On September 27, 2018, a man was bitten by two dogs in the hallway of his apartment building. He ran to Ken Griffey Jr.’s house and knocked on the door repeatedly without response before he broke through the glass window out into Ken’s backyard where he collapsed due to blood loss. Without hesitation or any concern for privacy, Ken came outside with gloves on and helped save his life.,

Ken Griffey Jr. saved a man’s life in 1995, and the story is one that you might not have heard before. The King of Baseball saved a man’s life by jumping into the stands at Tiger Stadium to save him from being hit by a foul ball.

How Ken Griffey Jr. saved a man's life

When Jason Vass answers the front door, he’s wearing a Ken Griffey Jr. sweatshirt and a Ken Griffey Jr. cap. The official tour of one of the world’s biggest, life-changing collections of sports memorabilia starts when he indicates to come in and then points to the foot of the front steps.

The trip might have began at Vass’ driveway, which is home to a Ford Fusion with a vanity plate that reads “GRIFFEY.”

Or in his shed, where he keeps a rolled-up Griffey flag that used to hang in the Kingdome. He thought it was 7 feet long and 6 feet broad when he purchased it… but it’s 17 feet long, 6 feet wide, and weights 100 pounds.

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So that’ll be at the rear of his Lynchburg, Virginia, home until he works out what he can do with a minivan. He thinks the banner was the last straw for his former mailman, who was already irritated by the never-ending stream of items sent to Vass’ home. “On a regular basis, my mailmen are upset at me,” he adds.

Vass, who is 48 years old, rushes around his home and down the carpeted stairs like a youngster. To him, what’s at the bottom of these steps is more than just a collection. He laughs quickly, as if listening to a podcast at 1.5 speed, and he gigglingly goes to the left and slowly unlocks the door. He’s entering his favorite location, revealing a chamber that provides him tremendous delight and one he believes you would like as well.

Vass handles the door with care, as if he’s displaying the last photo of a house remodel — this is the big reveal.

A large carpet featuring a portrait of Griffey in a Reds outfit is just inside the entrance, on the floor. Vass snapped the shot personally during a Reds game, and his wife, Michelle, secretly brought it to a firm that manufactures customised carpets.

He works his way around the room, which is about the size of a medium-sized bedroom, measuring 21 feet by 15 feet. He begins on the left, where he keeps a case containing his favorite Griffey collectibles. There are hundreds of his most valued Griffey cards in his collection, as well as pins, baseballs, pictures, a golf cap, and a glove that Griffey once wore in a charity event. Griffey once ate a bag of sunflower seeds, which he then signed. Two autographed footballs from the Cincinnati Jungle Kats, an arena football club owned by Griffey and former NFL player Sam Adams before it went bankrupt.

Two 6-foot Griffey cutouts stand like guardians alongside the glass display, peering across the room at what Vass considers his most important possession: the bat Griffey used to hit home run No. 481. He believes he could get at least $10,000 for it.

A glimpse inside Vass’ basement, which is a shrine to Ken Griffey Jr.’s stuff. ESPN’s Jeremy M. Lange

Vass walks around the room in a circular pattern for ten minutes, detailing as much as he can about how he gathered everything. Even 20 percent of the objects in the room are hard to discuss. They’re precisely piled and sorted from floor to ceiling, with Griffey-used bats strewn over the floor, signed photos adorning the walls, and Starting Lineup figures crammed onto a narrow shelf that runs the length of the room.

Then he comes upon what is thought to be the world’s greatest collection of sports cards for a single athlete. Vass possesses 101,000 Griffey Jr. cards, including 80 of the controversial 1989 Upper Deck rookie cards and 1,439 of Griffey’s 1990 Donruss rookie cards. “Someone may have more cards of a single player than Jason,” says Ryan Cracknell, online hobby editor at Beckett Collectibles, the famed sports card pricing guide.

The majority of the cards are painstakingly sorted into four library card catalogs, with hundreds of duplicate Griffeys cloistered together in rows with small labels at the end that read things like “Human ecology-Humanities.” As he pulls one drawer after the other out, the pleasant squeak of wood sliding on wood can be heard. “Look at anything you want,” he adds, waving his hand as if he were a delighted cook urging everyone to taste one of these delectable pumpkin muffins.

