The Sneaker Kings Read online

  WORDS ON THE WORLD OF SNEAKERHEADS

  “Forget stocks. Sneaker futures are making Wall Street

  look like a swap meet. High-end kicks are becoming

  the currency of choice in New York.”

  — NEW YORK POST

  “A book about sneakerheads is the perfect setting

  for a young adult novel. The author puts us right

  smack dab in the middle of this vibrant world!”

  — SCHOLASTIC BOOKS

  “I love the idea. I can’t say I’ve ever read a novel about sneaker fans before, and I agree that it’s a big industry.”

  — BLOOMSBURY BOOKS

  “Fascinating. I really felt like I was there in the story.

  The writing is very cinematic!”

  — SOURCEBOOKS FIRE

  “I wasn’t aware of this phenomenon. Now I’m fascinated—so many sneakers! I read this with great interest.”

  — PENGUIN BOOKS

  “I definitely related. I was once a young athlete

  obsessed with shoes—now, I have a little brother

  who follows those footsteps!”

  — HOUGHTON MIFFLIN HARCOURT BOOKS

  V I R G I N I A BEACH

  CAPE CHARLES

  The Sneaker Kings

  by Eric McLaurin

  © Copyright 2014 by Omar Tyree, Inc.

  ISBN 978-1-940192-87-1

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means – electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other – except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior written permission of the author. This is a work of fiction. All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The names, incidents, dialogue, and opinions expressed are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.

  Published by

  210 60th Street

  Virginia Beach, VA 23451

  212-574-7939

  www.koehlerbooks.com

  A $1.99 (or less) eBook is available with the purchase of this print book.

  _______________________________________

  CLEARLY PRINT YOUR NAME ABOVE IN UPPER CASE

  Instructions to claim your eBook edition:

  1. Download the BitLit app for Android or iOS

  2. Write your name in UPPER CASE on the line

  3. Use the BitLit app to submit a photo

  4. Download your eBook to any device

  A portion of the proceeds from The Sneakers Kings

  will go to support Samaritan’s Feet,

  a nonprofit 501(c)3 organization that was founded

  in 2003 by Manny Ohonme for the purpose of sharing

  hope with those in need by washing their feet,

  giving them a new pair of shoes and helping

  them believe that dreams can come true.

  Samaritan’s Feet is a growing movement

  of people willing to humble themselves as servants

  so that others might know the opportunity

  of a better life.

  Make your contributions @ www.MillionShoes.org

  Table of Contents

  PROLOGUE

  GREENSBORO

  MALL RATS

  KICKS AND BASKETBALL

  MOTIVATIONS

  DEALMAKING

  NATASHA

  HOME BASE

  OFF TO COLUMBUS

  SKATEBOARD NATION

  JAY STEWART

  DATING GAMES

  THE SKY IS THE LIMIT

  THE NEXT STAGE

  MOMENTUM

  AFTERMATH

  READY FOR FLORIDA

  GETTING CLOSER

  BUSTED GROOVE

  SUMMER HUSTLE

  ATLANTA

  BIG CITY OF DREAMS

  GETTING SETTLED

  NEW YORK GETS SERIOUS

  HEATING UP

  FINAL PREPARATIONS

  BEFORE THE STORM

  THE BIG EVENT

  THE SNEAKER KINGS ARRIVE

  WRAPPING UP

  LOOSE ENDS

  WHAT THE ...

  BOOK ONE

  PROLOGUE

  IN THEIR WORLD, sneakers mean everything. A fresh pair of kicks is like a religion. They worship them. And on any given Saturday at a local strip mall, a mom-and-pop store or a convention center showcase, hundreds—and sometimes thousands—of kids gather in a mad flurry to buy, sell and trade new, old, hard-to-get and out-of-stock sneakers. They call themselves sneakerheads, and their numbers are growing.

