Image via Complex Original
If you're reading this, there's a good chance you found your way here through social media. Either a link popped up on your Twitter or Facebook timeline and it enticed you enough to click on it. You probably like sneakers and are involved in some sort of daily interaction that revolves around them. The Internet has, in turn, made it much easier to be a "sneakerhead," and you wouldn't have it any other way.
But what if I told you that there was a sneaker world before bots, Instagram, and retweets? Believe it or not, people did purchase sneakers before then and they were fanatic about them, too, it was just a different time and place. I'm not here to wax poetic about how sneaker culture sucks nowadays and I wish it was 1998 again, because that would be pointless.
There are, however, a few things that have changed for the worse and several reasons behind the shift going on nowadays. If we're going to move forward, we need to take a look back. For all the old heads out there or the new ones who just want to learn how things have become different, here's How Sneaker Culture Was More Fun Before Social Media.
The best way to stunt sneakers was to actually wear them.
Here's a novel idea: Sneakers are made for wearing, not for staring. That might be an old adage that has its origins in the annals of message board forums, but it's true — sneakers are functional pieces of our wardrobes and are meant to be used. Ironically enough, it's these forums that also gave birth to wearing a pair of sneakers just for a WDYWT photo and then instantly taking them off, only to put on a pair of beaters for the rest of the day. This phenomenon only exploded with the advent of Instagram, where an exclusive or "deadstock" pair of sneakers could be gently worn for a brief instance, documented via a filtered photograph, and watch the likes roll in.
Before all of this, though, someone had to go out into society for people to recognize their sneaker game. They had to either kill it on a regular basis or wear their best options out to events that would get them noticed. This is how their status as someone who was into sneakers would get cemented. People became known for always having something fresh on their feet, and they didn't have to tell others to check their Instagram account to validate that fact.
Don't believe me that in-person compliments are better than receiving a 1,000+ likes on your latest 'Gram? Wear something eye-catching in public and break someone's neck, it will feel infinitely better than getting 10 new followers because of your latest picture posted to social media.
The art of the hunt was very real.
It takes very little digging to find a great pair of sneakers on the Internet these days. Someone can either camp out on Twitter and wait for Nikestore to send out product links, or they can scour the endless amount of international retailers that carry every limited-edition release under the sun. It wasn't always like this, however, and rare sneakers were found in different ways. It also took a little bit of leg work, literally.
Sneaker hunting isn't something that originated on eBay — although it became accelerated by the digital marketplace and the buy/sell forums on NikeTalk and Sole Collector — it was the act of going from neighborhood to neighborhood, surrounding cities, or even foreign countries to hunt down out-of-print or hard-to-find sneakers.
People would go to old sporting goods shops or out-of-the-way stores to come across something that others had passed by or not discovered yet. It took know-how and exploration to come up on sneakers. Finally finding something felt that much more rewarding, because it wasn't procured via clicking a link faster than someone. You'd have to talk to people and find out where the sneakers were located or just go out on your own and spot them. Information spread by word of mouth and not by retweets. Only heads in the know or those who'd had to happen to stumble across stellar, obscure sneakers would have them — not just people who follow all the right accounts on Twitter.
People were influencers for a reason, not because of their following.
Everyone can become an influencer these days, or at least it feels that way. All it takes is getting a few thousand followers on social media, taking great photos, or knowing someone on the inside to get free sneakers and blast them all over the Internet. The more that these so-called influencers do this, the greater the chance is that they'll be given the opportunity to practice their puppetry with other brands or retailers. There was a time, though, when those who were considered to have "influence" within the sneaker world were deemed so for good reason. They weren't amateur photographers or aspiring designers. They were athletes or people who owned retail outlets and were given free product or collaborations because of their viewpoint or status within the industry.
