My Sneakerhead Origin Story
People collect all kinds of things: Some collect rare coins, and some collect stamps. For NBA players, it’s Kardashians. When hip-hop culture took off, another collectible hit the scene — Jordans. Now, we call these collectors sneakerheads.
But there was a catch with these Jordans. Nike only released them in limited numbers. These sneakers were meant to be a cool status symbol, but back in the 90s and early 2000s, standing in line at a sneaker store could be downright dangerous. I didn’t understand the risks back then, but that’s exactly what drew me into the world of sneakerheads. Fast forward to 2024, and I’m now a stand-up comedian, with a solid 20 minutes of my routine dedicated just to sneakers. People often ask me how I became a sneakerhead. It’s a story that’s as interesting as it is, frankly, a little terrifying.
The year was 2012. I packed up and left Chicago for Carbondale, Illinois, to start a graduate program. I was chasing an M.A. in English and excited about grad school, but finding friends was harder than I thought.
I couldn’t relate to anyone. Let me tell you something about us literary students, we’re kind of nerdy. But these guys were on another level. In their free time, all they wanted to do was play Dungeons & Dragons, complete with costumes and everything. I’m no stranger to nerd culture, but Dungeons and Dragons is where I drew the line. I guess I wasn’t nerdy enough. The irony is that they thought the same about me. ”What kind of guy doesn’t play D&D?” one of them remarked once. I thought to myself, “Anyone who’s ever gotten laid.”
Making friends at work wasn’t an option either. To pay for tuition, I taught English to freshmen. My students weren’t much younger than me, and under different circumstances, we might have kicked it with them. But there was a strict university policy against fraternizing with students. So, for the first few months, my social life was non-existent.
I wanted to meet people like me. Where do I go? Where all Black people go for that sort of thing. The barbershop.
One day, while getting a haircut, the barber mentioned the Jordan 11s dropping the next day. Those shoes, popularized by ‘Space Jam’, were notoriously hard to get. I didn’t know much about them then, but sensed an opportunity to join the conversation. Instead of asking what they were doing that weekend, I blurted out, “I already got those shoes.” A bold lie — I didn’t have them, but they didn’t know.
“How’d you get them?” someone asked. “Got a connection at Footlocker,” I lied again.
Do you want them? If you cop a size 10, I’ll buy them off you. I’ll even throw in an extra 100 for the trouble,” he offered.
That got me thinking. This could be like a little side hustle.
“Actually, I’m a size 10. Should I bring them by next time I get a haircut?” I asked.
“Nah, forget that. Take my number,” he replied, pulling out his phone. “Just drop them off at my place. We could even hang out afterward, find something to do.”
Hell yeah, I thought to myself. I just made a friend. All I have to do is get him those Jordans. I’m thinking, how hard can it be?
So, I called up Footlocker to find out what time they’d be opening for the Jordan release. The person on the line said, “We open at 10, but honestly, showing up at 4 in the morning is your best bet. People are already camping out in tents because we only get about six pairs per size.”
Turns out, having no friends was an advantage this time — it meant I had no trouble getting to the mall by 3:30 AM. The line was surprisingly short when I arrived. Everyone was laid-back, a stark contrast to the chaotic Jordan releases you often see on the news. The atmosphere was calm and friendly. I was the sixth in line and feeling pretty confident about getting a pair.
The clock was ticking down, just 15 minutes till the mall doors swung open. That’s when this sleek black car came screeching into the lot, blasting music so loud my ribs felt it. It skidded to a stop, and out came this swole, mountain of dude. Picture Wesley Snipes in the face but with a body like Shrek. I never caught his name, so let’s roll with Shrekly for the rest of the story.
Shrekly strolled up, all swagger, straight to the front of the line. He eyeballs the guy first in line and says, “You’re in my spot.”
The guy starts to hit back with, “What are you talking about?” but Shrekly wasn’t having any of it. Smack! He lays one on the guy. We’re all standing there, shooketh, jaws dropped, but acting like we saw nothing. No one was about to step up to this tar-skinned behemoth. Just like that, number one guy drops to number two, and we all shuffle back a spot.
