On a side street, I meet John. He’s selling the less valuable parts of his sports memorabilia collection. The spread is impressive, and at least a little bit entertaining. A foot-long Mike Piazza bobblehead, from his Mets days. More Gary Carter action figures than I knew existed. A pre-cracked out Ricky Williams bobblehead. John’s table is set up in a place with no shade, splayed on the unforgiving, rebounding heat of an asphalt drive way. I feel like the soles of my shoes could melt. He grabs a trinket, a miniature faux-copper plaque with Andy Pettitte’s face, and cradles it in his hand with a piece of cloth. “A guy who came earlier picked this up and burned himself on it.”


