A Couple of letters, A Few Insults, And A Lot Of Fun: Early Dealing With Bill Mastro In The 1970s

​In the early to mid‑1970s, before the headlines and the big auction catalogs, Bill Mastro was the only person I encountered who was as enthusiastic about vintage baseball cards as I was, who “lived and breathed” cards 24/7, and who wanted me to call to make deals and talk about cards as often and as long as possible. He was also the funniest, most relentless baseball card collector I knew, and a lot more worldly than me. I was as knowledgeable about baseball cards as he was but naturally a lot less worldly because I was so much younger (7 or 8 years difference is a big deal when you’re 14 years old). And he usually owed me money. I was a teenage dealer still living at home and with no real expenses; he was an adult with a job, rent to pay, food to buy, a world‑class collection always being added to, and virtually unrivaled knowledge of cards and the hobby.

What made it work is that, even though there was this huge age gap, we were kindred spirits. If Bill could have spent every waking hour talking cards, dealing cards, and rearranging his collection, he would have. And that’s exactly what I actually did! In those early years he felt almost like a much older brother, and the only place I was really his peer was in knowing about cards, my enthusiasm for the hobby, and making deals. And in retrospect the only place I was more than his peer involved finances: I had lots of money from all my successful dealings, and was thrilled to use it to buy cards (after all, in my eyes, what else was money for? I had no bills! I was a kid!)

That imbalance shaped the way we dealt in a way that was perfect for both of us. I had plenty of cash and no need to keep anything in cards if Bill wanted something for his massive collection. He had the eye, the hunger, a collector’s need to own the best material, and he could navigate like an adult in a way a kid could not. I was happy to bankroll deals, let him peel off what he wanted for his collection, and then try my best to squeeze him as hard as I could on the numbers until we landed on something we could both live with. It was a ritual. Even when we bought a collection together (usually with my money of course) we were still competitors. And mostly we did our own separate dealings, including many in which Bill bought cards from me (yes…often on credit). Sometimes I even just lent him money for deals. But he was always good for it. This was just in the early years (mid 1970s to the mid 1980s). After that, maybe in part because he went into cards full time, he had as much or more money as anyone in the hobby for both his collecting and dealing.

Bill could be charming or nasty, flattering or insulting, often in the same five‑minute conversation. When he liked you, he used all of those gears at once - half performance, half pressure, sometimes a little whining thrown in, and somehow always funny. For a kid dealer like me, it was like watching a master class in deal making and hobby psychology.

“Sorry It Ain’t More…”

The first letter, from January 1976, is classic Mastro‑in‑debt. With a partial payment enclosed, he opens:

“Dear Shorty –
Sorry it ain’t more but I’m still waiting on money. I’ll keep sending checks as money comes in. I am definitely going to Indianapolis so we can get together there. You better be there you little rat so we can sling the shit. See ya later dumby.
Your Buddy,
Bill”

It’s all there in a few lines: he’s behind, he’s promising to make good, and at the same time he’s insulting me, planning the next show, and turning a debt into a joke. The subtext was always, “You know I’ll square up, so relax, and get ready for the next deal.”

I never minded that he owed me. In a way, that was part of the fun. I knew any current debt would be paid, and I knew that in the meantime I had a front‑row seat to one of the most energetic, inventive dealmakers in the hobby.
​

​A Three‑Page Want List And A $45 Lummis Hamner

The second letter is from October 1976, and the hobby of course is continuing to explode in this era. Regional and oddball issues were hot, companies were producing new stuff constantly, and no one really knew yet which cards or newly issued items were going to be tomorrow’s high‑value classics. In that uncertain environment Mastro wrote this three‑page letter that reads like a snapshot of an endless stream of small deals involving then‑modern regionally issued items that collectors were unsure if they were going to be common or rare, valuable or not.

