To My Son’s
Jayden & Owen
Almost thirty years ago, when I was about your age, someone broke into my childhood home and stole my baseball card collection. It wasn’t worth much money. There were no rare cards or big treasures in there. But to me, it meant everything.
Those cards were memories.
They were trips to the store with a few dollars in my pocket, tearing open cheap wax packs and hoping for my favorite player. They were afternoons spent trading doubles with friends, flipping cards on the sidewalk, and arguing about who had the better lineup. They were the stories your grandfather and great-grandfather told me about the players they watched and the games they loved.
They were part of growing up.
I remember grabbing my bat and glove and running to the park like I was headed to the big leagues. And when I couldn’t make it to the park, I’d turn our front yard into my own baseball field. I broke more windows in that old house than I’d like to admit. I mowed plenty of lawns to pay for those windows, but I wouldn’t trade those memories for anything.
When my collection was taken, I thought that chapter was over.
But now, years later, I get to start again — with you.
This time, it’s not just about baseball cards. It’s about sitting together, opening packs, talking about players, laughing at bad trades, and building something that means more than what’s inside the binder. It’s about passing down stories from your grandfather and great-grandfather. It’s about sharing the feeling of loving the game.
One day, I hope you remember these moments the same way I remember mine.
Not because of what the cards were worth —
but because of how they made you feel.
I’m proud to build these memories with you.
Love,
Dad
Ps. The fist one we found together and we’re gonna open it together !
