But the album’s power is social as much as sentimental. It is a currency of childhood summers, where friendships were brokered in playgrounds and schoolyard corners. You learned negotiation and strategy with the seriousness of generals trading battalions: “Two duplicates and a promise” — and then, when the deal was struck, the immediate, disproportionate thrill that came from completing a collection. There’s even poetry in the frustrations: the endless search for that one elusive goalkeeper, now a mythic figure whose sticker is spoken of like a treasure.