Bottom of the Ninth

I love baseball cards and I love collecting them. I've loved them all my life, just like my dad. But that autumn day 12 years ago was different. I'd come to work early at my sports cards-and-collectibles shop.

Owning the store had been a dream come true. But I'd purchased thousands of baseball cards in anticipation of a big summer sale and, just as they arrived, major-league baseball went on strike. The World Series was canceled. Kids turned away from the game. My sales dove.

I stared at the walls, countertops, display cases—all of them filled with my beloved vintage cards. Lord, I wondered, why did I go into this business? Wasn't this what I thought you were blessing?

I'd been a successful shoe-store manager for 20 years. I put in long hours, but I was happy to continue at it the rest of my career. I'd never thought of a job in sports memorabilia.

To me baseball was a passion, something to share with my children. At night I'd pull out a box of cards, sit on the floor with my three kids and tell them stories about favorite players and old nemeses, the way other dads shared bedtime stories. "That's Bill Mazeroski, second baseman for the Pittsburgh Pirates," I'd say. "In 1960 he hit the home run that beat the Yankees in the World Series." I'd grin, then add, "The rat."

Our life in San Antonio was wonderful. My wife, Debbie, and I loved our community and our church. I made a good living in the shoe business. Now and then I'd visit a collectibles shop and buy a Cal Ripken, Ozzie Smith or Roger Clemens card for the kids—players I thought might one day win election to the Hall of Fame. I was content, blessed.

In 1993 the roof fell in. Management at work changed. I was laid off. Debbie was worried. "We need your income," she said. I'd seldom been out of a job before. But I saw this as an opportunity. I started looking for a shoe store I could purchase.

Then, one day, a business associate approached. "Hey, I know you're looking to buy a business," he said. "Well, there's a San Antonio sports-card shop for sale."

I raced home. "What do you think, Debbie? This is the best chance we'll ever have to buy our own business," I said. "Something the whole family can share in. It'll give me more time with the kids."

We thought and prayed about it for a week, then agreed. "I know this is your dream," Debbie said.

We bought the place and spruced it up. Slowly, but surely, collectors came in. And not just baseball fans. I carried stuff from every major sport.

I spent most of our revenue on new inventory—the sports cards and autographed memorabilia. I anticipated that 1994 would be a big year for baseball, and I wanted to be ready, so I invested heavily in the baseball side of things.