I Got Doug Rader!

When I was a boy in Houston, I got an allowance every week.

A nickel. Five cents.

Before you begin feeling sorry for me, a nickel was worth considerably more then than it is today although, to be fair, it was still a nickel.

But every Saturday morning that nickel made me rich because a nickel could buy one pack of baseball cards.

And I was obsessed with baseball cards then.

I was also obsessed with the Houston Astros, which meant that every pack of baseball cards contained the possibility of something wonderful.

An Astro.

Saturday morning would come, and my mom would put that shiny nickel into my hand. Then I would climb onto my bicycle. It was one of those bikes with the enormous chopper-style handlebars that made every seven-year-old boy in the 70’s look as though he were on his way to join a motorcycle gang.

I would pedal down the street to the Stop-N-Go, walk inside, put my nickel on the counter, and buy one pack.

That was it. One nickel. One pack. One chance.

Inside the pack was a little rectangular slab of bubblegum, but calling it gum is generous. It had roughly the consistency of drywall. You would put it into your mouth and begin chewing with the determined patience of a cow working on its cud until eventually enough saliva penetrated the thing that it became something vaguely resembling gum.

It was magnificent.

I can still taste it.

Sugar.

Artificial flavoring.

Cardboard.

Sheer glory.

I'd sit down on the curb outside the Stop-N-Go, unwrap the pack, put the gum in my mouth, and begin going through the cards.

One at a time. Slowly. Because this was not something to be rushed.

Every card contained hope.

Maybe this one.

No.

Maybe the next one.

No.

Please.

Please.

Please.

Astro.

For what seemed like months, I couldn't get one. I got Yankees. I got Cubs. I got Cardinals.

I probably got perfectly good baseball players whose mothers loved them very much.

I didn't care.

I wanted an Astro.

Saturday after Saturday I rode my chopper-handled bicycle to the Stop-N-Go.

Nickel. Pack. Gum. Curb. Hope. Disappointment.

Then one Saturday I opened the pack.

And there he was.

Doug Rader.

Third baseman.

Houston Astros.

I had done it.

I GOT DOUG RADER.

I don't remember what I did with the other cards, and I don't remember whether I even finished the gum. But I do remember getting on my bicycle and pedaling home as fast as my little legs could carry me because possessing news of such significance needed to be shared far and wide. So I began knocking on the doors of our neighbors.

They would open their doors and there I was.

"I GOT DOUG RADER!"

Then another house. Knock knock knock.

"I GOT DOUG RADER!"

Next house.

"I GOT DOUG RADER!"

I have no idea what our neighbors thought. Perhaps they had been following the situation closely. Perhaps Mom had been keeping them updated.

"Still no Astro. We're hoping next Saturday will be the one."

Or perhaps they opened their doors, looked at this sweaty little boy clutching a piece of cardboard, and wondered whether his parents knew where he was.

But I didn't care.

I had Doug Rader.

And everybody needed to know.

More than fifty years later, I remember almost nothing else about that day. I don't know what year the card was. I don't remember what picture was on it. I don't know who else came in the pack. I don't even know what happened to the card.

But I remember the joy.

That's the part that stayed.

And lately I have wondered where that little boy went.

Not the baseball-card collector. I know what happened to him. He grew up. He discovered girls. Then bills. Then mortgages. Then children. Then work. Then grief. Then all the complicated things grown-ups carry around.

I'm wondering about the boy who could be made deliriously happy by a nickel's worth of cardboard. The boy whose joy was so enormous that it could not remain private.

He had to tell somebody. Anybody. Everybody.

I GOT DOUG RADER!

We spend a surprising amount of our adult lives trying to manufacture that feeling. We travel somewhere beautiful. Buy something expensive. Get the promotion. Move into the house. Eat at the restaurant. Upgrade the phone.

Finally reach whatever number we've decided will make us feel secure.

And sometimes it works.

For a while.

But I'm not sure I've ever been happier about anything I bought than I was about something that came randomly inside a five-cent pack of baseball cards.

Maybe joy has less to do with the size of the gift than with our capacity to receive it.

Children seem to understand this naturally. A puddle can be an adventure. A cardboard box can be a spaceship. An ice cream cone can rescue an afternoon. A shiny nickel can make you wealthy.

And Doug Rader can make you an evangelist.

Maybe that's why Jesus kept pointing toward children. Not because children are innocent. Anyone who has raised one knows better. Children can be tiny criminals.

But they haven't yet completely learned our adult habit of requiring life to be spectacular before they will call it good.

They can still be astonished. They can still receive. They can still run from house to house announcing good news.

But along the way, many of us become harder to impress, don’t we? It takes more money or success or comfort or recognition.

More everything.

And even when we get it, we rarely knock on the neighbor's door.

Maybe growing older faithfully involves learning some things. But maybe it also involves unlearning a few.

Maybe wisdom isn't only becoming more sophisticated.

Maybe part of wisdom is recovering the ability to sit on a curb with bad bubblegum and recognize that something wonderful has just happened.

I don't know what became of my Doug Rader card. I wish I did. I'd probably frame it. But perhaps losing it isn't the worst thing, because the card isn't really what survived.

The joy did. A little boy on a Saturday morning. A shiny nickel. Chopper handlebars. A pack of baseball cards. One piece of cardboard gum. And finally—

after all those Saturdays—

an Astro.

Doug Rader.

Maybe that's a pretty good way to live.

Keep looking.

Keep hoping.

And every once in a while, when something good turns up—

even something very small—

don't just put it in your pocket.

Run tell somebody.