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I am awash in statistics.
I am bleary-eyed from Beckett's.
I hear the shrieks of deals gone sour.
I am drowning in baseball cards,
more numberless than the
leaves tumbling from my
giant oak, or the blizzard
of confetti that welcomed
Lindbergh home.
They are everywhere.
I slog through.
Cecil Fielder dogs my footsteps,
George Brett stares at me from behind
hard plastic, while the likes
of Jack Clark and Rock Raines
lie discarded in dusty
corners, face down
and forgotten.
I stare at the winners and losers.
I see the market working itself out.
Gold Cards, Stadium Cards,
Fleer and Upper Deck.
I am knee deep.
The tide is rising.
September 1991