Giving 'Em Fitz: Too often, athletes discard their treasures

Its arms outstretched, as if it were pleading to be saved, a faded, white letter-sweater was spread out on a table in the drab conference room of a drab office at a drab South Jersey industrial park.

The garment was surrounded by championship rings, by two bats with pine-tarred handles, by various trophies and plaques, photos and balls.

In the harsh light and soulless context, the displayed memorabilia looked almost forlorn, like pets abandoned after a lifetime of loyal friendship.

That sweater - a big yellow "F" on its left breast, the name "Mike" sewn in blue script on one sleeve - must have thrilled Mike Schmidt when Fairview High's star athlete received it in 1967.

He couldn't have been happier than Gary McClain was on the night in 1985 when the effervescent Villanova point guard earned the bejeweled NCAA championship ring that now rested alongside Schmidt's sweater.

But whatever emotions those cherished objects once stirred had now gone cold. They were being sold to the highest bidder.

Hundreds of sports collectibles, including McClain's ring, Schmidt's sweater, and many other personal items from the Phillies great, are being auctioned online this month as part of Goldin Auctions' "October Legends" sale.

Such events have become familiar rituals in a culture obsessed with sports and their accoutrements. Sometimes the items listed in the glossy auction catalogs are intriguing, rare, bizarre. Sometimes they're just sad.

Athletes, as they shed their glory, too often shed the treasures they acquired in its pursuit.

"Players sell things for different reasons all the time," explained Ken Goldin, owner of the online auction company based in West Berlin.

To finance his grandchildren's college education, for example, Don Larsen sold the 1956 Yankees jersey he wore while pitching the only perfect game in World Series history. Larry Grantham of the 1968 New York Jets auctioned his Super Bowl III ring to finance throat-cancer treatments. Others unloaded their championship rings to pay tax bills or fund drug habits.

Goldin said McClain, who has had well-publicized battles with substance abuse, put his ring on the market because he "wanted to do something for his daughter."

Schmidt's reasons were less clear.

"It has nothing to do with finances," Goldin said of the Hall of Famer, who has skin cancer. "We got the stuff through a mutual friend. I guess Mike had actually given or sold it to this friend, and he consigned it to us. I can tell you Mike's keeping his MVP awards and World Series rings and stuff that's really meaningful to him."

Maybe when you've got 10 Gold Glove awards, getting rid of the one from 1984, as Schmidt has done, isn't a big deal. The same with jettisoning the bat he used to hit home runs 518-520 or the set of silver wine goblets presented to each all-star in 1984.

But how do you get from there to a high school letter-sweater?

While it's sentiment that makes these auctions popular, it's all too often financial concerns that provide the raw material. For many, athletic reputations, no matter how lofty, don't pay the bills.

Sometimes the athletes themselves unload their collectibles. Often it's their descendants who consign them to auction houses such as Goldin's. This sale, which concludes Nov. 1, includes bats, balls, contracts, photos, and more personal objects, such as the gold pocket watch A's pitcher Eddie Plank was awarded in 1913.

Another member of those 1913 A's plays a central a role in this sale.

The family of outfielder Honest Eddie Murphy is getting rid of something so distinctive that Goldin insists it could be the centerpiece of a Philadelphia Sports Hall of Fame museum, should such an institution ever become a reality.

Murphy, who died at 77 in 1969, acquired his nickname because, though a member of the infamous 1919 Black Sox, he wasn't tainted by the gambling scandal. While in Chicago, he befriended Shoeless Joe Jackson and supposedly, when the two dined together on the road, he read aloud each menu item to spare his illiterate teammate embarrassment.

Before Game 2 of the '13 Series, residents of Dunsmore, the Pennsylvania town where Murphy lived, presented him with a delicately carved 29-inch, 14-pound crystal bat. Later the beautifully wrought replica spent a year on display in Wanamaker's, and for the last several decades was exhibited at the Corning Museum of Glass.

Now, for whatever reason, Murphy's grandson wants to sell it.

"This is the most bizarre item in the entire auction," said Goldin, who has fixed an opening bid of $25,000 on it.

If so, it's only slightly more bizarre than the garish, red-velvet-and-gold Sultan of Swat crown Schmidt won for leading the big leagues with 38 homers in 1976.

The Babe Ruth Award is a replica of the crown the clownish Ruth once donned for photographers. It too will have a minimum opening bid of $25,000, and Goldin expects it to fetch as much as $100,000. Several years ago Ted Williams' went for $220,000.

It will sell. Devoted fans and collectors will buy almost anything, and that's understandable. Owning these things, after all, is a way to connect with greatness.

But what is it like on the other side of the transactions?

When Schmidt, 65 now, pulled the letter-sweater out of mothballs, did it conjure up, if only for a moment, innocence and youth, a Happy Days artifact implying all the sentiments the hit TV show traded on?

Was it some sort of Rosebud, its psychological significance too painful for a golden boy now stricken with cancer to confront?

Or was it merely clutter to be disposed of?

When my father died and we inventoried his meager possessions, I found at the bottom of a small chest he always kept on his dresser a varsity letter he'd earned at La Salle High 60-some years earlier.

He'd never have surrendered something so fraught with meaning.

I don't know how anyone could.

@philafitz