .366 on-base percentage, 314 home runs and 1092 RBI. As for the 1971 RBI race, it wasn't much of a contest. "Killer" was the only American Leaguer to drive in 100 runners (119 to be exact). Robby was left in his dust, runnering-up with 99; to be fair, injuries limited him to 133 games. Frank's two most popular Oriole teammates, Boog Powell and Brooks Robinson, tied for sixth overall with 92 RBI apiece.

For each of the next two days, I will publish a scan of a fantastic modern-day Frank Robinson card without commentary. I'm going to allow the pretty pictures to speak for themselves...and give me a little break. See you Monday!

Vintage Fridays: Tom Shopay, 1972 Topps #418

"Why are baseball cards so attractive to kids and adults?"
"I can only speak for myself. Years ago that was a source of information. Stats were always big. They were an educational index card. You read all the little small things that were on the back of the card. You'd get the image and you could hold in your hand and play with. The trading element was pretty cool. I was an Orioles fan … seems like it took me forever to get Brooks Robinson. I had a whole bunch of Tom Shopays."

The preceding quote is an excerpt from a brief interview that Cal Ripken, Jr. recently did with USA Today's Game On blog. There are some other great bits about card collecting and his career. But really...don't you pity poor Tom Shopay? Here's a guy who scratched and clawed for his entire pro career, a 34th round draft pick of the Yankees who made it to the majors in his third pro season and did just enough to hang on a little longer and a little longer...eleven years in pro ball distilled to a total of 253 big league games spread across seven seasons. He hit only .201 in the bigs with three home runs (just one of those in his 245 career games as an Oriole), but doggone it, he made it all the same. Then, 33 years later, the most famous player in team history comes out and tells the world what a bummer it was to pull a fistful of Shopays from those old waxy packs of Topps. They were just fodder for his bike spokes while he waited anxiously for Ol' Brooksie. That's gotta sting.

Vintage Fridays: Dave McNally, 1972 Topps #344

As this card depicting Dave McNally at two vastly different times in his life shows, the years go by in the blink of an eye. A couple of readers have already made the connection, but today marks this blog's second anniversary. When I started posting, I was hoping that I would be able to motivate myself to write something - anything - each day for the foreseeable future. 730 posts later, I'm still here and so are you, which means that I must be doing something right. As I begin another new year of observations on life, baseball cards, and the Orioles, I hope that you'll all be with me for the duration. I don't want much in 2010. If I can muddle through with health, happiness, security, friends and family, and a competitive season for the O's, I'll consider it a success. I wish the same things for my supportive and generous readers and commenters. I'll be back tomorrow...but you probably suspected as much.

Vintage Fridays: Dave Leonhard, 1972 Topps #527

It may sound cliche, but sometimes it truly is a small world. Right-handed pitcher Dave Leonhard earned a history degree from Johns Hopkins University, just 1.8 miles from the Orioles' Memorial Stadium digs at East 33rd Street. The local club signed the Arlington, VA native as an amateur free agent in 1963 and called him up to the majors in 1967 after he had earned the International League Pitcher of the Year award at AAA Rochester (15-3, 2.61 ERA). He spent his entire major league career (1967-1972) in Baltimore, posting a 3.15 ERA mostly in relief. He remains the only big leaguer in the modern era (post-1900) to come from JHU. Despite starting just 29 games in his career, he tossed four shutouts, including a one-hitter, a two-hitter, a three-hitter (on weekend leave from the National Guard!), and a five-hitter.

That's Dave Leonhard in a nutshell...interesting guy.

Vintage Fridays: 1971 World Series Game No. 6 (Frank Robinson), 1972 Topps #228

This card pretty aptly captures the turbulent, decades-long sports feud between Baltimore and Pittsburgh. The two cities both had teams in the National League from 1892-1899, but weren't serious rivals. The Orioles were doormats for the first few years before blowing past Pittsburgh and establishing a brief dynasty with the likes of Ned Hanlon, John McGraw, and "Wee Willie" Keeler. But in the 1970s, the Pirates and the "new" Orioles twice did battle in hotly contested World Series; both were heartbreaking for Charm City.

In 1971, the O's were thwarted in an attempt to repeat as World Champions. After taking the first two games in Memorial Stadium, they were swept in the three games in Steel City. The Birds pulled out Game Six, 3-2, on Frank Robinson's desperate base running in the tenth inning. The 36-year-old walked, dashed to third base on Merv Rettenmund's single, and tagged up on Brooks Robinson's shallow fly ball to center field, barreling into home plate just ahead of Al Oliver's throw to force a winner-take-all seventh game. Sadly, pitcher Steve Blass stymied the Baltimore bats for the second time in the Series, twirling a 2-1 complete game victory. After reaching four World Series in six years (winning two), the Orioles would not return to the Fall Classic until 1979...

