In my adolescent years, I spent most of my free time (whatever that means?) obsessing over my baseball card collection. I would beg my dad to take me to the flea market, the supermarket, and any other market where I might find the latest brand of baseball cards. I’d rip through wax covered packages emblazoned with brand insignias of companies like Topps, Fleer, Donruss, and Upper Deck; I’d slowly reveal each image in whichever ritual I thought might yield the best cards; I’d count and recount the cards; and I would sit hunched over the lot, sorting through the hundreds and eventually thousands of pieces of bubble gum-stained cardboard hoping that I might find the face of one of my favourite ballplayers looking back up at me.