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My 15-year-old son and I were shopping at Hamilton Place mall earlier this month when he summoned me to an athletic shoe store.
"I really like these," he said, holding up pair of gray Adidas NMD sneakers from a display table.
"Nice," I said, taking one of the sneakers and giving it my customary price check.
"Ouch," I said, noting the three-figure price. "That's a little more than I meant to spend."
"I was going to put in some of my money, too," said my son, who is respectful of family finances. "I really like these, Daddy."
Remembering my mood-altering fondness for Adidas sneakers as a kid, I quickly caved.
After a few seconds of negotiation we settled on terms: I would pay two-thirds of the cost and he would pay the rest. It was a good compromise; I stayed within my budget, and he had some skin in the game, too.
We had to order through the store to get the right color and size, and we were told the shoes would arrive at our house via UPS in three to five days. Every day on the drive home from school, I noticed my son raising his chin and scanning the front porch for a package.
On the day they arrived, we pulled into the driveway and he jumped out of the car and sprinted to fetch the package. Later that night, I noticed him stopping every three steps to look down and admire his new sneakers.
Consequently, I was astonished 24 hours later when he asked, meekly, "Daddy, can I sell my shoes?"
"What!" I said. "Are you serious? You love those shoes."
He didn't ask twice, but I learned later that he had discovered that gently-worn NMDs were fetching 50 percent over retail online. The next day he told me that a kid at school offered him $230 cash for his kicks.
So when did kids start flipping sneakers?
I did a little research and discovered that the "sneakerhead" phenomenon - the hobby of collecting and reselling sneakers - has actually been going on for decades. Until recent years, though, the hobby mostly involved collectors hoarding high-dollar vintage shoes, such as 30-year-old Nike Air Jordans or Deion Sanders-model football cleats.
The shoe companies have gotten smart, though. By pushing limited-issue sneakers, they discovered they can create instant - and intense - demand. Thus, shoes made in China in December can be be a sold-out hit in Chattanooga a couple of months later. My son had lucked into a pair of Adidas that were - at least temporarily - in low supply and high demand.
This marketing strategy has the classic outline of a boom-and-bust cycle. Think Major League Baseball cards and Beanie Babies.
Remember how everybody in the 1980s was going to get rich by buying and holding baseball cards? I have a Dwight "Doc" Gooden card that I bought for $40 in 1985. Now it's worth less than $10. Gooden was a young pitching phenom for the New York Mets - a can't-miss Hall of Famer - whose career eventually fizzled.
I remember interviewing a young woman in the mid-1990s who was anguishing over whether to sell her prized Beanie Baby doll for a five-figure sum so she could buy a car. Her alternative, she said, was to hold onto it until it appreciated enough to finance her first house.
Today, the collectible value of most Beanie Babies has tanked.
It's like this: There is never a true shortage of something if they can simply make more. Apparently, every generation has to learn this lesson.
Meanwhile, my younger son, 10, shamed me into buying a pair of NMDs for him, too. We are waiting for them to arrive by UPS, and he is vibrating with excitement.
"We might be the only brothers with the same shoes," he told me excitedly.
Cute.
Contact Mark Kennedy at mkennedy@timesfreepress.com or 423-645-8937.