Tom Niedenfuer, 1989 Fleer #613

The black puffy Orioles pullover with elastic black-and-orange cuffs and waistband is...not the best piece of team apparel I've ever seen. Tom Niedenfuer is modeling it with an uneasy sort of grimace that brings to mind someone who's faking enthusiasm for a tacky Christmas gift.

Speaking of which, I just returned from a last-Saturday-before-Christmas shopping excursion. A few last-minute gifts for family, some foodstuffs for holiday parties, and some liquid reserves for myself. Sweet merciful crap, I hope I don't have to go anywhere near a retail establishment in the coming week. There's a lot of people out there, though I am happy to report that I didn't see any vehicular collisions or fistfights. If you've still got some presents or grub to buy, please be safe. And stay away from the puffy pullovers with elastic.

Billy Ripken, 1989 Fleer #616

WARNING: This post contains explicit language and graphic images. It is not for the easily offended or the innocent wee ones. Won't somebody PLEASE think of the children???

Well, you've been waiting long enough, and today is as good a day as any to unleash the infamous Billy Ripken Bat Knob Obscenity Card upon you. I've seen enough April Fool's jokes across the Internet today (some well-done, some less so) that I'm a little fatigued by the whole thing and I'm choosing to celebrate this day in another fashion. Big brother may have been a Hall of Famer and a record-holder, but he never cost any card company employees their jobs. Now that's a feather in the ol' cap if ever I heard of one. Without further ado, please enjoy your bit of filth.

Jeff Ballard, 1989 Fleer #607

In a possible sign of mental illness, I'm posting another one of these absolutely fetching 1989 Fleer things. Again, the photography just raises so many questions:

-Why is Jeff Ballard's jersey unbuttoned halfway? Was he coming on to the photographer?

-Why does he have two gloves? Did he run off with Bob Milacki's leather so he could stuff it full of potato salad?

-How did jersey manufacturer Rawlings feel about Jeff wearing a Wilson glove?

-Who is the man in the black coat and khakis standing in front of the backstop? What's in the briefcase? Is the the Red Sox team doctor, dispatched to medicate some unruly fans?

-Why am I spending so much time staring at a Jeff Ballard card from the 1980s?

Well, I can answer the last one at least...because someone has to do it, and I'm sparing you the horrors. You're welcome.

Dave Schmidt, 1989 Fleer #618

Across the wide spectrum of baseball card collecting, 1989 Fleer has been roundly and justifiably panned. Like all late Eighties cards, the set was so mass-produced that it's used as legal tender on some island nations. Many of the photos have terrible lighting, with players alternately washed out by blinding sunlight or cloaked in shadows. Plus, the design is butt-ugly. When have gray borders ever worked, and what is the deal with the white pinstripes? It looks like a bad suit or a set of vertical blinds. If it weren't for Billy Ripken's unspeakable bat knob, the set would be completely ignored twenty years later.

But as I was flipping through my 1989 Orioles box the other night, I took a closer look at one of Fleer's notorious bombs and found some eye-raising photos. This Dave Schmidt card is the best of the bunch in my humble opinion. It's a crummy shot of the featured player, of course. He's not looking at the camera, he's not pitching or even warming up, and we can't begin to guess what has grabbed his attention. But we can also see a blurry fan in a bright red jacket sitting a few rows back who appears to be clutching his head in pain, probably because he just spent his hard-earned money to see the home team play against the dreadful 1988 Orioles. Tomorrow night Frank Viola and the defending champion Twins come to town...why didn't you double-check the paper before you left the house, pal? Your loss.

But even Mr. Red Jacket pales in comparison to the horror that lurks over Schmidt's right shoulder. Outfitted in sinister black and glowering malevolently, Mike Morgan swears oaths at his teammate and plots the coming moment in which he will strike out at his fellow righthanded journeyman starter, because there can be only one. Sure, they all say Morgan is mad when he tells them that he will pitch across the decades, straight on into the 21st Century. But he'll do it, all right. He'll show them all, even if he has to drain Dave Schmidt of his life force to make it happen. Poor Dave doesn't suspect a thing. They never do.

Billy Ripken, 1989 Fleer #616

Better late than never. I ended up spending much of the day Saturday with my family, but this story is worth the wait. As many of you have noticed, this is indeed one of the hastily-censored "black box" variations of the card that guaranteed Billy Ripken his own place in baseball history, apart from the shadow of his legendary older brother. I assure you that if I had the R-rated variant, it would be on display here. But I don't, so we'll have to make do.

When I tell people that I spent three months interning for the Aberdeen IronBirds, I'm sure it sounds a little more glamorous than it actually was. Although Cal Ripken, Jr. is the most famous face attached to the team, he was far too busy to be much of a presence around Ripken Stadium. I met him once in my time there, which is a story for another time. But his co-owner, one William Oliver Ripken, was a more frequent sight - and sound - around the office. Though we didn't interact very often, the few occasions when we did have left their impression with me.

My first big project as a marketing intern was to assist with a sponsors' batting practice. One of the big perks given to some of the team's more generous business partners was a day at the stadium for employees and folks from other businesses that they might want to schmooze a bit. On this day it was the folks from Advance Business Systems, whose trippy commercials should be familiar to locals. They'd start off with batting and fielding practice, and wrap up with lunch and an awards ceremony on the luxury suite level. I was a jack of all trades, setting up the locker room with the participants' custom-lettered jerseys and caps, not to mention the nameplates that I had printed, laminated, and cut. Then I chased around all of the participants, urging them to sign waivers (the Ripkens are no dummies). In the process of this task, I spotted the B.P. pitcher himself, took a deep breath, and approached him.

"Hi Mr. Ripken, I'm Kevin Brotzman, I'm interning for Shelly this Fall."

As he shook my hand, he bellowed in a raspy tone of mock-annoyance that would soon become very familiar to me.

"Jee-zus Christ, how many interns does Shelly have? It's like the freakin' Chinese Army around here!"

Indeed, I was aware that the marketing department was chock-full of interns during the baseball season. Now that school had started though, they were all gone. Having just graduated myself, I was the only intern to be found. Not that I'm sure what the Chinese had to do with anything. Is Red China especially known for a robust military internship program? Anyway, he probably asked me a question or two about my high school and college, and I went on my way. During B.P., I stood on the field in foul territory and watched the grownups at play. A few of them were pretty impressive. I seem to remember that one of the guests was a doctor in his thirties who had played college ball and had decent warning track power at the least.

After the field session had wrapped up, I sat in on the meeting of the minds: My boss Shelly, her boss Aaron (the assistant GM), and Billy Ripken. They were choosing "award winners" among the participants: Gold Glove, Best Hitter, and so forth. At one point I suggested a particular award, something with some clever wordplay that I've long since forgotten. Billy sized me up and offered his rebuttal:

"Take it easy, Chinese Army. You just got here."

It seemed that I had earned myself a nickname with the former second baseman. I'm relieved to say that it did not stick.

To be continued tomorrow...by which I mean later today.