I took Latin when I was 14 years old, and I can still conjugate the verb form "to be." Sum, es, est, summus, estes, sunt.

	Would you rather have your child's first home run ball, or Barry Bonds' 73rd?

My sixth grade English teacher told our class that the seven most commonly used prepositions are: in, at, to, be, on, of, up. I don't know if she was right, but I've never forgotten it.

Granted, among party tricks, these things rank just above "pull my finger, and pick it, lick it, stick it, flick it." But the point is, some things you just never forget. If the minutiae is memorable, the important stuff like your first kiss, your first love, and the first basemen in the first game you went to see (Ed Kranepool and Willie McCovey) shouldn't require memorabilia.

One of the first baseball games I ever went to was a 1973 playoff game between the Reds and Mets at Shea Stadium. If anyone recalls, it was the game in which Mets shortstop Bud Harrelson (the reason I wore number 3) got into a fight with Pete Rose, when Rose made a hard slide into second base. Great game!

Before the game, my dad took me and a couple of his friends into a pretty swanky restaurant. While we were eating dinner, my dad pointed to an elderly woman at the adjacent table and said: "Do you know who that is?" Knowing that I didn't, he quickly added: "That's Mrs. Babe Ruth!"

I have no idea how he knew that, but after a little encouragement, he handed me his business card and I went over and asked for an autograph. She graciously signed with the blue felt pen I handed her: Mrs. Babe Ruth. I saved that card for a good 10 years, not because the autograph meant anything to me, but because it reminded me of the night I went to a playoff game with Dad. Not that I needed some yellowing business card to help me remember that. I've still got that one vaulted away right next to the memory of the first time he showed me how to hold a golf club.

Not everything we hold on to is tangible. And not everything of value has a price. My parents went to a couple of spring trainings, and my mom gave me a baseball that has the signatures of Carl Yastrzemski, Ted Williams, Johnny Pesky, Jim Rice and Bob Stanley on it. If I could somehow get Stanley's name off it, the ball might be worth something. But it's not for sale anyway. Someday I'm going to want that ball to remember Mom and the unending passion for baseball that she passed on to me. That's a piece of memorabilia I think I'll keep. Otherwise, I save about as well as an unemployed shopaholic.

		Not everything we hold on to is tangible. And not everything of value has a price. My parents went to a couple of spring trainings, and my mom gave me a baseball that has the signatures of Carl Yastrzemski, Ted Williams, Johnny Pesky, Jim Rice and Bob Stanley on it. If I could somehow get Stanley's name off it, the ball might be worth something.

Pictures of my kids have value. Pictures of athletes on trading cards have none -- at least not to me. I come from a generation that "flipped" baseball cards. We gambled and frittered them away. Younger readers may not know what flipping is -- and when I explain it, they may think I, and other children of the '70s, were insane.

The only baseball card company I knew as a kid was Topps. Every year from second to eighth grade, I made it my mission to collect every card from that year's series. If memory serves me correctly, there were 660 cards, which included every player, team photos and projected rookies. Every card had a shaded area, like a colored bar. Flipping was a game of chance. Each player started with anywhere from five to usually no more than 20 cards. In turn, each player put a card down -- face up in a single pile -- when two cards of the same "color" went back-to-back, the player who "matched" the color got the pile. This continued until one player had no more cards left. That's right, you could go to school with a brand new Ron Cey card, and go home without "The Penguin."

There were also "double or triple pots" (when you had to get two or three matches), "topsies" (when the same colors went back-to-back-to-back, the third match got the pile) or "shades-ies" (when pink matched red, or dark blue matched light blue, etc). We used to walk around the playground saying: "Flip you five." Or: "Flip you 20." And you'd try to cajole an opponent into flipping one of his good cards, like Tom Seaver or Johnny Bench, so you could rationalize the risks and rewards.

