Most of my sober obsessions felt okay to me because they were generative. Yes, they’ve all been sublimations of the same addictive impulsivities that nearly killed me, but generally these new manifestations have been positive. I’ve written poems and made paintings that never would have existed without my being there. I’ve learned with and from my students. I’ve laughed and wept and celebrated with newcomers in sobriety. In each case, something new was being made.
Card collecting is the opposite of all this—the whole hobby is predicated on consumption, on taking the cards you want out of the world’s limited supply. There are a finite number of 1997 Skybox Michael Jordan Metal Universe Precious Metal Gem cards in existence, so if I have one it means someone else who wants one doesn’t.
Just before the quarantine I took one of my oldest friends in recovery with me card shopping. This is a guy I got sober with, a former rugby star who now works as a registered nurse in a psychiatric hospital. As we drove around from card store to card store I narrated my new obsession, talking about how the expensive LeBron James autographed rookie card I bought wasn’t an extravagant luxury, it was an investment. “Like Apple stock,” I kept saying, though I have never bought or sold or owned or wanted stock and honestly only have the most rudimentary understanding of what “stocks” even are. My friend kept smiling with his cheeks and eyes in the coy quiet way of his that means something along the lines of, “if you say so…”
It’s said that real alcoholics will always fill their companion’s cup before filling their own. This was largely my experience—if I was drinking with you then we were having fun, we were having a good time. Nothing was amiss, there was no cause for concern. If I had three pulls left in my bottle I’d pass it to you to take the second.
When my friend and I arrived at the final card store, the best one, the one I’d been saving, we were beside ourselves. He pored through the football cards, pulling out this one or that one—saying, “Holy shit, a Brett Favre rookie!” and, “Ronnie Lott, I loved that dude!” His excitement at his finds was more thrilling to me than my own. He put together $100 worth of cards, which he negotiated to buy for even less. Later that night, when we had both gotten back to our separate houses, he texted me: “I lied and told my girlfriend I only spent $40 when I spent $60. Also she might be super mad at you because she’s assuming I’m going to get super into this : )”
Three pulls left in my bottle. Here, try a bit. Look how much fun we’re having.
Growing up, sports were a language in my household. I was living in Wisconsin during Super Bowls 31 and 32, both featuring the Green Bay Packers, and my lifelong devotion to Wisconsin sports—the Packers and the Milwaukee Bucks—was sealed. In the past few years, feeling increasingly unable to support the NFL between its overt racisms and suppression of CTE evidence and myriad domestic violence cases and and and, I’ve found my attention turning more wholly to the NBA.
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