Read Online The Cards of Unknown Players: Digital Science Fiction Short Story (Ctrl Alt Delight) by Vincent L. Scarsella - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Vincent L. Scarsella
Ads: Link
down, but saw that it ended at Card #220.
“Go to Series 2,”
Chris said.
I quickly
followed his suggestion and found that Card #313 was Carl Ford, not Kevin
Gleason.
“What the–” said
Chris from behind me.
“Son-of-a-bitch,”
I agreed.
I sat back,
thinking what to do next. How to find the goddamned card.
“It is a Topps,
right?” Chris examined at it again, seeing for himself that it was a Series 2
issue, Number 313. “Unlucky number,” he mumbled.
I shrugged and
blew out a breath.
“Yeah,” I said. “Now
what?”
“Call ’em,” suggested
Chris. “Call Topps directly. Ask if they can help you figure out what the hell
is going on. Who the hell Kevin Gleason is.”
That sounded like
the next best way to solve what was becoming an aggravating mystery.
With Chris still
at my side, I dialed the number listed in the Topps web site, and waded through
a voice tree until I was speaking with someone from consumer relations.
“What number is
he?” asked the kindly representative after my somewhat incoherent explanation
why I was calling, what the mystery was.
“What?”
“The number of
the card,” he said. “The number.”
“Oh,” I said. “Three-thirteen.”
I heard him
tapping on a keyboard, checking his records, some computer database.
“Are you sure of
the number?” he asked. “I show Carl Ford as three thirteen.”
I picked up the
Gleason card just to make sure one more time. It was most definitely Number
313. He has me double-check the year, which was likewise confirmed.
With a sigh, he
said he’d do a name search.
“We don’t seem to
have issued a card for a player by that name,” he finally told me. Then, he
added: “Last year, or any other year.”
“Well, how can
that be?” I asked. “I’m holding it in my hand. Right here, Kevin, ‘J’ for
James, Gleason.” I flipped the card over and read the brief lines of
biographical information.
“Perhaps,” said
the Topps representative, thinking to himself, before adding, “it’s an
existential.”
“A what?”
“An existential,”
he repeated. “Card collectors have reported this phenomenon from time to time. A
rare occurrence, and, as far as I know, it’s never been explained. These cards,
they just pop up, cards of unknown players. Like that Gleason kid. The card
exists, looks real, appears to be entirely genuine, but the player it portrays
doesn’t exist. He never played – at least in this universe. He’s a phantom or a
ghost or something.”
The consumer rep
laughed.
“Sounds
ridiculous, doesn’t it,” he said. “I know – but sounds like you’ve got one in
your hands.”
I looked at the
Gleason card and shivered momentarily. I hardly listened as the Topps rep
suggested that I should call Cooperstown. The National Baseball Hall of Fame. Their
archivist was fabulous. If he couldn’t find that Gleason kid, no one could.
But fabulous or
not, the Hall of Fame archivist couldn’t find Kevin Gleason in all his records
either. It was nearly five o’clock by the time I finished with him and gave up
on solving the Gleason riddle that day. Finally, with a yawn, I gathered my
briefcase, thanked Chris all his help, shuffled out of the office, and headed
home.
I sat wearily at
the kitchen table for a time, staring at the Gleason card.
With a sigh, I
turned the card over and read the couple lines of scant biographical data:
Born: November 8, 1976 Asheville, New York
Ht: 6’ 2” Wgt: 195 Throws: Right Bats: Right
Finally, it hit
me, what to do. To find Kevin Gleason, all I had to do was call Asheville, New
York. Certainly, someone from his hometown must have heard of him. And his
family, his parents, might still be living there. He might still be living
there.
If he existed,
that is.
With the card
firmly in hand, I retreated to my den and called directory assistance for
Asheville, New York. Moments later, an operator told me there was no listing
for Kevin Gleason in Asheville. I
“Go to Series 2,”
Chris said.
I quickly
followed his suggestion and found that Card #313 was Carl Ford, not Kevin
Gleason.
“What the–” said
Chris from behind me.
“Son-of-a-bitch,”
I agreed.
I sat back,
thinking what to do next. How to find the goddamned card.
“It is a Topps,
right?” Chris examined at it again, seeing for himself that it was a Series 2
issue, Number 313. “Unlucky number,” he mumbled.
I shrugged and
blew out a breath.
“Yeah,” I said. “Now
what?”
“Call ’em,” suggested
Chris. “Call Topps directly. Ask if they can help you figure out what the hell
is going on. Who the hell Kevin Gleason is.”
That sounded like
the next best way to solve what was becoming an aggravating mystery.
With Chris still
at my side, I dialed the number listed in the Topps web site, and waded through
a voice tree until I was speaking with someone from consumer relations.
“What number is
he?” asked the kindly representative after my somewhat incoherent explanation
why I was calling, what the mystery was.
“What?”
“The number of
the card,” he said. “The number.”
“Oh,” I said. “Three-thirteen.”
I heard him
tapping on a keyboard, checking his records, some computer database.
“Are you sure of
the number?” he asked. “I show Carl Ford as three thirteen.”
I picked up the
Gleason card just to make sure one more time. It was most definitely Number
313. He has me double-check the year, which was likewise confirmed.
With a sigh, he
said he’d do a name search.
“We don’t seem to
have issued a card for a player by that name,” he finally told me. Then, he
added: “Last year, or any other year.”
“Well, how can
that be?” I asked. “I’m holding it in my hand. Right here, Kevin, ‘J’ for
James, Gleason.” I flipped the card over and read the brief lines of
biographical information.
“Perhaps,” said
the Topps representative, thinking to himself, before adding, “it’s an
existential.”
“A what?”
“An existential,”
he repeated. “Card collectors have reported this phenomenon from time to time. A
rare occurrence, and, as far as I know, it’s never been explained. These cards,
they just pop up, cards of unknown players. Like that Gleason kid. The card
exists, looks real, appears to be entirely genuine, but the player it portrays
doesn’t exist. He never played – at least in this universe. He’s a phantom or a
ghost or something.”
The consumer rep
laughed.
“Sounds
ridiculous, doesn’t it,” he said. “I know – but sounds like you’ve got one in
your hands.”
I looked at the
Gleason card and shivered momentarily. I hardly listened as the Topps rep
suggested that I should call Cooperstown. The National Baseball Hall of Fame. Their
archivist was fabulous. If he couldn’t find that Gleason kid, no one could.
But fabulous or
not, the Hall of Fame archivist couldn’t find Kevin Gleason in all his records
either. It was nearly five o’clock by the time I finished with him and gave up
on solving the Gleason riddle that day. Finally, with a yawn, I gathered my
briefcase, thanked Chris all his help, shuffled out of the office, and headed
home.
I sat wearily at
the kitchen table for a time, staring at the Gleason card.
With a sigh, I
turned the card over and read the couple lines of scant biographical data:
Born: November 8, 1976 Asheville, New York
Ht: 6’ 2” Wgt: 195 Throws: Right Bats: Right
Finally, it hit
me, what to do. To find Kevin Gleason, all I had to do was call Asheville, New
York. Certainly, someone from his hometown must have heard of him. And his
family, his parents, might still be living there. He might still be living
there.
If he existed,
that is.
With the card
firmly in hand, I retreated to my den and called directory assistance for
Asheville, New York. Moments later, an operator told me there was no listing
for Kevin Gleason in Asheville. I
Similar Books
