On a chilly, rainy Friday evening, when I'm exhausted after a long week, and the O's have been shut out by the cruddy Royals, and Chris Davis has a nagging oblique injury (those things always seem to linger), and I'm still churning through my 1994 cards in the seemingly endless ordeal of chronologically sorting and organizing my collection, and I can't stop typing this sentence, I need the cardboard equivalent of comfort food. It doesn't get any more comforting than a stained second-year Boog Powell card cut from the back of a cereal box over half a century ago. Max surely knew that when he tossed this piece of Boogalicious memorabilia in the padded envelope that traveled down the Eastern seaboard to my front porch earlier this week. He's a smart dude.
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