Because he’s a member of two distinct Ken Griffey Jr. Facebook groups, he receives a lot of cards. Vass is something of a Griffey godfather, despite his refusal to admit it. A friend oversees the Griffey collector developing league, where newbies are welcomed but rigorously watched — only true die-hards are permitted — and scammers who attempt to make a fast profit are given a sharp talking-to through Messenger. There are a bit more than 1,000 people in that category.

The second group is managed by Vass, and only the best of the best from that group are brought up to the main leagues. He’s the group’s unelected president, with the gravity of a vast collection, the enthusiasm of a little child, and Griffey-itis that won’t go away. Griffey is their guy, and these are his people.

He dips his head under a film projector that hangs a foot in the air in the center of the room. Some days, he’ll come down here and display old games or Griffey highlight clips onto a white screen that unravels on one wall. He explains, “This stuff simply makes me happy.” “Yes, it does. I’m not sure how else to put it.”

As he stands in the midst of the Griffey rug, he’s discussing how his wife just discovered an all-time strange item on eBay: a can of Ken Griffey Jr. Easy Cheese. Then he gets to the heart of the matter: why?

Why did Ken Griffey Jr. get the job?

Why are there so many cards?


“Geez, just get rid of all that trash, buddy!” you may say as you shake your head at Vass or scream-watch an episode of “Hoarders.” But, in a society rapidly metamorphosing into the digital realm, the fact is that we still get through everything — with stuff. Baseball cards, a wine cellar, vinyl recordings, a family scrapbook, or even your favorite sweater might all be examples. However, there are times when that mound of garbage is the only thing that keeps us going.

Vass tells about a horrific upbringing, an attempt to take his own life as an adult, a difficult divorce, and how Ken Griffey Jr. helped him get through it all, providing a constant source of pleasure amongst a mountain of suffering, for the next five minutes. For a few moments, his rapid-fire speech pattern calms down, and he stops talking to others, his lips pursed over an old recollection that still stings.

When he’s through speaking, it’s evident that this isn’t a museum or even a collection.

It’s a monastery, after all.

VASS WAS A DIVORCE CHILD and a card collector in the late 1970s and early 1980s, when both of these things were bursting to all-time highs in American culture.

In the late 1970s and early 1980s, divorce rates soared to unprecedented heights. That’s also when card collecting started to transition from a pastime to a business. In 1980, Topps lost its exclusive contract to make baseball cards, allowing Donruss and Fleer to enter the market the next year. In 1989, Upper Deck introduced the first high-quality, low-quantity premium card with a splashy first card from its very first set featuring a phenom: Ken Griffey Jr. The boom was gradual that decade until Upper Deck changed collecting forever with the first high-quality, low-quantity premium card with a splashy first card from its very first set featuring a phenom: Ken Griffey Jr.

Vass recalls a childhood that millions of American 45-year-olds can relate to as he stands just off to the side of Griffey’s face on the carpet: divorce. Always on the go. Parents slandering their children. Remarrying, including tumultuous connections with step-parents. Divorce once again. Add puberty to the mix, as well as the occasional roughness of high school. He rocks from foot to foot every 60 seconds or so, taking care not to stomp directly in Griffey’s face, and says he’s not sure he wants a lot of specifics about the physical and emotional abuse he suffered as a child published. But it was agonizing and never-ending. Vass states multiple times that two separate physicians have informed him that he has PTSD when he notes that the instability of his family life is trauma.

Vass was keen to discover his people among his contemporaries. He speaks about high school in a categorical manner, as if there were jocks, nerds, popular students, and so on, which is both cliché and oversimplified.

But his description sounds eerily similar to many high schools at the time, which were full with drifting adolescents who clung to sports or Drama Club as a method of anchoring themselves to something, someone. While other children considered what they wanted to be when they grew up, Vass was only concerned with deciding who to be each morning.

He claims he wasn’t very athletic or bright, and that speaking in front of people had caused him to acquire a speech impediment. He describes himself as an outsider who wandered from room to room throughout his life, never fully fitting in. As a result, he spent the majority of his time with children who were abusing drugs and alcohol to escape similar family situations.

