Now do you understand?

I am sure that there are more than 100 reasons why I collect baseball cards, and I've probably documented at least three-quarters of them on this blog.

Yet, many people, those who I know personally and those I just come across in social media, still have no idea what it is that makes me collect. They ignore my enthusiasm or question my interests. Why would I want to waste money on picture cards?

Many of these people aren't sports fans. They don't understand and they don't want to understand. "It's just sports," they say. "He'll always be that way." It's kind of like being patted on the head.

But I think I have a reason to collect cards that might open the eyes of some of those people.

I received a cool card package in the mail yesterday. It was filled with lots of my collecting interests. Dodgers, set needs, vintage greatness, oddballs, even some non-baseball goodies. You'll see them all some other time. In that box of excitement, where every card was worth turning over and absorbing, I started leafing through some 1981 Donruss needs. The Steve Henderson card appeared during my shuffling.

And I stopped cold.

Instantly, without any prompting, I was flooded with a rush of memories about my grandfather.

I was transported to my grandparents house, and there I was, sitting on the carpeting, closer to the console TV than I was allowed at home, watching a Mets game.

It was 1976 or 1977, at least four years before this Steve Henderson card was even created. Heck, my grandfather died the offseason after the Midnight Massacre, when Tom Seaver was traded to the Reds and Henderson was one of the players who came over to the Mets. My grandpa saw Henderson play for New York for only a couple of months.

But there was something about that card -- the Mets uniform at the time, the sight of Henderson and the hoopla surrounding him in '77, the fact that I remember specifically the Mets playing in Wrigley while watching games at my grandpa's -- that caused that memory to surface.

I lived about a half hour from my grandfather, my father's dad. We'd visit their house quite a bit, almost every weekend. By the time I was 12, I was bored with the toys and books in the playroom in the back. I wanted to watch baseball, and my grandpa liked the Mets.

My brother and I would get some ice cream from the freezer, grab a can of root beer, grape or orange soda, and plop on the oriental carpet rug in the living room, fixing our eyes on the giant, wooden TV console as Lindsey Nelson, Bob Murphy and Ralph Kiner brought us the game.

It was the only way we had to connect to my grandfather. My grandma would chat with us, but my grandpa wouldn't say much more than "hi" as he sat in his leather chair. I remember trying desperately to come up with something to say to him, but I never could. I don't remember sitting on his lap or joking with him or anything. It was just "hi" and that was it. Maybe he'd join in some grown-up talk periodically, but I mostly just remember him watching from his leather chair, silently.

When it was time to leave, we would walk to the closet that was next to his leather chair and my dad got out our coats and handed them to us. I would wish my grandpa an uncomfortable goodbye and he'd smile from his leather chair.

I don't remember him walking around the room or going outside or driving in a car. When I look back on it I'm sure he was sick for the final few years of his life. But that never occurred to me. I just thought he liked his leather chair and blankets over his legs.

What got us through, both he and I, were the Mets games on the TV.

The Mets were lousy then and I was a Dodger fan, but baseball was baseball. We'd watch game after game, from "Meet the Mets" to "Kiner's Korner," and every once in awhile, my grandpa would say something about the game, and we'd pay attention -- really pay attention -- because he didn't say much.

That was the connection. We'd eat our ice cream, drink our soda, watch the game, and nod when my grandpa said a sentence.

The players back then, young players like John Stearns and Lee Mazzilli (and Mike Vail, don't forget about Mike Vail), I forever associate with my grandpa. I don't recall him having a favorite player but every once in awhile, somebody would do something good -- make a nice play in the field -- and my grandpa would say "how about that play?"

It was the best when that happened. Because we were thinking what he was thinking. Finally. We knew what he was thinking! Yes! That was a great play!

My grandfather died in November 1977. We'd still visit the same house for years and years after his death, and there'd still be games to watch. But it was mostly just my brothers and I watching them. None of the other grown-ups seemed interested. Not as much as my grandpa.

It would never be the same as "Meet the Mets".

So that's another reason I collect cards.

You know that box of letters with a ribbon tied around them that you keep under the bed?

That's baseball cards for me.

You know those framed pictures of people that sit on a table or a shelf or the mantel or the wall?

That's baseball cards for me.

You know those special songs on your iphone -- or for you older people -- on your mixed tape?

That's baseball cards for me.

Baseball cards bring back all those terrific memories that everyone has. It's a device. Just like a framed photograph or an old trinket.

That's one of the more than 100 reasons why I collect baseball cards.

Now do you understand?