The Cynical Career Counselor Explains Your Future as a

Sports Collectibles Dealer

Yeah, kid, I've seen your Reggie Jackson rookie card. You've shown it to everybody in the school about half a dozen times, now. No, I don't know when lunch will be over--why don't you go out and pla... er, show some people outside your baseball card?

No, it's my lunchtime too. Really? I've told her a hundred times not to book my lunch... oh, what the hell. Just keep that it away from this pastrami; you could cut the value of that card pretty quickly with my lunch all over it.

So what's the plan? Really? You want to trade cards like this for a living? I don't care if your uncle says sports collectibles are hot right now, I think it may go like this:

You'll have to hit up your uncle and everyone else you're related to for a start-up loan. You'll get an incredibly small space up in a mall like that one by the airport. You'll spend weeks building your initial stock by buying everything that seems undervalued on Ebay and elsewhere online. You'll read the obituary pages faithfully, looking for estates of sports fans who might have the occasional autographed baseball or signed jersey.

Even though you advertise your grand opening in collectors' magazines, on their websites and in all the local papers, the public is lukewarm to your business. Collectibles are a luxury, and in tough times people don't bother with that framed uniform or historic home run ball. Plus, you've only got the budget to stock C list collectibles anyway.

Still, you eke out a living by working every moment the store is open, thus hiring as few staff as possible. It's a stressful existence, though; you're always barely ahead of your creditors and all it will take is one stroke of bad luck to destroy your dream.

You scramble to find quality collectibles and eventually agree to a deal with a sketchy "collectibles acquisition agent" who goes to major sporting events and athlete appearances and harasses stars to sign all manner of sports clothing and memorabilia. You know some such agents use sketchy tactics like lying about sick kids to get donations, but you try to ignore your pangs of conscience when new items are sent in. Eventually you figure out the acquisition agent is taking such a big cut you're not making enough from the deal to bother renewing it after the first year.

Then you get a bit lucky. That cousin of yours--what's her name, Tessa?--the one who wants to be a Budweiser girl, agrees to come and work for you on weekends. What? Oh, yeah, she's been in here to share that little dream before. My guess is she'll be available when you need a temp. employee just the same.

She attracts collectible geeks like Star Trek conventioneers are drawn to, well, any female that will talk to them. Your weekend business picks up, and eventually you feel confident enough to leave her in charge so you can run a booth at a collectible convention in Dallas.

You learn a lot that weekend. Simply put, you have plenty of time to study your more successful competitors since virtually no one comes to your boring booth, and you take notes. The ones who have the biggest crowds offer either hot girls or sports celebrities.

The following month you take Tessa with you to another convention, and she helps you make enough to cover your convention merchant fees. Still, you realize a celebrity would draw even more people, and fortuitously, an agent drops his business card off at your booth and offers to help make that happen.

He's a representative of an agency who offer a stable of more than 200 ex-athletes from nearly every major sport, and when you call him he faxes you a list of stars with their appearance fees listed beside each one.

One in particular catches your eye. He's a well-known former major league batting star, famous not only for his home run and RBI stats, but also because of the controversy that erupted when his use of steroids was exposed. Despite his slightly tarnished reputation, you know he'll bring in fans, eager to meet someone so well known. You're surprised that he seems underpriced, so you decide to call the agent and book him.

The deal is completed, pending the bank's approval of your extending your line of credit to help cover the appearance fee. The bank manager hears the name of the ball player and smiles, agreeing to help provided you'll get his son an autographed ball.

Everything seems fine, and you excitedly arrange advertising and promotions to let everyone know who's coming to your store the following weekend. You even get a plug on a local sportcast when one of their reporters drops by to ask about the upcoming visit, though you're disappointed when the reporter and cameraman decide that Tessa would be a better choice to appear on air.

Sure enough, the publicity works, and when the limo you hired shows up in front of the store to deliver your guest, there are close to four hundred people waiting for a peek. The star athlete stumbles as he disembarks, then curses loudly, pulls a can of beer out of his pocket, and takes a long swig.

"Let's party!" he yells, and with a sinking feeling you realize that maybe there was a reason for his discount fee.

The rest of the afternoon is about damage control. You apologize for his crude comments to female customers and try to focus his energies on signing items for fans who are growing rapidly disenchanted with the drunken lout.

At one point he disappears into the bathroom, and finally after 15 minutes you go looking for him, only to find him passed out. You call a cab and try to get him out of the store, but he's discovered Tessa and insists she needs to go for a ride with him.

She's probably worked at a few places by this time that have given her relevant experience in dealing with drunken admirers, and she slickly twists out of the cab after the semi-conscious celebrity is buckled in. You sigh with both relief and despair as you watch him disappear.

The results of the day are mixed; you sold more merchandise than usual, though not quite enough to cover the appearance fee, and a local bar owner, impressed by Tessa's acumen in dealing with the athlete, hires her as his manager, depriving your store of the one thing that kept some customers coming in.

A couple of sports writers pen scathing editorials about the horrible example set by your guest, and letters to the editor from outraged parents complement their efforts.

You manage to clear out enough merchandise by having a "blow out sale" to cover your obligations to the bank, but you're on thinner financial ice than ever.

The final blow will come when a number of your collectibles are exposed in a fraud investigation as counterfeits. Apparently your sketchy acquisition agent went beyond finding collectibles, he also liked to invent some of them. Dozens of angry customers return to demand refunds, and when you can't manage to satisfy them, many file suit against you and your store.

Don't lose that Reggie Jackson card. You can trade it for a warm blanket when you're living in your car.