The first page is an order list directed at me, and it totals exactly $123.50. It’s full of the kind of things people were speculating on at the time:

• Opening Night Hank Aaron program.
• “Magnavox Aaron Program – 1.00.”
• Phillies “Punch Out” set – 2.00.
• Valley Bank set – 2.00.
• “Set of Puzzles – ? (I still don’t know the fuckin price for a complete set).”
• “Placemats 5 diff. BB only – 1.00 (Don’t fold them asshole!).”
• “50 packs of bags – 36.50.”
• “Pee Wees (3 sets – 36 cards) – 6.00.”
And buried in the middle is an outlier that is a rare vintage card:
• “Lummis of Hamner – 45.00.”

That’s Granny Hamner from the 1949 Lummis Peanut Butter Phillies set, a regional issue that today advanced collectors recognize as extremely rare; even in Philadelphia where they were issued. In 1976 they were almost mythical in rarity. Forty‑five dollars for a single regional card in 1976 was serious money. This was obviously for his personal collection.

His extra notations are as good as the items. Next to some lines he’s still guessing at the prices, complaining he doesn’t know what a “complete set” should run, and underlining titles for emphasis, simultaneously planning, scheming, and “yelling” in handwritten text.
​

“Listen You Little Shit…”

The second page is where the real Mastro voice takes over. After more wants (“Mets Yearbooks,” “an Aaron program of his first night in Milwaukee or wherever”), he remembers that I had promised him one of those Aaron programs:

“I believe you said you’d hold one for me for 1.00 or was it 2.00, well, let’s be fair about it, make it a dollar!”

Only Bill could argue a price down in writing and call it being “fair.” And make you laugh at the same time.

Then he changes channels completely:

“Listen you little shit, all this stuff better be held for me or I’ll use you for table scraps to feed my dog.”

A paragraph later, it’s suddenly an accounting lecture:

“You owe me 4.00 for the 2 Chevy sets I got you from Gammon and 4.00 for the postage on Plank for Halper…”

The Chevy sets are an promotional premium set issued by Chevrolet that Wirt Gammon was selling, part of the wave of new issues the hobby could barely keep up with at this time. The Plank is a T206 Eddie Plank, one of the famous tobacco card rarities, which at that time we must have either gone in on together or I had bought through him and moved to Barry Halper, who had an insatiable appetite for having extra Wagners and Planks lying around.
He keeps toggling between bully and bookkeeper:

“Please make a box for me, it’s not all that difficult. Send Magie and Lummis of Hamner, damn it!”

The Magie is an example of the famous Sherry Magie T206 error, another big‑ticket card even back then. In a few sentences he’s calling me insulting names, barking orders, reminding me what I owe him, grabbing top‑shelf rarities, threatening to feed me to his dog, and still making me laugh.

​On the final page of that October 1976 letter he actually settles up. When you net out what I owed him for the Gammon Chevy sets and the Halper Plank postage against what he owes me for all the stuff I’m holding, he encloses a check for $115.50 and still owes me for the Aaron Opening Day program and the puzzles (which are probably the 1974 Topps Test puzzles, as I had lots of those back then). He even ribs me about my tendency to try to buy and sell big quantities of interesting new issues:

“Let me know the cost on the Isaly’s cases (2), I only want 2 cases, not 50! And make sure it’s 1 case of each series, don’t be your usual jerk off self!”
Then he closes by circling back to the same demand:

“Hold all that shit for me, I’ll send the Chevy sets when I get ’em. Please make a box for me, it’s not all that difficult.”

In later years our paths went in very different directions, but these letters are from a much earlier chapter, when the hobby was smaller, more innocent, and endlessly exciting. They’re a glimpse of how much fun it was to make deals nonstop in that era - and how Bill Mastro’s enthusiasm for collecting and outrageous sense of humor made an already incredibly great hobby and business all the more fun in those early days.

That's a wrap! I hope you have enjoyed reading this post as much as I have enjoyed writing it!

​Robert Lifson