Larry Sheets, 1989 Upper Deck #254

This is Kevin, your trusted imaginary neighborhood blogger (that is, the neighborhood is imaginary...I'm a real person, I swear), with a public service announcement: Always store your baseball cards properly.

You see, I have lots of cardboard boxes and binders in which to keep my precious treasures. Most of my cards are even housed securely in said boxes and binders. But in my laziness, I've allowed a few of these binders to take up residence on the bottom shelf of my glass-top coffee table, rather than finding space for them in my half-finished spare bedroom, where most of my collection lives.

Perhaps you can already see where this is going.

Last night, I was sitting on my couch, enjoying a frosty Heavy Seas Great Pumpkin Ale and some leftover pumpkin roll from Thanksgiving while watching TV. My charming cat Charlie hopped onto the coffee table, doing a tightrope act precariously close to both my mug and my laptop. In my infinite wisdom, I reached over with my free hand and attempted to scoot him off before he could make a mess...and knocked over the mug my own fool self. Most of the beer soaked into the rug, but some seeped through between the glass panels and the wooden frame, onto said binders. I spent the next portion of my evening on my hands and knees, wiping pumpkin ale off of the plastic binder pages that contain my half-finished 1959 Topps set. To my naked eye, it appears that the cards themselves were unharmed, but I bet that binder is going to be a bit sticky and malty-smelling now. I also leafed through the 1989 Upper Deck and 1994 Topps binders to make sure that they were dry. I brought this all upon myself, and appear to have just barely skirted disaster. Still, any lingering effects will serve as a reminder of my folly.

Mike Morgan, 1989 Upper Deck #653

There's something about the bright sunlight casting shadows on Mike Morgan's flushed face that makes me believe that this photo was taken on a sweltering summer day. Just when a mostly-mild June was lulling me into a sense of complacency, yesterday the miserable extreme heat and humidity struck Baltimore. Technically, summer has just begun, which means that the next few months will bring this torment as often as not. I leave the house at 6:30 in the morning, and it's already hazy and uncomfortable. By midday, the temperature pushes triple digits. I walk outside, and the moisture in the air pushes back at me. Once I get home, I shut the door behind me and don't go back out unless it's absolutely necessary.

I'm incredibly grateful that I'll be getting out of town in about 36 hours to spend a week in Ocean City with my family. Breezes coming off of the water, no climbing into a stuffy car that's been baking in the sun, and cold beer and swimsuits instead of coffee and a dress shirt and tie. Just in the nick of time.

Jeff Stone, 1989 Upper Deck #486

This is the kind of intense action photo that sells baseball cards. Jeff Stone, bat still rested on his shoulder, has already watched the ball travel all the way from the pitcher's hand to the catcher's mitt. Now he stares dolefully at the home plate umpire, hoping that he'll call the pitch a ball and thus give him new life. Of course, Upper Deck probably didn't have much of a chance to photograph Stone as he performed feats of strength in Baltimore. After batting .291 as a part-timer for the Phillies in the mid-1980s, the outfielder was one of many players to crater out with the 1988 Orioles. In 26 games in April and September, he went 10-for-61 (.164) with a double and an RBI. It was the beginning of the end for Jeff as a major leaguer, as he totaled 50 games over the subsequent two seasons for the Rangers and Red Sox. But he is the second-best Stone to ever play for the O's, and that and a dollar will buy you a Snickers bar.

Steve Finley, 1989 Upper Deck #742

In their ongoing efforts to break new ground in baseball card photography and presentation, I'm sure that Upper Deck thought they were capturing Steve Finley in a moment of intense contemplation as he prepared to bat. Instead, a half-deflated chewing gum bubble makes him look like nothing so much as a slack-jawed goon. Swing and a miss.

Jay Tibbs, 1989 Upper Deck #655

Jay Tibbs holds an odd place of honor in Orioles lore. On May 2, 1988, he was recalled from Rochester and became the first O's pitcher to win a home game that season. This was, of course, the team that set an American pro sports record by starting the season 0-21 before eking out a win in Chicago. They then lost the last two games of that road trip to return to Baltimore with a 1-23 record. 50,402 ridiculously loyal fans packed Memorial Stadium to watch Tibbs and the Birds outlast the Rangers by a score of 9-4. Of course, the righthander went on to tie with Jose Bautista for the team lead with 15 losses. In my mind, Jay takes the booby prize as the worst starter on that team by the tale of the tape: 4-15, 5.39 ERA as opposed to Jose's 6-15, 4.30 line.

That 1988 team was back in the headlines last week, which is an unusual occurrence in December. They found their record for early-season futility being challenged by the NBA's New Jersey Nets, who set a new pro basketball mark by losing their first 18 contests before finally grabbing that first "W" last Friday against the Charlotte Bobcats. As the Nets got within spitting distance of the Orioles' dubious milestone, I was conflicted in my rooting interests. On one hand, any time your favorite team becomes a little less synonymous with failure, that's a good thing. But there's something about that "0-21" that is like a perverse badge of honor. If nothing else, it's a constant reminder that things should never be as bad in Birdland as they once were.

Still, when you compare the respective streaks, the Nets' 0-18 holds a bit more weight than our 0-21, what with the NBA season being half as long as MLB's schedule. That's to say nothing of last year's 0-16 Detroit Lions, who did not win a single NFL regular-season game. I suppose crumminess is all relative.

Jim Traber, 1989 Upper Deck #294

With my 418th post to this blog, I have decided to answer the impassioned cries and pleas from my long-suffering readers. I am finally giving the people what they want: Big Jim Traber. I should probably feel some sort of solidarity with the beefy ex-first baseman, considering that we both used to reside in the ultra-suburban confines of Columbia, Maryland. But he's not a guy that I give much thought, unless his name randomly pops up in the news.

What's that, you say? Jim Traber was in the news this week? How 'bout that! Talkers magazine, which is apparently a radio trade publication, named its Top 250 talk show hosts recently. Why 250? I suppose it makes sense to those in "the biz". Jim Traber is currently the host of "The Locker Room", a radio program in Oklahoma City. The fine folks at Talkers selected Traber's show as one of those listed between 101 and 250 (in no particular order). Of course, I have no idea what the criteria could have been, since obnoxious goatee-clad yakker Jim Rome (#29) was the highest-ranked sports talker and Mike Greenberg and Mike Golic also cracked the top 50. Then again, Anita Marks was nowhere to be found, so they got a few things right.

While Jim is undoubtedly proud of his achievement, most sports fans will probably continue to know him best for this hilarious incident, which occurred in the early 1990s when he was a member of Japan's Kintetsu Buffaloes:

Joe Orsulak, 1989 Upper Deck #429

Yesterday my other sports love, the Baltimore Ravens, drafted the man who will hopefully be their quarterback of the future. His name is Joe, and he's a native of New Jersey. In honor of Joe Flacco, here's another Jersey Joe who was very popular in Charm City. Joe Orsulak was one of those guys that was never the most talented player on the team, but he was quietly consistent. From 1988 through 1993, he hit between .269 and .289 every year. It seemed like he was always diving for fly balls in the outfield, getting his uniform dirty and compensating for any lack of speed and size. He just epotimized the blue-collar everyman, which really helped the Baltimore fans to connect with him. Joe Flacco might have all of the physical gifts that he needs to succeed, but I'm keeping my fingers crossed that those gifts will translate to the NFL and he'll be the next Joe to be treated as a local hero.