Baseball: It Was a Game of Uncles

Oh, to be a center fielder, a center fielder–and nothing more!”

Alexander Portnoy, Portnoy’s Complaint (1969)

From my private stash of baseball cards: Topps, Donruss, Fleer, Bowman ’85 – ’93, mostly.

Dedicated to the institution of uncledom, wherever it may dwell.

12274251_10154195372318465_8760500434642632739_nIf you peel away the Dole-Kemp stickers, you can still make out the Lost Uncle bills posted on the utility pole on the northwestern corner of Third and Regret. Reward: a shave.

12250179_10154193781718465_7896484858958979126_nDisappointed uncles aren’t mad at you, no, not exactly, no —

12289689_10154193778823465_4763480968648791608_nEveryone has an uncle who fears the black helicopters. Few see them as frequently as this uncle.

Supportive Uncle pitches middle relief for the ’87 Creds. Maybe even permissive uncle – who else will let you develop houses on Reading Railroad while sitting in Jail? He’s always there for you. That’s what perm means: always.
This Uncle is way out in far right field, where he hopes to club himself a pronghorn antelope.
Quintessential Youngcle face.
Words escape me.
This Uncle can whip and nae nae.
The Uncle your father disowned at the Garden State Arts Center in 1977.
Baseball: It Was a Game of Uncles

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