Then, when he was 15 or 16, he spent an afternoon with two youngsters named Brad and Aaron who had started their own high school clique called the card collectors. The Griffey Upper Deck card had gone viral, thanks to rumors that it had been under-printed. It soared to $200 in mint condition (about $450 in 2022), sparking a gold rush in card shops, petrol stations, and grocery stores. Instead of chocolate bars and golden tickets, think “Charlie and the Chocolate Factory,” but with wax packets and Griffey cards.

“Someone could have more cards of a single player, but I haven’t heard of anybody anywhere close to Jason,” says Ryan Cracknell, Beckett Collectibles’ online hobby editor. ESPN’s Jeremy M. Lange

Vass’ first valuable card was a 1989 Mark McGwire, and as he says that, he marches across the room and gestures to the enormous glass case with all the Griffeys, where he stores the McGwire and his most precious possessions. Vass despises the steroid era players (don’t bring up Barry Bonds in front of Griffey), but he’ll never forget the world that the McGwire card opened up for him. He was hooked right away.

It was really neat to collect cards. The cards come in numbered sets with precise procedures for grading them and price guides with a predetermined value. They might be properly stored in safe containers and grouped in a contemplative manner for any collector, but particularly for rudderless teenagers. For youngsters like Vass, who spent every day trying to fit in, there was something extra soothing about sitting with his friends and putting their prized cardboard pieces into sturdy cases that would keep them safe. “It was a game-changer for me when I started collecting Griffey,” Vass adds. “It’s still a game-changer,” says the author.

However, it wasn’t simply collecting in general. Griffey was unique and remarkable in the eyes of Vass and millions of other young collectors. He was a one-of-a-kind athlete with a virtually impossible-to-replicate backstory and character. He had prodigious skill, his baseball father’s name recognition, a pure delight grin, and just enough I’ll-wear-my-hat-backwards-if-I-please rebelliousness, all crammed into one 19-year-old individual.” Beyond being a terrific player, Griffey was a cultural phenomenon “According to Cracknell. “He added so much excitement to a game that may be a little stuffy, and his Upper Deck rookie permanently revolutionized the sport. It catapulted sports cards to a whole new level.”

Vass’ basement is a temple to Griffey, as well as how capitalistic greed in the late 1980s contributed to the collectibles industry’s inevitable collapse five years later. Griffey was the poster child for too much, too fast: Vass claims Griffey had 21,000 different cards printed with his face on them over the course of his 22-year career (Vass “only” has 8,629 of them), to go along with the figurines, bats, pins, cereal boxes, wine bottles, and a slew of other items with Griffey on them.

Even when real prices sank to virtually nothing, the metaphorical card business bubble never burst for Vass or many other Griffey collectors. Vass had discovered a life raft he could cling to for the rest of his days, as well as his people. Vass spent the remainder of his high school years collecting and socializing with other collectors. He took a position at Alliance Industrial Corp., a local firm that developed conveyor belt equipment and systems, and worked his way up over time. He relocated a few times, and with each relocation, he packed up his Griffey belongings and carried them with him.

He eventually fell in love and married. However, after a few years of marriage, his wife requested a divorce. Vass was heartbroken; they hadn’t had any children together, but he’d always promised himself that he wouldn’t end up like his parents. And now he was divorcing his wife.

Vass was in great discomfort one night, considering moving out, when his wife went to the gym and left him alone at home. Vass felt like the small boy from 20 years ago, a terrified rudderless kid in a 35-year-old man’s body. He’d left a wonderful position at Alliance to relocate closer to Washington, D.C. with her. He recalls holding a bottle of Xanax and another bottle of aspirin. He looked at the tablets for a moment before shrugging and swallowing them all.

He claims, “It wasn’t simply my marriage.” “It was the divorce, plus the loss of my job, plus the PTSD I had as a child. It had all come to a head since so many things had gone wrong.”

Vass sits in the corner of his basement, in what he refers to as his logging area, while he narrates this section of his narrative. It’s a backless stool at a desk with a jeweler’s light above. Nestled in the back corner of his Griffey room, this is the safest spot in the world for him. After a long day, he comes down here, opens his laptop, and begins cataloging every new Griffey thing he has.

For Vass, it’s a place that feels like a fresh-out-of-the-dryer blanket. His voice had dropped off a little a minute earlier, but now he’s rooted in the chair, there’s a calmness that comes over him. From this vantage point, the world seems to be in order.

