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I’m writing today from the fringe of the autograph collecting hobby.

I haven’t been zoned on building sets of autographed cards. I cheer the
collectors who have the patience (and postage stamps) for such a goal.

From collecting back into the 1970s, I remember hearing from an elderly
retired player. “Is this card yours? If not, please send it back.”
I admire anyone who can keep track of who sent what, getting all
the cards autographed and back to their proper homes.

What puzzled me was the taped returned. In the last month, I’ve seen
tape on the back of a half-dozen envelopes.

Theories:

1. Homeland Security is monitoring my collecting progress? Nah…
2. The retiree had switched my letter with another SASE and had to reshuffle his replies.
3. The former player wanted to share more insight about his past, diving
back into the envelope to add one more anecdote.

I liked the third “explanation” most.

Actually, I’ll never be a CSI regular. My detective skills are slipping. The truth is that autograph signers have tired of “spit or sponge?” as the only choices for moistening each SASE. Or, they saw the Seinfeld episode in which George’s girlfriend keels over from toxic envelope glue?

I peeled some tape from a few replies. Each time, the glue remains. I applaud the major league minds who honed such a skill. Sign on!

I confess. I’ve never been the world’s greatest autograph collector.

I consider myself retired from the “quantity” side of the hobby.
Every request I’ve sent out in 2010 has only a letter and a self-addressed, stamped envelope. No cards to be signed. Not even a blank index card.
I’m collecting recollections.

I’m asking 2 or 3 questions of each person I contact. That’s it.

I remember a well-known retired pitcher I wrote a few years ago. He’d been out of uniform more than three decades. I asked him a question about his Christianity.

“I’ve never had a letter like yours before,” he began. “Any time someone writes me, they want me to autograph cards.”

Along with being clear in what I want, I’m trying to make a couple of points in every letter I send, including:

1. My motivation — In every letter, “Tom Owens, Baseball Fan Since 1971” is the first line of my return address. Yes, I type. Hand-written letters might seem more sincere to some. Fill your correspondence with personal content, so no one will ever suspect you have a mass-mailed, fill-in-the-blank excuse for a letter.

2. My connection — I apologize to those who I’ve never seen play. I’m honest. Most of all, I make it clear that I know their background and their era. I show that I’ve done some homework. Do an online search. Look at his or her stats. Could there be a story behind one of the dates or numbers?

3. My perspective — I end each letter the same: “My ‘career’ ended in Little League, but those baseball memories keep me warm in the winter and young year-round.” There’s no claim that I could’ve outplayed them. I’m a humble, grateful fan trying to imagine what even a day of someone’s career felt like.

(I should thank Joe Garagiola for this last tip. When I interviewed him years ago, I asked how people who knew him as a kid in St. Louis behave. He sighed. Every time I meet someone from when I grew up in St. Louis, he said, they insist that they struck me out in a sandlot game.)

Not everyone will answer questions by mail. Not everyone will sign autographs. However, no one will respond if they aren’t asked. So, swing for the fences. See what lands in your mailbox.

What do you think makes a good letter? What have you learned from the current and former players you’ve contacted?

I confess. I’ve never been the world’s greatest autograph collector.

I consider myself retired from the “quantity” side of the hobby.
Every request I’ve sent out in 2010 has only a letter and a self-addressed, stamped envelope. No cards to be signed. Not even a blank index card.
I’m collecting recollections.

I’m asking 2 or 3 questions of each person I contact. That’s it.

I remember a well-known retired pitcher I wrote a few years ago. He’d been out of uniform more than three decades. I asked him a question about his Christianity.

“I’ve never had a letter like yours before,” he began. “Any time someone writes me, they want me to autograph cards.”

Along with being clear in what I want, I’m trying to make a couple of points in every letter I send, including:

1. My motivation — In every letter, “Tom Owens, Baseball Fan Since 1971” is the first line of my return address. Yes, I type. Hand-written letters might seem more sincere to some. Fill your correspondence with personal content, so no one will ever suspect you have a mass-mailed, fill-in-the-blank excuse for a letter.

2. My connection — I apologize to those who I’ve never seen play. I’m honest. Most of all, I make it clear that I know their background and their era. I show that I’ve done some homework. Do an online search. Look at his or her stats. Could there be a story behind one of the dates or numbers?

3. My perspective — I end each letter the same: “My ‘career’ ended in Little League, but those baseball memories keep me warm in the winter and young year-round.” There’s no claim that I could’ve outplayed them. I’m a humble, grateful fan trying to imagine what even a day of someone’s career felt like.

(I should thank Joe Garagiola for this last tip. When I interviewed him years ago, I asked how people who knew him as a kid in St. Louis behave. He sighed. Every time I meet someone from when I grew up in St. Louis, he said, they insist that they struck me out in a sandlot game.)

Not everyone will answer questions by mail. Not everyone will sign autographs. However, no one will respond if they aren’t asked. So, swing for the fences. See what lands in your mailbox.

What do you think makes a good letter? What have you learned from the current and former players you’ve contacted?

I wrote my first baseball “fan letters” in 1972. Bob Veale was the first major leaguer who ever signed my self-addressed six-cent government postcard.

I believed that every player sat by his locker waiting for mail from me.

Starting in 1974, I found that fellow Iowan Jack Smalling published his collection of home addresses of former players. Hal Naragon, who caught for Bill Veeck with the 1950s Indians, replied when his former boss reacquired the White Sox.

“Mr. Veeck is a good man for baseball,” Naragon commented. “He treats the players first class and he loves to see the fans have a good time. It is very difficult to say how successful Mr. Veeck will be in Chicago. But he has a good track record for developing winners. I’m in his corner.”

I felt like a smarter fan.

I wrote to Phillies general manager Paul Owens.

“Nice to hear from you. I have a nephew named Tom,” Owens answered. “I appreciate your interest in the Phillies and hope we can meet some day. Hopefully at a World Series game with the Phillies involved. Appreciate your fine comments and hopefully we can do it in 1976.”

Four years early, I knew Philadelphia’s baseball future. I never attended that 1980 Series. I never met “The Pope.” I had something almost as good.

I was a fan who mattered.

Sadly, I joined the ranks of most collectors in recent years. I despaired over “Refused. Return to Sender” rejections. I winced over cup-of-coffee players who demanded cash for their signatures. I stopped trying.

Enough moping on the bench. I’m back on the field. I’m taking my hobby back. I chased signed baseball cards for years. It’s a new season. Now I’m collecting recollections. In the days ahead, I’ll be sharing the baseball memories that are filling my mailbox again.