Shrekly’s voice boomed across the line, “I’m grabbing the first size 10. Anyone got beef with that, step up. I’m right here.” Nobody moved. The silence was so heavy, you’d think even the crickets were holding their breath. “Good,” he grunted, satisfied. “Gotta be home in 15.”
One look at his ride, double-parked in a handicap spot with the engine idling, and it was clear — dude came for one thing only: to swoop in, snag his kicks, and jet. There I was, watching my chances at those Jordans slip away. I was just about ready to throw in the towel when, out of nowhere, a tiny ray of hope flickered.
Just then, a Footlocker employee steps outside. “This guy’s back, huh?” he mutters, eyeing Shrekly. “Alright, due to a bully in line, we’re switching to a raffle system.” A ticket distributor starts making rounds. “When your number’s called, come to the door to buy your shoes,” the employee instructs.
And get this — the guy dishing out the tickets is one of my students. Talk about luck, or fate, or whatever. I actually know someone at Footlocker. Small world, right? He heads my way and says, “Hey Mr. Chris, you’re holding ticket 27,” slipping the ticket into my hand.
After distributing tickets, the employee heads back into the store and locks the door. That’s when Shrekly makes his announcement: “Listen up! If you’re here for a size 10 and get called before me, hand over your ticket. Do that, and I won’t beat you up or rob you.” Looking back, I wonder how he would’ve known who had what size. But in that moment, fear clouded our thoughts.
A part of me started to believe this might just work. If just one person ahead of me in this huge line wanted a size 10, then Shrekly would get his shoes, and I’d still have a shot at mine.
The Footlocker employee steps back out to announce the first ticket. “Ticket number 27, you’re up for shoes. Ticket number 27.” I just stand there, pretending like I’m deaf or something. In my mind, I’m going, “Well, you tried, man. Time to head home. D&D isn’t so bad.” But I can’t just walk away. Too many eyes, too much attention. It’d be like screaming I was up to something.
Then my student, the Footlocker guy, calls out, “Hey, Mr. Chris, isn’t that your number, 27?” Suddenly, all eyes are on me, but Shrekly’s gaze feels the heaviest.
He steps up to me, all intimidating-like, “Hey, what size you grabbing?” Swallowing hard, I manage to say, “Uh, thinking size 10, but they run small, don’t they?”
“Yeah, they run small,” he responds skeptically, he then walks up to speak to the employee, “Look, I don’t have time for this. I left my car running in a handicap spot, so I’m gonna head out. Just wanna grab a T-shirt real quick, then I’m gone.” The employee nods, and Shrekly steps inside. I followed.
As I approach the counter, I can sense Shrekly nearby. I couldn’t see him anywhere, but I could feel his hot breath hovering just behind me. Reaching the counter, I asked for a size 10. Like he had some sort of radar, Shrekly zeroed in on me. It was a now-or-never moment. I grabbed the shoes, tucking them under my arm like a football, pushed Shrekly out of the way, and bolted. Glancing back, I saw Shrekly in pursuit, but he couldn’t keep up. The crowd cheered, “Run, Mr. Chris, run!”
I burst into the parking lot, my heart hammering, sweat streaming down my face. Pure terror. My car was right there, but I didn’t dare stop. I ran all the way home, leaving my car behind for three whole days.
Later that evening, I called the barber. Turns out, he couldn’t buy the shoes — struggling with rent and all. I was livid, feeling as if I had just been stood up for a date. How was I supposed to get my money back? I couldn’t just return them. Part of me wanted to find Shrekly, maybe strike a deal. The shoes did run small, after all.
So, I turned to e-commerce. The moment I listed them online, bids started rolling in. Then it hit me, I’d literally risked my life for these sneakers. What was that worth? I set the price at $300 plus the cost of the shoes. They sold.
That’s the story of how I became a sneakerhead and found a side hustle. Buy low, sell high.
