Digging for Gold in Boxes of Baseball Cards

I was digging through my baseball cards the other day and it was quite an experience. There's the wave of nostalgia, the thrill of looking up how much certain cards are worth (almost uniformly "not much"), the discovery of a few golden nuggets (as much as it pains me, I have a Derek Jeter rookie card that is apparently worth $12 already), and the endless amount of entertainment that comes from goofy pictures, names, and trivial tidbits found on the cards. I wish I had the kind of time to go through all of my cards and dig out the highlights, but that is a daunting task and one that risks getting my complete sets out of order. The biggest thing I learned from the experience is that collecting baseball cards in the late '80s and early '90s was a terrible time to practice that hobby (apparently having a Pedro Martinez Upper Deck rookie card doesn't mean much, though I kind of want to pay the subscription fee for Beckett.com to get some real numbers). There is one thing I want to single out, though:

I don't know why all of my valuable collectibles are of people I can't stand*.

That's right, friends, an autographed Barry Bonds card. I remember going down to The Hitting Machine in Lemoyne to wait for his autograph. It may be a faulty memory, but I seem to remember there being some pretty strict and prickly rules on how to conduct your interaction with him (maybe my dad can help me remember). 

The would-be librarian in me really wants to go through and catalogue my collection in a spreadsheet citing the card maker, the card number, the player, the copyright year, and how much it's worth. That sounds like a great activity to do while sitting in front of the TV watching, say, The Andy Griffith Show (which is amazing!). 

Now, if I can hold on to these cards for just another twenty to thirty years, they should really be worth something.

*The Chipper Jones Rookie card is worth over $3.