I’ve been writing this column for almost four years (not
this particular column; it just seems like it), and it didn’t strike me until
today that this is essentially a chronicle of perpetual and perpetuated failure
coated with a veneer of snark ‘n’ giggles.
Look at the survivors left standing – okay, swaying – in the trading-card business; based
on their healthy pallor they could pass for the cast of The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari.
Somewhere in amongst these nearly fallen flags is the
sports-game manufacturer APBA. I can’t call APBA dead yet, because there is
still an APBA company turning out game cards for a dwindling number of
baby-boomed traditionalists and electronics deniers, but APBA ain’t exactly
cracking off 4.4 40-yard dashes and scoring 7 on the Wonderlic.
If we follow the logic of a previous column where we
compared card sets to cars, APBA’s trading cards are the International Scout
and Travelall. These vehicles weren’t really cars, because they were made by a
truck-‘n’-tractor company and looked it (the outsides were designed with a
T-square and the insides featured the unmistakably luxurious touch and texture
of painted metal, with accents of opulent cream-colored plastic), and they
weren’t really trucks the way International made TRUCKS. They were bastard
children, ahead of their time in one respect and belonging to no time in
another respect.
They’re also basically indestructible. You remember those
Nissan commercials of a couple of years ago that had Nissan Frontiers doing
patently impossible things, like pushing a dune buggy up a gigantic sand hill and
serving as a surrogate landing gear for a 747? If Nissan had used an
International Travelall it wouldn’t have had to stage anything. And the driver
could have done it all one-handed while chugging a Hamm’s.
APBA cards were built to be used to play a game, and they
were built to last. They’ve never gone out of style because that would require
style, and they’ve never gone out of use because the game play hasn’t changed
in more than 50 years. You can throw a 1966 Matty Alou into your 2012
Pittsburgh Pirates deck and it’ll play just fine. It might even win a batting
title. The problem with APBA cards – and this is only a problem if you look at
baseball cards solely from the collectible, fancy-pictures-on-fancy-cardboard
angle – is that they’re just a bunch of numbers on a piece of heavy paper with
a name attached, and if you don’t play the game the numbers are meaningless.
Never mind that if you played the game you can do more with those numbers on
paper than you could ever hope to with your garden-variety Topps Stadium Club
common. (You could even build a card house with APBA cards, if you were so
inclined.) Taken as a group, APBA cards were as sexy as a bunion.
APBA’s lack of sexy scarcely mattered in the mid-90s. As
Pokémon rose in the east and sports-card games that were more card than game
sunk in the west, some investors alighted on APBA, which at that point was
strapped for cash (like it almost always was) and going through a transition
after the death of its inventor and the estate sale of the kitchen table that
served as its manufacturing and packing facility.
The investors purchased the company’s assets and hired Bill
Bordegon, late of Fleer and SkyBox, to supervise the transformation of APBA
from a game company that used cards in its games to a game company that used CARDS (nudge nudge) in its GAMES (wink wink).
The master plan was impressive: launch kids’ games first,
then a simplified version of the APBA baseball game with photo cards, then do
the same thing in football, then roll then out the 600-plus-card master set in
baseball, then do a master football set, and relaunch the hockey and basketball
games along the same line. The horse-racing set would continue unchanged, to
the relief of the four people outside the company who had actually heard of it.
We were brought in to help, and we did a lot: We drew up
player lists for the kids’ and all-star games, reworked the basketball game to make
it more playable, smoothed out game play for the all-star game, came up with a
way to sell booster cards in packs, worked on packaging, wrote rulebooks, helped
line up distributors, created collateral materials, and flew up to Buffalo, met
Canadian card-and-hockey expert Baron Bedesky, and spent a weekend creating an
amazing APBA hockey game, eating fried-baloney sandwiches, and watching the
Buffalo Bisons. (I expensed the flight to Buffalo. The fried-baloney sandwiches
were on me.) PR person extraordinaire Doug Drotman was engaged to generate
press coverage for the new venture.
