Why sneakers?

Is it really that serious?

Why Sneakers?

I’ve asked myself this question more times than anyone else ever has. Before I could start this journey—this venture—I needed to figure out what drew me in, what held me close, and why I kept coming back to it all these years later.

It’s not a simple answer. It never is. Not for me. And truthfully, not for anyone, no matter how straightforward they make it sound. So let me give you the basics first. Then I’ll tell you why I’ve never let go.

I grew up in a basement in Brooklyn, New York, East New York to be exact. It was gritty, loud, chaotic, and beautiful. If you know, you know. New York City is, in my words, the worst best place in the world. It’ll chew you up and spit you out, but somehow, you still miss the taste of it when you leave. It’s where I learned about resilience. Culture. Community. It’s where I became me.

My mom raised my brother and me on her own. She worked hard, real hard, and somehow, in the middle of juggling bills and stress and two growing boys, she made sure we looked good. Not just clean. Fresh. Even when we didn’t have much, she made sure we had sneakers that turned heads.

For a while, it was the new Jordans every month. She mixed it up too—New Balance, Nikes, and Adidas. In New York, a crisp pair of uptowns (you may call them white-on-whites) was mandatory. Every school year, I had a new pair. One year, an oil spill ruined them during the first week of school. After school, we went straight to the store and got another pair. That’s just how important that was to my mom. To her, we represented her, and in some way, how we dressed said a lot about her as a mother.

As I got older and money got tighter, new kicks weren’t as frequent. But that’s when my god-brother stepped in. To this day, he’s the biggest sneakerhead I’ve ever known. His collection was crazy—SB Dunks, rare Forces, and even some designer heat. He wasn’t as big on Jordans, but he knew his stuff and still had plenty of pairs of them. Watching him care for his kicks, talk about them like art pieces, lace them up like rituals—that rubbed off on me. It was through him that my love for Air Force Ones turned into something deeper. Not just a fashion choice—an identity.

Here’s the thing: I wasn’t great at a lot growing up. I played baseball because I was Dominican in NYC—it was kind of expected. But truth be told, I was trash. I played chess too, but I was average. No prodigy here. I didn’t have anything that made me stand out. Until one day…

My mom got us the Cherrywood Jordan 16s. I still remember that day like a movie. We were out running errands as a family, and everyone kept stopping me—grown men, teens, random strangers. “Yo, those the 16s?” Heads turned. People took notice. And for the first time, I felt like somebody. It was like—for a moment—I was the freshest kid in all of East New York. I was royalty.

That feeling stuck with me. It was like a spark lit a fire I didn’t even know I had. I needed to know everything—who designed these sneakers, when the next drop was, what people were wearing on their feet. I would stare at people’s kicks in the streets, on the train, in school, and challenge myself to name the silhouette, the colorway, the story. I begged my mom to let me use the computer just so I could look up sneaker blogs—even back when the internet had nothing compared to what we have now. If you really wanted to learn, you had to chop it up with the folks behind the counter at Foot Locker or your local sneaker boutique.

Sneakers gave me passion. They gave me purpose. And for the first time, they gave me cool. I wasn’t good at sports, I wasn’t a genius—but I could tell you the difference between different retros, or which Dunks were SBs and which weren’t. That made me feel like somebody.

From that point on, a beast was born—though a managed one, I like to think. Yeah, I have hundreds of pairs of sneakers. And sure, that might sound excessive to some. But to the community I’m part of? That’s just what passion looks like.

So why sneakers?

Because they were the first thing that validated me. They gave me a voice. A way to express myself. They connected me to a community that speaks a global language. They gave a kid from a Brooklyn basement a seat at the table. And over the years, they’ve continued to bless me with friendships, memories, confidence, and creativity.

To some people, it’s just shoes. To others, it’s a weird obsession. But for me? It’s a legacy. It’s culture. Its identity. And maybe most importantly—it’s love. Love for the art. Love for the story. Love for the feeling you get when you pick up that pair you have wanted and feel like you can take on the world.

So yeah, I’ll keep asking the question. I’ll keep refining the answer. But this—this is the best I can give you for now.

Now it’s your turn.

Why sneakers?