He awoke from a coma a week later, and his doctor informed him that his soon-to-be ex-wife had discovered him unresponsive, phoned 911, and had him brought to the hospital. He claims his doctor informed him he was unconscious for 93 seconds before being resuscitated. Vass points to the inside of his nose and adds, “Look right here.” “This was the location of the feeding tube. It caused a lot of damage to my nose.”

He was admitted to the hospital and remained for another week. When he was released, he had to leave his home since his divorce had been formalized. He ended himself staying in his father’s guest bedroom, surrounded by Griffey memorabilia in boxes upon boxes. He was 35 years old, divorced, and trying to rebuild his life after attempting suicide.

After a few weeks of feeling better, he informed his friends and family that he was going camping alone. “At first, everyone was terrified,” Vass adds. “They feared I wouldn’t return. But at that moment, all I needed to do was go out there and look for myself.”

Vass eventually convinced his father that he needed to do this, and he began packing his belongings. A tent, rope, pots and pans, a hammock, food and water, and a tiny hunting knife were among the items he brought. He explains, “I wanted it to be such that I had to live within my brain and work things out.”

On the day he chose to go, he packed his belongings into the vehicle and grabbed one more item for the journey, something he hoped would help him sort through everything: a 1989 Upper Deck Griffey Jr. baseball card. “I needed it by my side while I sought to reclaim my life,” he adds.

Vass was alone in the woods for the next two weeks. Vass begins to narrate this narrative from his logging stool at a leisurely pace, but suddenly picks up speed. He’s excited to share about the mending that took place outside. He claims he sobbed, prayed, and cried some more, and when he says he struck a couple trees, he raises his hands and swings them about like he’s pounding them again. And dammit if he didn’t re-energize himself while cooking over an open fire, listening to birds, and looking at a baseball card in the woods.

He returned to his father’s home looking and feeling like a new middle-aged guy. He reapplied to Alliance and was hired as a designer and salesperson for conveyor belts that the firm supplies to some of the country’s major food and beverage companies. Vass ultimately moved out and found someone, hauling all of the Griffey boxes behind him. Jason Vass and Michelle Vass have been dating since he invited her out to Buffalo Wild Wings and bowling.

When questioned about the first time he informed Michelle about The Thing He Does In The Basement, he laughs a little with his rapid laugh. They’d been dating for two months and were talking about how well their relationship was going and where they would want to live if they ever chose to move in together. They decided that he would live with her and her two children at their home.

“Uh, Michelle,” he said, “I feel like I should tell you something about myself if we’re going to live together at your place.” “You have a right to know about this. I have a hobby that I like doing…”

She had a frightened expression on her face as she realized how many deal breakers might be added to the end of that phrase. But Vass revealed how Griffey had helped him get through some of the worst moments in his life, how the collection had grown to be vast and often all-consuming, and how it was his equivalent of meditating, going to the gym, fixing up old vehicles, or gardening. “I told her this is a part of who I am,” he continues, laughing again. “Of course, I don’t believe she realized how serious it was until I went to show it to her.”

Jason Vass, 48, is married and has four wiener dogs, as well as a… 101,000 Baseball cards of Ken Griffey Jr. ESPN’s Jeremy M. Lange

He brought box after box of Griffey things inside when he moved home a few months later. When Michelle saw the rising pile, Vass was only halfway through carrying everything inside.

“You weren’t joking, were you?” she inquired. “Do you believe this isn’t a big deal?”

“No,” he responded softly. “It brings me much joy.”

She nodded, and they made it official a few months later. “I married Jason, and I got Ken Griffey Jr. as well,” she quips today.

Vass told people for years that if he ever got to shake Ken Griffey Jr.’s hand, he’d be able to stop adding new material to his collection. He responds, “Then I might be done with this.”

He says so, then brings up his favorite picture with a guilty expression on his face. On the day the Reds inducted Griffey Jr. into their team Hall of Fame in 2014, he was three feet away from him. “Thank you for what you’ve done for my life and thank you for what you’ve done for baseball,” Vass said hastily after posing for a brief photo.

Then they exchanged handshakes, which was meant to be the ideal way to finish his Griffey Jr. collection. Vass confesses, “It sort of got worse after that.”

