The story of an Ohio man discovering baseball cards potentially worth millions of dollars in his grandfather’s attic this week had a lot of us probing our attics looking for some buried treasure beneath the boxes of Rubik’s cubes, Atari consoles and parachute pants

I dug up my old red binder with a couple dozen plastic pages filled with baseball, basketball and football cards, mostly from the 1970s and 1980s. I had pretty much forgotten about it since college, so I was expecting to find a store of keen investments that would pay my son’s college tuition, allow me to retire to Palm Beach and possibly even afford digital cable again.

Instead, I thumbed through a short story of foolish speculation and broken dreams.

Twenty years ago, this collection would have made Warren Buffet jealous. It was like an album  of Apple stock certificates, enshrouded by the sweet aroma of chewing gum invented specifically to erode the  teeth of 10-year-old boys.

The collection was built over the course of a decade through almost daily trips to the corner store, card flipping and ruthless transactions with other collectors.

In the mid-to-late 80s, my friends and I would gather a couple of times a year to trade cards. An Eric Davis rookie card was the golden ticket. Those of us who had one had to constantly fend off those begging us to swap it for three Mark Grace rookies.

Davis was a Cincinnati Reds outfielder hailed as the next Willie Mays. For a couple of years, he seemed to be fulfilling those unreasonable expectations. He could hit the ball a mile, run like the wind and track down any fly ball hit within three area codes.

Then he lacerated his kidney diving for a ball during the 1990 World Series and developed knee problems. He became a journeyman outfielder for six different teams rather than a perennial MVP candidate.

I have a page full of Eric Davis cards, some of them piled two or three deep to a plastic pocket. I studied them and tried for a minute to recall if anyone ever offered me a Kirby Puckett or a Ryne Sandberg for one. I quickly realized I didn’t want to know.

At least Davis’ stock plunged due to bad luck. Page upon page of the binder is devoted to players who eventually self-destructed in one way or another —   Dwight Gooden, Daryl Strawberry, Jose Canseco, Mark McGwire, Barry Bonds, Roger Clemens … They were all locks for the Hall of Fame at one point, and they were going to make me a fortune once they got to Cooperstown. Now, they might fetch me enough money for gas and a couple of nights lodging in Cooperstown.

Still, their value may increase over time, though not to the level of the Ty Cobb and Honus Wagner cards found in the Ohio attic. Unfortunately, they and a few other actual Hall of Famers scattered throughout the binder (non-rookie Cal Ripken, Tony Gwynn, Wade Boggs, etc.) only make up half of the pages.

Too many pages are filled with flash-in-the-pan types or guys who couldn’t even hang around the majors into the 1990s: Mike Greenwell, Sam Horn, Kevin Seitzer, Alvin Davis, Ron Darling, Wally Joyner, Cory Snyder, Bruce Ruffin (?), Gregg Jefferies …

Apparently, I wasn’t collecting cards. I was training to become GM of the Cleveland Indians.

Meanwhile, I’m sure there were more than a few Dennis Eckersley and Bert Blyleven cards that I tossed aside or gave away to make room for the likes of Oddibe McDowell and Joe Magrane. The next time I see one of my old trading buddies driving a new car, I’m going to wonder if he sold my old Paul Molitors to make the down payment.

If my grandchildren discover this collection in 60 years,