SL Satire
by Robert Atwan
Some of my friends think I’m a sucker, but I’m convinced that the $4,350 I paid on eBay for a slice of Mickey Mantle’s retired liver is an incredible investment. This is a big piece of baseball history, I remind them, one of the biggest, and someday it will be worth a small fortune. They remind me that the signed Sal Maglie chest X-rays I bought years ago aren’t exactly the hottest property in sports memorabilia. I admit I made an error there: when you get down to it X-rays are really just photographs and you might as well simply collect 8 X 10 glossies or trading cards. But an authentic body part is special, far more special than just something a player’s worn, like my autographed, “game-used” Pete Rose jock strap. Most serious collectors would agree that the strap’s “priceless,” but, let’s be honest, it’s not in the same league as a vital organ.
The liver came with a certificate of authenticity signed by a head of the Baylor University Medical Center, where the damaged organ was removed in 1995 during Mantle’s transplant operation. It certifies that my particular specimen is 139 of a limited number of 150. It’s larger than I expected, much plumper than the rare Gil Hodges kidney stone I found at a dealer’s’ convention in Patchogue, Long Island, not long ago and is already worth triple what I paid for it. Though hardly in mint condition, the Mantle liver came handsomely displayed, floating inside a clear-plastic replica of an official American League baseball.
If you know anything about the liver, you know it’s by far the best piece of medical memorabilia you can own. In the ancient world professional diviners examined the livers of sacrificial animals to predict the future. They read the strange markings on the liver like a baserunner interpreting sigs from a frenetic third-base coach. Maybe experts can predict baseball’s future from my portion of The Mick’s liver, or maybe not. But I bet they can discover something about the game’s historic past. “See that botchy jumble of scratches on the top left corner,” these crafty diviners would say, peering into the crystal baseball, “these mean: eighteen whisky sours with Billy Martin at Toots Shor’s after thrashing the Red Sox.” I can think of only a few other big league souvenirs I’d rather own–like the bullet that wounded Eddie Waitkus, the ball that killed Ray Chapman, or the handgun Donnie Moore shot himself with–but those are potential Hall of Fame items and not likely to ever appear in individual collections.
I agree that some collectibles are ridiculously overpriced. I refuse to pay $2300 for a twisted tube of Pebeco toothpaste found in Lou Gehrig’s hotel room or even $1150 for a select piece of wreckage (numbered and authenticated) from Thurman Munson’s fatal plane crash. I wasn’t even tempted by an autographed box of Lifebuoy soap from Ty Cobb’s locker listing, probably because unauthenticated, at only $1900, though it’s in near-mint condition.
My friends say six months from now I’m going to discover another Mantle liver selling for peanuts. That’s the sort of vision my mother had when she tossed out my complete set of ‘51 Bowmans. But my concern now isn’t devaluation. I’m wondering how best to show off my new acquisition. I think I’ll put it right where it belongs, on the mantlepiece, right next to one of my latest steals–an incriminating 1994 Darryl Strawberry urine sample.
Robert Atwan is the series editor of The Best American Essays, the highly acclaimed annual he launched in 1986. He has published on a wide variety of subjects, such as dreams and divination in ancient literature, early photography, Shakespeare, contemporary poetry, creative nonfiction and the cultural history of American advertising. His essays, criticism, reviews, literary humor and poetry have appeared in many periodicals nationwide.