It was time.

As a kid, I built a legendary collection of baseball and basketball cards. All neatly organized in boxes, carefully sorted by team.

I had some limited editions and a few rookies with potential value. Giving them up would be hard, but the lure of money was strong. Could I really get anything for them?

So I chose five promising ones and took them to a local shop. The man behind the counter examined them as ancient artifacts. Then he paused, nodded, and offered me fifty bucks.

$50 sounded like $50 million. I said YES before he could blink, swapping my cardboard pictures for cold, hard cash.

Sports fans are passionate. They'll spend big moolah on things that baffle others.

Just this week, I read about the “most valuable” programs in college. Those worth the most if someone could buy them like a pro franchise.

UNC basketball topped the list at $378 million, followed closely by archrival Duke at $370 million. And still, that’s nothing compared to football. The Ohio State Buckeyes are valued at $1.96 billion.

Oh well. Maybe if I had held onto those cards, I could’ve bought the Tar Heels.

The wind took it.

Years ago, after I helped officiate a funeral, someone handed me a crisp $100 bill as a thank-you. It’s rare to be paid in cash, but I nodded with appreciation and tucked it into my pocket.

After spending the next little while chatting with people, I finally made my way to the car. Grabbing my keys, I then reached for the money.

Gone. Empty pocket.

The afternoon was windy. And my best guess? When I pulled out my keys, that hundo must have flown out, catching a ride on a powerful gust. Despite searching everywhere, the money had vanished without a trace. To this day, I still think about the lucky person who saw a Benjamin blowing toward their feet.

That memory came back when I read today about Uber’s annual Lost & Found Index. The company listed the most commonly left-behind items in 2024 — and the most bizarre.

Among them: a mannequin head, a chainsaw, breast milk, and ten live lobsters. Someone once forgot 175 hamburger sliders. And then there were the big-ticket losses: a gold Rolex and $1,800 Air Jordans.

Suddenly, I don’t feel so bad about that hundred bucks.

I hope whoever found my lost cash at least tipped their Uber driver.

We were stranded and hungry. Possibly doomed.

One winter, a storm shut down everything. My college roommate, Kendall, and I were snowed in and low on groceries.

When I peeked at our supplies, I was convinced our survival depended on peanut butter sandwiches. But Kendall saw something different.

He stood in front of the pantry like a wild scientist doing an experiment, taking stock of the chaos. Half-used sauces, forgotten cans, mismatched spices. Then, pulling items from the fridge, he started whipping meals together.

Every night, this culinary wizard made magic from nothing. Entrees that shouldn’t have worked. Delicious dinners I couldn’t have produced even with a cookbook.

The stranger the ingredients, the better it tasted. Pure improvisation.

That memory came rushing back today while listening to a podcast about creativity. For example, take three simple things: sand, heat, and a tube. What can be made by combining them?

Heat turns sand into glass. Shape that glass into a lens. Put the lens in a tube. Suddenly, you have a telescope.

Those ordinary components, assembled just right, reveal the cosmos. Distant stars and planets, invisible to the naked eye, brought into focus. Mind-boggling.

Creativity isn’t about perfect parts. It’s about connecting the unlikely and finding surprising results.

Embrace the power of imagination.

Just remember, Kendall helped me see dinner in pancake mix and a can of olives.

I still can’t believe I licked.

When I worked with teens years ago, I’d do all types of motivational stunts. Once, I made a promise: hit a fundraising goal, and I’ll lick peanut butter from someone’s armpit.

The target was absurdly high. Impossible, I thought.

The second I made that offer, it was like dangling a million-dollar prize. Those kids didn’t care about the money. They just wanted to see me suffer.

And they crushed it. Which is how I ended up licking PB — creamy not crunchy — out of said armpit. And yes, it was as disgusting as you’d imagine.

Fast-forward to today, and I’m reading about a company called Liquid Death. Despite the scary name, they sell canned water. Sparkling, flavored, even iced tea.

And it's their branding that sets them apart, leaning toward edgy with the tagline: “Murder your thirst.” Their can features a skull.

But one day, someone left this review: “I would rather lick the back of a sweaty fat man than drink Liquid Death.”

Instead of panicking, the brand embraced the chaos. They launched a “taste test” campaign that turned into a viral video. The challenge: try Liquid Death, then lick the back of a sweaty fat man and see which one you like better.

Yes, folks actually agreed to do this. And the test proved, in the company's words: “It’s official. 10 out of 10 real people prefer the taste of Liquid Death over licking the sweat off a fat guy’s back.”

They took a negative and flipped it into marketing gold. In case you’re wondering, the company is now the world’s fastest-growing beverage brand, valued at nearly $2 billion.

The moral: there’s a lot of moolah in the right kind of licks.

Suddenly, my peanut butter stunt feels like a missed business opportunity.

He had wanted it for years.

This week, Jake turned in a college essay about a childhood memory. His topic centered around a long-coveted toy.

Like most kids, he obsessed over it. Talked about it nonstop. And then, one day, we finally bought… the Wii.

The motion-tracking magic transformed our living room into a tennis court, boxing ring, and dance floor. It was futuristic and loads of fun.

Jake and his siblings played for hours — laughing, sweating, trash-talking. In his words, the day we brought that console home was, “the best day of my life.”

But time moves on. Children grow up. Novelty wears off. Other gadgets, games, and moments take their place.

In his paper, Jake wrote that he still remembers our big yard sale. The morning we slapped a fluorescent orange sticker on the Wii. $30. And just like that, that black box rode away in someone else’s car.

Even the brightest toys lose their shine eventually.

I heard a question recently that stuck with me: “What’s one thing that’s made you 10% happier?”

I don’t know the answer. But I realize my happiness can’t hinge on objects. Not even the shiny, motion-sensing, all-in-one party starters. Things fade and break, then get marked down on driveways.

Instead, I look at items as serving their purpose for a season. Temporary sparks.

And for a little while, the Wii Sports Resort turned our home into a glorious place. Just ask Jake.