SCOTTSDALE, Ariz. _ Huddled in a coffee shop back when such things happened, a Bay Area college biology professor explained how a PhD on insects in Tahiti lives in the same brain as a book about the unbridled joy of baseball cards.
Thoughts about the 18 species of creepers, crawlers and flyers found solely in one corner of French Polynesia share space in Brad Balukjian's noodle with the early-1980s comings and goings of former Padres shortstop Garry Templeton.
As Balukjian peeled back the process behind "The Wax Pack: On the Open Road in Search of Baseball's Afterlife," the 39-year-old detailed how the lives of dugout dwellers can resemble our own when the spotlight fades.
"We can't play the game like they do, but they have the same issues and pain we deal with," said Balukjian, director of the Natural History & Sustainability program at Merritt College in Oakland. "We have issues with our parents, with our kids, with our spouses. We struggle with addictions."
The chat about the book came before directives to self-isolate. Before orders to shelter in place. Before toilet paper impersonated gold Krugerrand. Before the coronavirus pandemic caused the world to grind TV remotes down to the nubs.
The discussion was about the ultimate adrenaline rush of an era, a kid ripping into a pack of baseball trading cards _ a fleeting joy for collectibles facing untimely deaths in bicycle spokes or at the hands of mothers skulking garage-side to unceremoniously deposit them in trash cans.
Simpler times. (Edit: Far simpler times.)
"It was just that thrill from childhood, reacting to the names," Balukjian said. "The art of the surprise is not what it used to be, so what I love about the packs is that they're truly little surprises when you open them up."
A bit hungover on New Year's Day, 2014, Balukjian, his sister and some friends began to open packs in the lobby of a Marriott in Walnut Creek. The only ground rules: The pack had to be from 1986, the year he began collecting, and could not include too many players who had died or players clustered geographically in ways that might stifle the road trip.
About a dozen packs in, they landed on the one that would launch the journey. Inside, two former Padres: Templeton and Randy Ready, a Swiss Army Knife from the late 1980s.
Balukjian hopped into his car on June 19, 2015. Seven weeks later, he ticked off the last of 11,341 miles of nostalgia-chasing Americana. He found "Tempy" in San Marcos. The two dissected the shortstop's painful departure in St. Louis after a 1981 run-in with fans Templeton claims was sparked by innings' worth of racial insults.
When manager Whitey Herzog failed to back him up, it stained the star's career. A season later, Templeton landed in San Diego. That incident _ and a cranky left knee dating back to the minors _ slowed his magical ascent. Attempts to regain footing in the game as a coach stalled, too.
"Whitey stabbed me in the (expletive) back," Templeton said.
The takeaway?
"I expected him to be surly and kind of grumpy, but he was one of the more charming, friendly guys," Balukjian said. "He seemed like he really wanted to tell that story about the Whitey Herzog incident because it defined a lot of his career.
"He struck me as a guy who loves the game. That generation isn't getting hired anymore as coaches because of the whole analytics thing. As the game has changed, that generation isn't as sought after.
"I would say a lot of talent and somewhat misunderstood. He was not treated fairly in a lot of cases and I think a lot of that had to do with race and baseball culture at the time."
Human spirit tested from cap to spikes reveals itself in the chapter about Ready, who started in San Diego as a backup to Graig Nettles. Ready worked in Alaska cleaning fish at 13, lost his father to a heart attack at 16 and found himself reeling when the wife he met at spring training, Dorene, ended up in a vegetative state after a heart attack of her own.
When the author connected with Ready at a Dallas restaurant and bowling alley, he learned the former player's then-wife was in the process of divorcing him. Instead of a smoldering shell, Balukjian discovered a man brimming with sunny resolve.
"If I could have a beer with any of the guys I talked to, it would be Randy Ready," Balukjian said of the 60-year-old. "Here's a guy who was dealt some pretty tough cards. The pain this guy has dealt with and still have that effusive optimism was an inspiration really."
Ready also delivered one of the funnier modern-day moments in the book. The jarring revelation that his wife was leaving him led to the author showing the former Padre how to navigate a dating app.
"I had this guy's card at 8 years old and now we're swiping on Tinder," Balukjian said. "That's crazy, right?"
The stories roll, from Rick Sutcliffe talking about a physical altercation with former Dodgers manager Tommy Lasorda to Balukjian using cloak and dagger tactics to chase reluctant Hall of Famer Carlton Fisk at a posh golf resort.
As Balukjian researched those involved with current MLB teams, he discovered the Fox Sports San Diego clip of analyst Mark Grant convincing play-by-play voice Don Orsillo to gnaw on one of those strange sticks of "gum" stuffed in packs.
The author laughed at Orsillo's reaction and reached out to Grant. They met during spring training.
"At the (pack-)opening party, everyone tried a stick of gum," Balukjian said. "It doesn't congeal. It's like if you snapped an old dinosaur bone, there's that cloud of dust."
That's the beauty of the book. The pack, as all did in those days, offers a time capsule. More than that, each card _ all these years later _ serves as a doorway to the joys and struggles behind the blur of statistics.
If it spurs a trip along memory lane, one suggestion: Skip the gum.