Facebook sites had a significant role in this. This online crowd had become part of his inner circle in his 40s, just as those two students in high school, Brad and Aaron, had helped him fit in as a teenager. Sure, everyone enjoys Griffey, but it’s also become a safe place for great collectors to gather and discuss about life. For them, this is a kind of treatment.

Vass couldn’t live without it since they share their hardships and victories. Vass exchanged encouraging messages with his Facebook buddy Denis, who creates and sells Griffey Jr. nesting dolls that sit on a prominent shelf in Vass’ basement, on the day Russia invaded Ukraine.

Vass considers Griffey collector Matt Posman of Downingtown, Pennsylvania, to be one of his closest friends, despite the fact that the two have yet to meet in person. They gather on the Griffey super collectors’ page virtually every week, texting and calling each other about their ups and downs, which now reach well beyond their collections.

Posman, like Vass, has turned to Griffey collecting as a means to reestablish his feet at tough moments in his life. He was attempting to figure out what life would look like for him when he graduated from Penn State with a math degree in 1999, while simultaneously trying to reconcile how much of a shame it was that he’d sold off most of his Griffeys. He now says, with a tinge of malice for himself, “for beer money.” Griffey had torn off one of the greatest four-year runs in MLB history, with 209 home runs, 567 RBIs, and four Gold Gloves in center field, all while Posman was still in college.

So he went back in, almost fully focused on Griffey. He joined Vass’ Facebook group around seven or eight years ago, and the two have been close ever since. Posman’s wife is very supportive, but she also likes teasing him. “Are we talking about the collection?” she’ll ask, lowering her voice for the last two words as she gestures her hand like a Jedi asking a storm trooper to walk past, while Posman and Vass are yapping on the phone about Griffey artifacts.

Vass hopes they can get up in person soon, and it’s likely he’ll host a real-life version of the Second Annual Ken Griffey Jr. Facebook get-together. The first came in 2016, when Griffey Jr. was inducted into the Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown, New York.

For roughly 20 of the world’s most prominent Griffey heads, it had been an amazing moment. Griffey’s Hall election boosted the value and interest in everything they owned, and the two Facebook groups were buzzing in the months coming up to his entry.

Vass decided to produce his own set of Ken Griffey Jr. cards for the occasion. He’s a talented metal craftsman, so he crafted 20 hefty silver Griffey cards, numbering each one and gave them out to everyone of his Facebook friends that came to Cooperstown. “For those three days, we were all together, and it was one of the best experiences of my life,” Vass adds. “I’m looking forward to doing it again.”

Griffey had 21,000 distinct cards produced with his face on them over his 22-year career, according to Vass. Vass owns a total of 8,629 of them. ESPN’s Jeremy M. Lange

Vass is seated at his logging table, in front of his spreadsheet, towards the end of the tour. He returns his gaze to a chest on the ground behind him, which is full with items that either need to be recorded or have been logged but do not yet merit being shown. He’s glancing at his computer screen when he reveals that he has two unopened Ken Griffey suits in his closet.


He responds, “Yeah, these were custom-made outfits from a handful of occasions in the 1990s.” “I never even opened them since I didn’t know how I’d put them on display. Even if I found out how to put them on display, I believe it’d be scary.”

He shifts his focus to his laptop and the spreadsheet on which he just recorded the two suits, each of which cost $200. Every object he has is meticulously documented, complete with a value column. Vass took out an insurance policy on his Griffey collection around five years ago for $55 each month, so he keeps track of how much everything is worth.

So, how much does everything cost? Vass doesn’t respond immediately away, but eventually replies, “Here’s what I estimate its worth to be,” pointing to the grand amount on the page.

The sum is $421,000.00.

Almost every day, that money amount increases. Michelle has evolved to be all-in on his Griffey collection after some early trepidation on move-in day. The carpet on the floor is her biggest gift. But the greater thing she’s done, the one that makes Vass tear up a little when he thinks about it, is accepting the significance of this space for Vass.

He need it as a child, a teenager, a 35-year-old, and today.

He like his work, although it is demanding. He creates and sells complicated conveyor systems that can fill and cap 1,500 Coke cans every minute, among other feats of engineering. He sits at his laptop and, like an NFL official under the replay hood, slows down, rewinds, and replays films of the canning process to demonstrate how one little error on his part may result in a terrible loss in a short period of time. When an operator sped up the belt too fast at a mill, a few thousand soda cans backed up and burst… Everything took the corporation 48 hours to rip everything apart, sanitize it, and replace the broken equipment after the incident happened in two minutes. “I wouldn’t say I’m capable of multimillion-dollar errors,” he admits. “However, I have the potential to make a million-dollar mistake.”