By the time the school year was over, I usually had every card Topps had to offer. Then the following October, my friends and I would toss the cards into the air, and watch all the fools chase after "last year's" worthless cards. Who knew that one day those cards would be worth so much?

But why did sports collectibles become such big business -- $2.7 million for Mark McGwire's 70th home run ball? Two fans are currently in a legal battle over the rights to Barry Bonds 73rd home run ball because it's estimated to be worth $1 million. Oh, the insanity! Millions of dollars for a ball that will probably sit in some rich guy's den next to one of Ken Griffey Junior's only slightly used jock straps! $1 million for the opportunity to brag at the country club! I think you've got all seven of the deadly sins wrapped up into one right there. That kind of greed gives me a bad taste in my mouth rivaled only by a Cheerios burp. Some of you know what I mean.

My memories include going to Yankee Stadium once and waiting for 25 minutes for an autograph from Orioles catcher Elrod Hendricks. I know, it's hard to believe Elrod Hendricks would have to sign for 25 minutes, but my Mickey Mouse watch didn't lie. I can remember climbing onto the dugout roof and getting players to sign a program for the exceptionally cute kid, and then I'd get that kid to give me my program back. Those are my memories and they're worth something. The program, the cards, the ticket stubs are not. In fact, they've probably been recycled into some other kid's memory by now. Maybe he or she will sell them one day.

	Nobody can justify having Luis Gonzalez's gum displayed on their mantel.

Sports fans who get too caught up in this collectible craze end up getting duped by marketing strategies. You think professional franchises are just fickle, and that's why they change the look of their uniforms every few years? They're literally banking on fans' willingness to update their jerseys, hats, sweaters and tea cozies. These are the same fans who buy the dirt, and grass, and bricks, and rickety old seats from stadiums that get torn down. I've seen people visit these arenas as if it were some kind of shrine, or war memorial, and cry when the wrecking ball started swinging.

"A lot of memories in that building," they weep. "It's so sad that I'll never be able to bring my kids here, and they'll never know what this place meant."

Yes, there were a lot memories, but unless the wrecking ball smacked you in the head, those memories are still there. And the next generation of fans will have their own memories in the new place. You think that because the Boston Garden no longer exists that Havlicek never stole the ball? You think because the Giants moved to San Francisco that history won't remind us about the Polo Grounds? You think the fans in Montreal will need a swatch of Astroturf to remember all the games they didn't go see at Olympic Stadium? I'm sure their memories of complete apathy will last a lifetime.

Honestly, I grew up in a white house on a corner lot in a small, rural neighborhood in New Jersey. Lived there for 18 years. My entire childhood. And if I found out tomorrow that it had been imploded to make room for an Arby's, I'd pause for a moment to remember the time I somersaulted on to my bed and put my butt through the wall, or the Christmas Eve I tried to stay awake to see Santa and fell asleep on the toilet, or the basketball hoop we had nailed to a tree so that every time the ball went through the hoop, it would fall on a large root and roll 50 feet away.

And then I'd check to see what time the game was on.

The house is history. My mind will carry the past into my future. And I won't need a shingle from the roof to inspire me.

Maybe I have no heart, no sentimentality. Maybe I'm just bitter because I threw out thousands of dollars worth of baseball cards. OK, I'm definitely a little bitter. But I've got a lot more heart than the guy surfing eBay for an autographed Lou Brock ball currently selling for $95. What personal connection does a shopper have? He's got stuff he can store in his den, or garage, or attic. I've got stuff stored in my head, and heart. Which is worth more?

I've got hours of videotape of my kids, a few special photographs ... and I wish I had my high school yearbook. Everything else I need is locked away in a safe place -- my brain. It's kind of a dark place at times, and there's a lot of junk in there. But when I feel like journeying to the deeper recesses of my mind, I can find priceless treasures.

By the way, the transitive property of equality states that if a=b, and b=c, then a=c. That was seventh grade.

Bob Halloran is an anchorman for ESPNEWS.