You'd have to aspire to do something worthwhile to become part of this inner circle. It might have meant that you'd work extra hard in the gym to go to a top-tier university and get player-exclusive sneakers, or you'd actually get involved in the industry from a career-motivated aspect, not one that was derived from wanting to get gratis product on the side. That was only a perk of the job, not the whole job itself.
The point of being into sneakers was because you liked them, not to be "Insta-famous."
I'm not here to judge who is a bigger sneakerhead than the next person. It's not up to me to make that differentiation. But social media has spawned a new type of "sneakerhead": the one who does it to gain a social following. It's no secret posting pictures of Air Jordans or other coveted, well-shot sneakers on Instagram is a sure-fire way to achieve an audience. And it can be like a drug for some. They'll end up posting endless pictures or continuously tweeting about the latest sneaker news because of the reaction they draw, not because they're contributing something worthwhile to sneaker culture.
It's hard to argue that sneakers as a whole didn't become popular because they garnered attention, but before they had a digital platform, there was an intrinsic quality associated with searching out the ones that are capable of producing a smile. The ulterior motive might have been one-upping your mates in school, or getting a girl to notice you at a party. The idea of achieving fame because of an Instagram handle was something that didn't exist. Being a sneakerhead was a lifestyle that had to be lived in the flesh, not behind the safety of a filter.
Remember Eastbay catalogues?
There was something ceremonious about getting the latest Eastbay or CCS catalogue in the mail. We knew this would give us the scoop of what was available for the next few months. Not only would were these books the source for purchasing our next pairs, they were bigger than that. The catalogues served as aspirational listings of models, colorways, and the technical information we craved to find out. There were no sneaker blogs at the time. It was difficult to come across specifics on silhouettes. Eastbay served as a place where we could all get an idea of what we wanted next, and it was one of the few mediums where consumers could find out when that next Air Jordan would be releasing.
Now it's just easy as going to Complex, Hypebeast, or Sneaker News to find out what's going to be available for the next few months. There's no more thumbing through these mail-order magazines or circling which pairs you'd hope your parents would purchase for the upcoming school year. Everything can be seen from the comfort of a Twitter timeline. Don't get me wrong: the more we know, the better. But there was something special about waiting for that catalogue to come in the mail every few months and feast our eyes on what we hoped to pick up next.
Getting discounts required knowing people.
Everyone wants to get sneakers for less than their suggested price. It's ingrained in the heart of sneaker culture, and message boards have long been overrun with those bragging about grabbing their latest pickups for below retail. To get these discounts, however, someone had to know a person on the inside, usually a store associate. And building these relationships took time. Often, it took shopping at a store on a frequent basis to gain an associate's trust enough for them to offer discounts on whatever was being purchased. There were no sites that offered one-off discount codes, and don't get it twisted: that's an awesome service. They often make it a lot more feasible to pick up things that you're on the fence about.
The only complaint is that they almost make the interaction of getting to know who's working at the local sneaker store an obsolete necessity. It wasn't just getting sneakers for a lower price that was nice, there was a sense of being part of the local community.
The only people trying to sell sneakers were retail employees.
No one wants to feel like they're being sold anything, even if it's a pair of sneakers they were going to purchase anyway. With the popularity of Twitter and more and more e-commerce sneaker stores popping up, there's been a steady rise in the use of "affiliate links," when people or sneaker blogs post links to shops or new product in the hopes that you'll buy it. If you do, they'll get a certain percentage of the sale.
This program has become so commonplace that it's not uncommon for people to tweet out links and say, "New sneakers available at [insert shop's name]," and they're just preying that someone, anyone, will buy anything from that store within 30 days so they can get a little commission. I'm never against people getting their hustle on, but this is annoying beyond belief. The only person someone used to expect to sell them sneakers was the one who worked at the local sneaker spot. It was as simple as that. You'd walk in, pick out what you wanted, and if it wasn't available, whoever was working would bring out something else. They'd get their commission, but they actually worked at a sneaker store — and weren't someone who expected to make a few bucks off having a Twitter account and a general knowledge of sneakers.