Everyone connected with the new APBA was dead-set convinced
that this Dream Team of card-creating talent was going to revolutionize sports
games for all time. And it would have, if it wasn’t for two small bumps in the
road: the leagues wouldn’t license APBA and the company out of money (again).
Neither was that unexpected, in retrospect. The licensors
could see perfectly well what we were doing, and while they were willing to let
APBA make cards for a self-contained kids’ board game in return for an obscene
pile of cash, it was not willing to accept a quadruple-X-rated pile of cash in
return for a license to make a 660-card set of GAME (wink wink) CARDS
(nudge nudge) sold in PACKS (know
what I mean know what I mean).
There was a feeling within APBA that our position was sound
and we would eventually wear down MLB – and we might have, had we not run out
of money. Seems the investors, in the
manner of almost all investors everywhere, had underestimated the amount of
money necessary to bring this project to fruition by somewhere between 99.5
percent and 100 percent. The checks were barely printed before they started
doing their Flubber act.
The upshot was that Bordegon left APBA after a year or so,
the investors bailed, we were off the case, and precious little was left of the
expedition save for two kids’ games and a handful of baseball and football all-stars
sets.
So let’s start with the kids’ games. SuperStar Baseball and
Football play great, if a little quick. If the cards break right you can play a
game in less than five minutes, including setup time, making them the perfect
games to play if you want to spend quality time with your children, but not too
much. (There’s even a shortcut on both game boards, and these games need a
shortcut like the NFL needs another mock draft.)
The photographs could use some work; as I recall, we hired
good photographers but got their leftovers. The player lists aren’t bad, though
like everyone else we believed the Tim Couch hype. Obviously there are no
statistics or descriptics on the cards outside of the most basic dimensions,
but anything more than that would clutter up the card. Plus there’s that
age-old APBA dictum that knowing a player’s height and weight and what sides he
throws and swings from helps you as a manager make strategic personnel
decisions. Knowing what he did for the Richmond Flying Squirrels in 2011 is not
quite in the same league.
The All-Star Baseball and Pro Bowl Football sets were meant
to be pared-down versions of the big APBA game, easier to learn and play. They succeeded
in that regard, but the scope of that success depends on your attitudes toward
sport-simulation board games. If you believe that 32 minutes is not too much
time to spend for simulated Joe Grzenda to throw a slider to simulated Cap
Peterson, the APBA All-Star Baseball game will leave you nonplussed. If you
place a value on little things like seeing the sun a couple of days a week,
All-Star Baseball may be just your thing.
The hope and expectation was that the game cards would have
photos on one side and game stuff on the other. Since one entire side of an
APBA card is wasted space, photos wouldn’t compromise game play in any way. If
you were planning on spending 32 minutes having Mark Brunell throw an
incomplete pass to Keenan McCardell, having McCardell and Brunell’s pictures on
their respective cards might even make the time pass a little more quickly.
However, the photo deals fell through at the last minute,
either through lack of permission or lack of wherewithal, so the result is a
set licensed by the league and the players’ association that lacks the stuff
you get licenses for – namely, player images and team logos on its most
important pieces. I hope APBA got its money back on that one.
APBA never got its money back on anything, and there’s the
final problem. Games are even nastier than trading cards in the cutthroat
business of finding shelf space. (Makes sense: The larger the item, the more it
has to be a guaranteed sale for the store in order to justify its position on
the shelf.) APBA, for all its reputation within the sub-hobby of game-players,
had no name recognition or brand equity on the outside. Some hobby stores
carried the game, but not many more than had carried it back in its ugly days. And
hardcore APBA players didn’t want their game in a fancier box with nicer graphics
and stylish cards. They wanted to roll their clunky old dice and read codes off
of their ratty old cards.
So as it turned out, the redesigned APBA was a cure in
search of a disease. It was a better product for a world that didn’t want a better
product but the same product over and over again, or failing that, no product
at all.
Like most other efforts at making collectibles where
collectibles had not existed previously, APBA failed. It popped out of the sump
for a brief moment, sniffed the air and went right back. But in terms of what
could have been, ah, there APBA was something special. APBA was just a half-circle
away from ABBA and just a couple of breaks away from something big.