Usually when people speak of action, you think of buff criminals with giant biceps speeding up the sides of tall buildings in motorcycles with a katana in one hand and a coke in the other.
Not stealing baseball cards out of boxes.
Last time I had a run-in with THE BOX I was able to rescue Greg Olson's 1992 Fleer card. THE BOX hadn't shown his face around the house until this morning.
It seemed to sense that I was approaching. And it was angry. It's difficult to describe what it's like to have an inanimate object angry at you, because it's not possible.
Clearly THE BOX wanted to have a rematch with me. The deal was simple; if I win, I get another card. If it wins, sorry Greg Olson.
Fortunately for me, humans have fancy things like arms and legs, and brains. Boxes are just awkwardly shaped rectangular prisms that imprison baseball cards. But hey, I won't turn THE BOX down, especially if it means saving another card from it's evil clutches.
THE BOX lunged at me. Typical first move. I channeled my inner buff motorcycle guy and dodged it before pinning THE BOX against the wall. Then, prying it's mouth open I was able to save one card before it slammed shut on my hand.
Getting bitten by a cardboard box is more painful than you'd think. Mostly emotional pain though, because you wonder how on earth an inanimate object without teeth can bite you.
Anyway, after this ordeal THE BOX snuck back into the closet it came from to nurse its battle wounds and defeat me when we meet again. Pfft. Like that'll happen.
I looked in my hand to see which of THE BOX'S captives I had saved from a life of mediocrity. And it was none other than....
I guess the Angels, or Bowman, had high hopes he'd make the team in 1990.
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