I went to the Dulles Expo Center on Saturday for the semi-annual Collector's Showcase of America show. I'd never been to the Expo Center before. I've heard about it for years, typically in radio commercials for gun shows, career fairs, and other things that I'd never travel all the way to Dulles for. But this time, curiosity got the better of me, and I made the trek out there. Just based on the name alone, I was expecting this big, grand building, along the lines of the Baltimore or D.C. convention centers. It turns out the Dulles Expo Center was simply either a remodeled former Walmart or was designed like one. Frankly, it was kind of a letdown.
The show itself was...strange. Obviously, I'm familiar with large gatherings of nerds who flock together in order to expand their collections, meet their heroes, get autographs, and so on. This felt different, though. The people at this show seemed...I dunno. Sadder? More desperate? I can't exactly articulate why I'm mostly fine with comic book collectors, but I found sports memorabilia collectors to be so profoundly disturbing. And even if I could, it would likely just come off as self-serving rationalization, since I identify much more with the former than the latter. But a lot of these people seemed weird. Yes, comic book readers are also weird. These people were more weird.
One possible reason for this reaction is that as a sports fan, I'm uncomfortable seeing favorite teams and players, amazing accomplishments, and treasured memories, all broken down into dollars and cents for easy mass consumption. You might have the fantasy of, say, catching a home run ball, meeting the player who hit it after the game, and having him sign it for you. But the reality is, the closest to that you're likely to get is by attending one of these shows, where you can pay exorbitant prices for one of the dozens of baseballs that player has signed each day in the clubhouse. Or maybe you did catch the ball, but the only way you're able to get him to sign it is by coughing up $100 he's demanding so he can pay the mortgage on his third home.
The age of some of the attendees might have had something to do with it. You go to a comic book convention, you mostly see guys in their 20s or 30s. Lots of disposable income, few life priorities. Here, it wasn't at all uncommon to see guys in their 50s, 60s, or even older, wearing jerseys and flipping through a stack of baseball cards or whatever with the glazed-over eyes of drug addicts who just stumbled upon an expo center full of heroin. For me, as a collector, it was a bit like seeing the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come. You'd like to think these guys have better things to do, like spend time with grandchildren or blow their social security check in Atlantic City. God knows, I'm not still going to be collecting comics at that age. At least, I hope I'm not.
Speaking of autographed baseballs! There were tons of autographed everything at the show, but especially baseballs. Naturally, all the signatures were guaranteed to be authentic. I'd love to know what percentage of them actually were. I'm not saying the dealers were shady, but God only knows how they acquire these things, so you have to figure at least a decent percentage were fake. If only life were like Pawn Stars, and I could just call a buddy who would come over with a magnifying glass and tell me whether or not Reggie Jackson really does form his R the way it is on the ball.
This particular dealer was charging over $200 for Bryce Harper autographed balls. By comparison, this was twice what Tim Lincecum's balls were worth. So basically, an 18 year-old minor leaguer's signature is worth two times that of a Cy Young Award-winning, World Series champion, All-Star pitcher. I guess part of that can be explained by geography, but still. Either way, I clearly should have gotten Harper's signature when I had a chance.
If autographed baseballs struck you as too mainstream and predictable, you could have bought autographed stadium seats. I was actually annoyed to see stuff like this. I mean, that seat has--or should have, anyway--sentimental value for precisely one person on the planet: The guy who was sitting in that seat during a big game and then tore it out. Even if you were a fan of the team who played in that stadium and/or of the players who signed the seat, would it really mean anything to you to own it? I suppose some people would say yes, but they shouldn't.
Yeah, I wasn't really sure what this was doing at a sports memorabilia show, either. Maybe it used to belong to Marge Schott?
In a building full of worthless items for sale, a Metro pamphlet for people taking the train to Nationals games was probably the most worthless. I don't even want to think about how pathetically obsessed you'd have to be with the Nationals to want this. I didn't ask the dealer how much they cost, simply out of fear I'd get annoyed and make a smart-ass comment.
On the other hand, as someone who's only a slightly pathetically obsessed Nationals collector, there were two things I saw at the show that I was tempted to get, although technically, neither one actually had anything to do with the Nationals. The first was a pennant from the 1969 All-Star Game held at RFK. The second was a ticket stub from the very first Senators game in 1961. I would have liked them, but not enough to pay $75 and $50, respectively. A couple of days later, I am sort of regretting not getting the pennant, though.
It says a lot that this was the highlight of my time at the show: Virgil, from '80s/'90s WWF, was there! The poster behind him seemed to indicate that Ted DiBiase was on tour with him, but no, it was just Virgil. He was selling autographed pictures and posing for photos with fans (for a fee, of course). He even had the Million Dollar Belt--or at least, a serviceable reproduction--and would let people sling it around their shoulder when they posed for the photo.
I didn't speak to him (when it comes to minor celebrities hawking wares, I've never quite figured out how to say, "Hi, big fan. But no, I don't want to buy anything,") and he didn't appear to have a lot of people stop by his booth. But for those who did, he seemed just super, really out-of-his-way nice to his fans. It'd be great if the WWE gives him (and DiBiase) more work.
And that was my Saturday morning. Total amount spent: $0. I tried to find some inexpensive bauble simply to justify the $5 admission price, but I couldn't find anything. Well, other than that swastika. So I left empty-handed. As I walked out, I passed a father pushing his baby in a stroller. The baby was wearing a Vikings jersey. I guess it's nice that once all those old guys I saw die off, there'll be a new generation of collectors ready to take their place.
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