'Sneaker fiends' court nostalgia, wearing and collecting pre-'90s styles

Shoes that cost $200, $300, even $400. Shoe boxes lining closet walls, stacked in neat rows under the bed, and extending into the hallway. Does this sound like the women of "Sex and the City," who make Manolo Blahnik mules and Jimmy Choo boots a paycheck priority?

Close, but not quite. These shoe-a-holics are men. Sneaker fiends, more specifically.

Sneaker fiends are a multicultural group, almost entirely male, who fondly remember the early fusion of hip-hop and basketball symbolized by the sneaker. The authoritative guide to this particular obsession was recently published, a book by Bobbito Garcia (Testify Books, $35).

Garcia, a consummate New Yorker, is a DJ, basketball commentator and part-time actor. The book's introduction explains that he wrote "Where'd You Get Those? New York City's Sneaker Culture: 1960-1987," to capture the time "before sneaker company logos became inescapably visible on pro football and pro basketball uniforms. (And, most horrifically, golf caps.) Before the general public found it acceptable and reasonable to wear leather high-top sneakers when their only physical exertion consisted of throwing out the trash at night."

For Garcia, sneaker culture's heyday ended in 1987. He strenuously argues that the influence of big-bucks marketing brought the death of true sneaker connoisseurship.

"The sneaker game really changed in '87," Garcia says. "A lot more money was poured into marketing and advertising. You saw the dawn of brand loyalty. In the '70s, kids were content to have one pair of sneakers and have a ball. All of a sudden, in the '90s, they wanted to have 20 pairs of sneakers and have them fresh."

But sneaker culture's timeline is open for debate. Mark Shin, owner of the Seattle Retro Shoe Store, dates his immersion into sneaker culture as 1985, the year when the first Air Jordans were released by Nike. Shin's store is one of two shops specifically dedicated to sneaker culture (the other one is Goods) that have opened on Capitol Hill since last spring.

"I remember begging my parents for a pair of Air Jordans," Shin says. "They were like, 'Eighty dollars? You could buy three pairs of shoes with that!' All the time I was mowing the lawn and doing anything I could do around the house to get money for those shoes."

Many sneaker fiends keep sneakers "on ice" — saving them in just-bought condition in shoeboxes, tissue paper unwrinkled. Five years down the road, they can break out their now-classic sneakers to the awe and admiration of their peers.

Garcia explains that the original goal of icing sneakers was "to be unique and to have something that no one else had. Out of that 'let's save this for a rainy day' mentality, it started to become 'let's save a whole bunch of sneakers,' and that grew into 'let's just save a whole bunch of sneakers, period, because they're becoming so valuable.' "

Sneaker fiends are also often willing to pony up big bucks, hitting reload on eBay to see if any new "kicks" have been listed since the last time they checked. Nike recently capitalized on the phenomenon, releasing a pair of "eBay Dunks" in a charity auction. The winner paid $30,000 for his one-of-a-kind pair. Nike even guaranteed that the prototype would be shredded.

They can afford them now

Why the obsession with sneakers? Mark Shin has a simple answer: "Nostalgia." He adds, "And the fact that I couldn't afford it back then. I would see a shoe I would want so badly. I would have $5 — and be $85 short. Even as more shoes came out, I would still think of the old pair. When those shoes become available now, I have the means of affording them."

While this obsession may seem like a trivial pursuit, sneakers have become a significant symbol, shorthand communication for guys to recognize each other as fellow sneaker fiends.

Sneaker enthusiasts share admiration of NBA stars, local streetballers, unbelievable breakdancers, favorite hip-hop MCs or any number of iconoclastic trendsetters. Their cultural heroes are often not famous beyond their own block. In his book, Garcia talks admiringly of his older brother Ray's prowess in customizing sneakers with wild colors.

Web sites are filled with the minutiae of sneaker differences. But sneaker culture happens in the real world, too, as at a recent event in Vancouver, B.C., sponsored by the Seattle Retro Shoe Store. Its title: Sole Searching.

Shin described the evening as "a chance to show personal collections, shoes provided by the vendor that are set for future release and also just a fun night to hang with friends and show off the dopest shoes." Think a night talking about shoes may have marginal appeal? The event drew 400 people. On a Sunday night.

Seattleite Steve O'Neil, 35, a Nike devotee since elementary school, grows nostalgic when describing his "first pair of gotta-haves": a set of Bruce Jenner sneakers he coveted in fourth grade. He can still describe every millimeter of those sneakers and the power they bestowed. "I was always a fast runner," O'Neil says, "but I knew I could run even faster if I had a pair of Bruce Jenners."

Sneaker companies have tapped into these emotions, releasing an increasing number of retro-influenced styles. Shin gives the example of the new Air Jordans, which have been re-released in never-before-seen colors and cost about $90.

While Shin is dismissive of some retro styles ("If they're going to bring it back," he says, "bring it back right; use the original box shot art"), others like O'Neil appreciate the appeal.

"What makes my new pair of Air Jordans so much fun," O'Neil says, "is that Nike applied a decidedly wacky color scheme — orange stripe, bright-yellow leather trim and green soles — to a very classic, almost conservative design."

Looking for 'the one'

Jay Clark, from the Pike Street sneaker shop Goods, flashes a smile when asked to explain the sneaker-fiend phenomenon.

"It can get pretty obsessive," he admits. Sneaker companies fuel the phenomenon, releasing some shoes only in certain countries. "So, of course, the people in Japan want the stuff in America," Clark says, "and the people in America want the Japanese stuff."

But Garcia, now a wise sage of sneaker culture's evolution, takes a philosophical approach to the global shoe hunt — the need to find that one special shoe. "It's not just Nikes," he says. "In the '60s, everyone had to wear Converse Chuck Taylors. In the '70s, everyone had to wear Pro-Keds and Pumas."

His book, he says, "is about the connoisseur who took the time out to be different. And that mentality still goes today. There are brands like k1x and Gravis — even some of the older brands that have been around for a while, like Diadora — and you see a lot of these still around. It's not just Nike, Adidas and Reebok."

Garcia encourages sneaker fiends to enjoy their obsession — to a point. He keeps no storage lockers filled with extra pairs. "I buy sneakers for their function," he says. "I actually just wear them. It's the same way with records. I don't collect records that I don't play in clubs."

"I may have a pair of sneakers that I haven't worn in five or seven years," Garcia says, "but that's 'cause I'm saving them to the point when no one else is going to have them. And at that point, I'll bust them out. But I haven't gotten to the point where sneakers are stamps and I just want to collect them."

Jennifer Buckendorff: jenb@elvis.com