My mother moved on to her eternal reward three years ago (I’m confident her relentless sarcasm didn’t force a short stay in the penalty box on her way up), so my hope is that she finally has forgiven herself for tossing out the bags filled with old baseball and basketball cards.

I doubt it, though.

I tried to explain to her that the only reason the cards became so valuable was that everybody’s mother tossed them into the garbage. If they hadn’t, the supply would outweigh the demand, and they would be worthless.

It didn’t work, and every time I think of the moment I took a scissors to the Nolan Ryan/Jerry Koosman rookie card so I could trade Ryan to my brother Dan (or was it Jim?), I feel a tinge of that same bluesy feeling that dogged her.

If memory serves, Al Oliver and Richie Hebner were separated with the same pair of scissors.

Why, oh why, did I do that?

Because that was what trading cards were for, that’s why. They were for trades. They weren’t for hoarding. They weren’t supposed to be shielded from the elements behind plastic, tucked away to protect their “value.”

You didn’t get in trouble for bending cards, just for leaving them strewn across the floor amid the wrappers marked by the chalky dust from the ancient stick of bubble gum that jeopardized every silver filling.

I knew enough not to trade with Gregory from up the street, having seen him convince the younger Bobby across the way to trade all his dimes for all Gregory’s pennies, a deal he was able to pull off with the pitch, “See, the pennies are bigger, so that means they’re worth more.”

We didn’t collect cards so decades later we could collect cash. We collected for bragging rights. My guys are better than your guys. We collected to pass the muggy summer days under a shady tree reading the backs of the cards, including the cartoons that let us know that a particular washed-up reliever enjoys fishing and hunting in the offseason (don’t all ballplayers?).

The obscure cards live on in the memory just as vividly as the stars. Andy Etchebarren’s bushy eyebrows. Bob Moose. What a cool name for an innings-eating pitcher. Manny Sanguillen, what a catcher. What a smile.

Opening a pack and flipping in search of a Roberto Clemente only to find a Clay Dalrymple meant Dalrymple ended up attached to a bicycle spoke with a laundry pin, as if it was Clay Dalrymple’s fault.

Confession: I always preferred basketball cards to baseball cards, and not just because they were bigger. Maybe it was because jumpers were always so much easier to hit than fastballs. Jumpin’ Johnny Green, Lou Hudson, Mel Counts. Hey, look, I got a Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, and you got a Neal Walk. Loser!

I remember Larry Brown’s youthful face on his ABA card. He was a player then. Now, he’s sentenced to coach Stephon Marbury, and for that he’s underpaid at $10 million per season. Study the back of Marbury’s basketball card (if you can afford to buy basketball cards now) and he looks like a heck of a player. Study the bags under his coach’s eyes for a better indication of Marbury’s influence on a team. Loser!

Stashing away the cards and locking them up so they increase in value? We didn’t put a price tag on them. How could we? They were priceless.