...When the Pirates again stood in the way of Mobtown's glory. The O's were out for revenge and stormed to a three games to one lead, fueled by an offensive attack that produced 24 runs in those four games. But again, Willie Stargell and company devastated the good guys, who went cold and were outscored 15-2 in three straight losses. Pittsburgh had erased a big deficit to beat the Orioles in a seven-game Series for the second time in the decade. Their rallying cry of "We Are Family", inspired by the obnoxious tune of the same name from the musical group Sister Sledge, served as salt in the wounds of Baltimore's fans.

Then, of course, there's football. My hometown Colts scored the first victory when a flat-topped rookie quarterback (and Pittsburgh native) named Johnny Unitas was cut by the Steelers. He found his way to Baltimore and the rest, as the amorphous "they" say, is history. When the NFL merged with the upstart AFL (American Football League) in 1970, these two teams joined with the Cleveland Browns to switch from the original NFL (now the NFC) to the AFL (now the AFC). It was just a matter of time before their paths crossed in the postseason, which could not have gone worse for the Colts. After winning 21 games (and losing only 7) in 1975 and 1976, they were blown out in back-to-back Division Series playoff games against the Steelers, 28-10 and 40-14. This proved to be the beginning of the end for Baltimore's first NFL team. They would have only one more winning season before bottoming out and eventually leaving for Indianapolis under the cover of night in March 1984.

When the Browns moved to Baltimore in 1996 and became the Ravens, a new divisional football rivalry was born. Though the series was lopsided in the early years (including a 37-0 Pittsburgh romp in 1997), Charm City's new bird developed a hard-hitting defense that was a mirror image of their Steeler foes. The pendulum swung decisively in Baltimore's favor in 2000, as they set the tone for a historic season by shutting Pittsburgh out in the season opener. The Ravens would set a league record for fewest points allowed in a 16-game season (165) and win a Super Bowl, something that the Steelers hadn't done since 1979. The following year, the villains in black and gold ruined the opportunity for a repeat, crushing the Blackbirds 27-10. The Ravens wouldn't win another playoff game for the rest of Coach Brian Billick's tenure (through 2007), while the hated Steelers returned to glory by winning the Super Bowl in 2006.

The Baltimore-Pittsburgh rivalry has boiled over in the past three years, with the Ravens embarrassing the Steelers twice in 2006 (27-0 and 31-7) before the tables were turned again in 2007 with a 35-7 pasting on Monday Night Football. This year, the dials have been turned to eleven, with Pittsburgh winning two absolutely brutal games by a combined total of seven points. There have been brutal injuries, heated confrontations, allegations of bounties being placed on players and spitting incidents. Oh, and controversial officiating. It wouldn't be the NFL without shaky referees.

Now the Ravens are looking for redemption and the continuation of an unbelievable season that has seen them flip their record from 5-11 in 2007 to 11-5. A rookie quarterback, a rookie head coach, and a roster of walking wounded veterans have won two straight road games. Now they're walking back into the lion's den to face their bitter enemies, an elite AFC team with a potentially explosive offense, a monster defense, and a more rested and healthy roster. The Steelers have baggage of their own, having lost three straight AFC Championship games at home. I think Sunday's game will be nerve-wracking and incredible, but I wish I had the same confidence about it as I did going into the previous two playoff games. I just can't bear the thought of this enchanted season ending with a jubilant Steelers team punching their tickets to the Super Bowl, having dispatched the Ravens for the third straight time this year. It just can't happen.

Less than forty-eight hours to go. C'mon, Ravens. Win it for the former Ravens. And the Colts. And Frank and the Orioles, while you're at it.

Vintage Fridays: Grant Jackson, 1972 Topps #212

I actually started thinking about this blog entry around noon today. I took the day off from work, but it wasn't under the happiest of circumstances. Yesterday afternoon, I got into my car at the Metro station and powered down my driver's side window. It started making a grinding noise near the end, and I put it out of my mind until the A/C had cooled my car down and I tried - and failed - to get the window back up. So at 10:15 this morning, I drove the 20 minutes to the only mechanic I was familiar with in the area to get things straightened out. Considering that I'd just agreed to pay $100 just for the privilege of having my driver's door pulled apart and looked at, I was dreading the estimate. I also had a quandary; how to occupy the hours until my car was ready?

Fortunately I was in Columbia, practically the progenitor of suburban clutter. My first destination was somewhat practical, as I walked right down the street to the MVA Express. My drivers' license needed renewing, and I was running out of time. Surprisingly, the "Express" part of MVA Express was apt; I was in and out in under thirty minutes. As midday was approaching and the sun beat down upon me, I swung back to the Auto Services Park (yes, there truly is such a thing, and it's not as fun as it sounds) and saw that my car hadn't yet moved. So I popped into the convenience store and bought an iced tea, and drank it down as I crossed the expressway to do some shopping. My destination was Target, for some cheap baseball cards. Shocking, no?