“I need go log some,” he’ll remark as he walks through the door, collecting Griffey’s goods off the front step. He’ll take a deep breath and sink into his chair, the stresses of the day dissipating gradually.

“It saved my life,” he says of his Griffey collection. “It truly did,” says the narrator.

He stops for a second, his face revealing a sly grin.

“What’s more, guess what? Let’s just open up those suits and see what happens “He says this as he reaches down inside the chest and pulls out two rectangular priority mailboxes that are still unopened.

“God, I’m weird,” he admits.

After slicing open the lid, he finds a single piece of bubble wrap, followed by the costume. He gently unfolds it, first with the coat, then the undershirt, and last the slacks. It’s as crinkly as you’d expect from a suit that’s been stored for at least 20 years. “Custom apparel, Ken Griffey Jr. 4/10/1999,” he reads from the tag on the inside of the shirt’s sleeve. He drapes his tannish jacket over the back of the stool he sits on all the time, then layers the white undershirt on top, then the jeans.

It’s quite a sight: it seems like a magician has made Ken Griffey Jr. vanish, leaving just his deflated costume behind.

“OK, this is really a bit disturbing,” Vass admits, laughing.

In reality, there’s nothing sinister about Vass or his collection. Obsessive? Yes. Excessive? Certainly. However, creepy? Nah. When someone expresses really genuine, very profound anguish, the type that makes you think, “I’ve been through some things… but I’m not sure if I could take what that person just described,” who can blame them if the cure for their trauma happens to be a ton of baseball cards? Jason Vass, go at it.

He opens the second package, which is almost similar to the first but for the color: a black suit jacket, white undershirt, black slacks, and an initialed tag that reads “KGJ.” Vass places the second outfit on top of the first, and it seems like two Ken Griffey Jr.s have vanished.

Vass goes toward the basement door, across the carpet with his image of Ken Griffey Jr. on it, past the table he constructed with Ken Griffey Jr.’s swing carved into it and the Ken Griffey Jr. soda machine, and says goodbye a half-hour later. He’s still remembering those old clothes.

“What the heck am I going to do with these?” he thinks as he glances back over his shoulder.

This isn’t a frivolous question. For Vass, this room, and the artifacts that line its walls, are a living organism, a place that he can rebuild, rearrange, and refresh at any moment to assist him turn a physical space into a location that helps him modify his mood.

It’s like hearing a museum director spill out his or her thoughts when he begins talking about the arrangement of the space and where the suits fit in.

He stares at the suits, saying, “The last thing I want people to believe is that I’m odd and scary because I’m not.” “I’m not sure how to put them on exhibit. It’s possible that it’ll be too strange.”

As he examines the suits, he adopts a kind of thinking man position, clutching his chin with his thumb and index finger. “They’ll be peculiar in here,” says the narrator.

He pauses for a moment before continuing. He smiles and shakes his head, because The Thing He Does In The Basement has just become 10% more bizarre — and lovely.

“But, you know what? They’re quite awesome, don’t you think? “Vass explains. “You’re a badass. They’re going to look quite at home down here.”

Call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at (800) 273-TALK (8255) or go to suicidepreventionlifeline.org if you or someone you know is thinking about suicide or coping with mental health concerns.

Frequently Asked Questions

What was Ken Griffey known for?

A: Ken Griffey Jr., born Kenneth Ray Griffey, Sr. is a retired Major League Baseball outfielder and designated hitter who played 22 seasons in Major League Baseball between 1989-2009 with the Cincinnati Reds, Seattle Mariners and Chicago White Sox. He won 10 Gold Glove Awards during his career.

What is the most valuable Ken Griffey Jr rookie card?

A: The most valuable Ken Griffey Jr rookie card is the #1, which was sold at auction for $3.87 million in 2016.

How much money is a Ken Griffey Jr card worth?

A: The value of a Ken Griffey Jr card is not easily determined. It depends on the condition, but it can sell for anywhere from 5-25 dollars.

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