A Card by Any Other Name: The Tragicomedy of Sir William Shakespeare, A Collector Most Devoted

 

 

 I bid you much ado with our special guest writer today:

Act I: Scene I – The Bard’s Study, whereupon Sir William doth contemplate his newest obsession

To collect, or not to collect—that is the question: Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer The slings and arrows of outrageous eBay auctions, Or to take arms against a sea of Topps, And by opposing, end them. To bid, to win— No more—and by a bid to say we end The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks That flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation Devoutly to be wished. To bid, to win— To win—perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub, For in that win of cards what dreams may come, When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, Must give us pause—there's the respect That makes calamity of so long life.

Alas, dear sirs and madams, hath I—William, the Bard of Avon—become ensnared by this newfangled vice most seductive: the collecting of sports cards! Verily, 'tis a passion most perilous, for I find myself more entranced by the likeness of Sir Mickey of Mantle than ever I was by yon muses of old.

Methinks I see in these glossy prints a reflection of life’s greatest tragedies and comedies, each card a miniature theatre, whereupon the players strut and fret their hour upon the stage, only to be shuffled into the vast collection anon.

Act II: Scene II – The Auction Block, where Sir William doth lament the fickle whims of the auctioneer

Hark, what light through yonder auction breaks? It is the East, and I am bankrupt. O fickle Fortune, dost thou mock me still? For as I lay my silver down for a card most rare, Another bidder doth swoop in like a vulture, Plucking from me the fruit of my labours. Woe to the days when bidding wars were fair, Now 'tis but a game of coin and cunning, Where knaves and scoundrels do ply their trades, And honest men are left with naught but commons.

Yet, hold! What’s this? A 1952 Mantle, pristine in its countenance, bewitching in its grade? My heart, it leaps! But nay, the cost is dearer than my purse can bear. Shall I pawn my quill, my ink, my very soul, to possess this cardboard relic? Or shall I let it pass, like so many fleeting dreams, leaving me to writhe in the throes of “What if?”

Act III: Scene III – A Final Soliloquy, wherein Sir William doth ponder the meaning of it all

Oft have I penned the tales of kings and clowns, Of love and loss, of war and peace. But never did I think to write a line On the madness that is card collecting. These players, though they be but two inches tall, Doth command a man's devotion like no other. Their value not in gold nor in the fame they hold, But in the stories they tell, the memories they evoke.

In the end, what are we but collectors all? Gathering memories, moments, mementos Of a life well lived, of games well played. So let us shuffle the deck, roll the dice, And mayhap find a rare gem amidst the thrice. For life, dear friends, is but a game of chance, And he who hath the best collection, Doth in the end, perchance, win the dance.

Thus I leave thee, with a lesson most plain: To love, to laugh, to collect without disdain. For in these cards we find a piece of joy, A treasure small, yet rich as Helen of Troy.

Exeunt omnes.