This was when I started thinking about what an unusual day it was for me. I only started driving four-and-a-half years ago, but in that time I've become very dependent upon the notion of coming and going of my own free will. Here I was scrambling across high-traffic streets and wandering in and out of air-conditioned stores just to pass the time until I could go home again. It was kind of fun, in a bizarre way, doing something out of the ordinary. I thought about Grant Jackson, and how he often looked downright distressed on his cards: frowning at worst, grimacing at best. It seemed that his mind was a million miles away, worrying about not only what would happen if he didn't get the current batter out, but whether he'd remembered to mail the mortgage check, and what about that mole on his neck - was it getting bigger? What were the guys laughing about when he entered the clubhouse that morning? I decided that Grant Jackson probably just needed to take a good long walk to clear his head of all doubts, worries and fears.

My ambling path took me to Toys 'R Us, where I gawked at a fairly disappointing crop of baseball cards as well as some board games and WWE action figures. Next was Target, where I was annoyed to find the $1.59 markdown box full of packs of football, basketball, and hockey cards. I settled on a $4 package of 100 random cards, deciding that my purchase should be just as random as the rest of my day. As I made my way to the checkout lanes, I noticed a young man in a Sammy Sosa Orioles tee that I hope was some sort of ironic fashion statement. Next was Dick's Sporting Goods, where I didn't stay long. I couldn't believe they charged as much as $32 for some of their O's hats, and their staff was overly friendly. My final attempt to keep the clock moving was a quick sweep through Gamestop, where staff and customers alike were speaking of the upcoming Madden launch in excited yet reverential tones. So I gave up, found a nice seat in the shade of an umbrella outside of Starbucks, and called my sister. She was clearly bored out of her mind at work, and we had an entertaining conversation until my phone alerted me that I had another call. It was...the auto shop.

To start with, you should know that I often misunderstand or mis-hear things that people say to me, especially if they speak quickly and/or quietly. That being said, the connection seemed bad (no fault of my phone, which was five bars strong) and the mechanic half-mumbled a cost of $460. Ouch. He also said something about the regulator, one of those terms that grease monkeys make up to confuse the automotive-illiterate. Anyway, assuming my car was repaired, I told him I'd be there to get it in a few minutes. When I arrived, he told me I'd have to wait a few minutes for them to put the car back together, which seemed odd. When he pulled my car around and gave me the bill for $94.50, I knew something was wrong. He asked if I'd just be covering the window with plastic, so I voiced my confusion. I had intended for the car to be repaired, and they'd just put it back together as is. He insisted that he'd just given me the estimate, and that I'd told him I'd come get the car, indicating that I didn't want the work done. So here I was with my window still wide open (not ideal for security or weather), and he was telling me that I could bring it in on Monday, thereby wasting more of my time and gas and money (it would be another $100 in labor to open the panel back up, but he was oh-so-kindly offering to cut that fee in half). I paid my bill and headed home confused and angry.

So now I sit here with conflicting opinions. Part of me thinks that Grant Jackson was right to seem so troubled; the next irritating dilemma is always just around the corner. But by and large, that runs counter to the way I live my life. I'm often prone to quick bursts of anger and pervasive cynicism, but I generally let my sense of humor and a laissez-faire attitude win out. My vagabond's morning was just productive enough that I should feel like I got something out of this mixed-up day.

Maybe I'll just sleep on it tonight, and sort things out over the weekend.

Vintage Fridays: Pat Dobson, 1972 Topps #140

As a child, I was given a Crown Gasoline poster featuring the 1988 Orioles schedule and the slogan, "Come Out And Watch Us Add To Our Legendary Collection". It's an amazing poster, with photos of 30 Topps baseball cards of Orioles stars, ranging from 1956 to 1987. I recently dug that poster out from under my bed, and hung it on the wall where it belonged.

I remember studying that poster frequently when I was younger, the images of decades-old cardboard that were but a rumor to me, something unattainable. The only featured card I had was the 1987 Cal Ripken, Jr. Eventually the 1986 Eddie Murray made its way into my hands. Last year, I began to pursue vintage Orioles cards on eBay, and bit by bit, some of those older, mythic cards came into my possession. This brightly colored, Art Deco-styled Pat Dobson card is one of those.

My first impression of this card is the most lasting: that photo is as unflattering as it gets. Pat stands front and center, ball hidden snugly in his glove, with a blank stare in his eyes and his jaw hanging slack in an unintelligent manner. For goodness sake, he looks lobotomized! Is this really the best picture taken during his photo shoot in Spring of 1971? The guy is a five-year veteran who just won 20 games - one of four Orioles pitchers to do so - you'd think Topps would give him a little more respect. They could've just dug out this photo in a pinch.

Perhaps this goofy-looking card got Pat's year started on the wrong note. He actually pitched slightly better than he had in 1971: his ERA dropped from 2.90 to 2.65, his WHIP from 1.10 to 1.08. But he was plagued by bad luck and worse run support (2.9 runs per game) and lost 18 games, winning only 16. For all his struggles, he was still selected to the All-Star Game. How many 18-game losers can say that?