If a tree falls ...

I received this card in a trade a little while back in my quiet quest to complete the 1981 Topps set (it's not on my want list. Maybe someday I'll get it on there).

I knew nothing about Gordy Pladson when I received this card. In fact, I didn't even know he existed until I did inventory on my '81 set trying to figure out who I still needed.

This happens to me quite a bit. If it wasn't for baseball cards, I wouldn't know half of the major league players that I do. Somehow, by obtaining a card, the knowledge of that player is catalogued into my brain in a way that doesn't happen if I merely see that player's name in an article or even watch him in a game. When you own the card, the moment is no longer fleeting. The card is there forever, and you have forever to learn about that player.

Pladson was nothing special as far as his major league career is concerned (his wikipedia entry is exactly one sentence long, and they spell his name "Gordie.") Canadian-born, Pladson did not win a single game in his career, which spanned four years and 20 games for the Astros.

Perhaps a better example of how a player comes alive through his baseball card is this guy:

Ron Bryant won 24 GAMES for the Giants in 1973 and finished third in the National League Cy Young voting, and I had NEVER HEARD OF HIM until acquiring this card four years ago. As someone who believes he has at least a modest knowledge of baseball history, I was embarrassed that Bryant somehow eluded me.

It took a baseball card for me to find out that this was Bryant's breakout year, that he went 3-15 the following season, and that he was finished with his eight-year major league career in 1975. This is the Lou Thornton effect. A card makes me want to know more about that player.

Just like when they say, "if a tree falls in the forest and there's no one there to hear it, does it make a sound?," for me it's "if a player competes in the major leagues and I don't have his card, did he really play ball?"