  But it’s not only the youth. Famous sneakerhead collectors include scores of professional athletes, rappers, pop artists, deejays and even corporate executives. Their sneaker passions are big business, with entrepreneurs who cater to the market—renting table booths to sell their own stocks of shoes, jackets, T-shirts, belts, socks, shoestrings, leather cleaners and whatever else the sneakerheads desire to accentuate or maintain their bounty of kicks for longevity, notice and bragging rights.

  Giant sneakerhead conventions in New York, Washington, D.C., Chicago, Atlanta, Miami, Houston, L.A. and Detroit draw major advertisers and sponsors.

  These sneakerheads are seduced by a constant yearlong rollout of hot, new, rare, classic, retro and anticipated shoes. They live, breathe, eat and sleep sneakers—even scrounging for dream deals online. And they are always looking to see what you’re wearing, where you got them from, how much you bought them for and how much they could offer to buy them.

  Insane! But this is the world of the sneakerheads. So, if you didn’t know about them before … now you will.

  GREENSBORO

  AT THE BAGGAGE claim inside Piedmont Triad International Airport, Brandon Jenkins furiously searched through a large black duffle bag of sneaker boxes. He dropped to his knees and checked each of the dozen or so boxes to make sure that none had been damaged on the flight. It was his normal operation. Brandon’s uncle, Paul “Three-Ball” Weiller, a retired NBA player, stood behind him and sighed. “All systems go, Brandon?”

  Leon and Simba, Brandon’s two partners, chuckled. Each wore light-blue TBT T-shirts and baseball caps. They were The Beast Team, a sneakerhead crew from Glendale, Arizona, and they were proud of it. They had flown all the way to Greensboro, North Carolina, to spread their brand and do big business with the locals.

  Brandon looked up from his duffle and smiled as he zipped up the bag. “I’m good.”

  He stood nowhere near as tall as his uncle, who was six foot six. Brandon, a high school senior, was barely six foot tall with his shoes on. But at the moment, he and his guys wore flip-flops with their jeans and designer socks, while his uncle’s height was boosted just a bit by a pair of comfortable dark-brown Skechers.

  “You guys got the T-shirts?” Brandon asked.

  Leon grinned and showed him a smaller duffle bag in royal blue. Simba showed him an identical-sized bag in dark green.

  Brandon nodded. “Good. Let’s go.”

  With their normal bags of clothing, backpacks and large duffles, the four of them headed outside to pick up their rental car.

  “Now, you guys don’t wanna arrive until four o’clock again, right?” Paul asked them.

  “You know it,” Brandon answered excitedly. “We’ll meet up with the security guys right before we walk in.”

  “Yeah, so we can get something good to eat first. I’m starving,” Leon complained.

  “You can say that again. The airlines don’t bother to feed you anymore,” Simba added.

  “Okay, but do you really need the security detail, Brandon?” Paul questioned.

  “Yeah, Uncle P. It makes a difference,
I’m telling you. It makes us look more important. Then we can sell everything faster.”

  Paul grinned as they heaved the bags of luggage forward. I hope you’re right, I hope we sell everything, he thought of his nephew’s plan. Then we won’t have to carry all of this stuff back with us.

  >>>

  About thirty miles away at a Greensboro strip mall, an East Indian father stood next to his thirteen-year-old son and marveled at the long line of kids in front of them.

  “Wow, look at this.”

  The son beamed; his father smirked. “I told you, Dad. You didn’t believe me. They have conventions like this all over the country, but way bigger.”

  The father stared at the army of teenagers and preteens and was no longer skeptical. In fact, he started calculating. “Jon-Jon, if all of these kids are buying shoes, you could really make some good money here. But they only allow you to bring three pair?”

  “Unless you buy a table,” his son explained.

  “How much is a table?”

  “Fifty dollars.”

  The man’s eyes widened. “Only fifty dollars? How many pairs can you bring then?”

  “As many as you want,” his son said. He pointed ahead, up the curb. “You see those cars unloading sneakers at the front? They have trunks full of shoes.”

  The father looked and nodded. All he knew was that his son wanted to spend ten dollars of his allowance for them to drive down from Danville, Virginia, to attend a sneaker convention to trade or sell some of his shoes—which sounded preposterous. Who in their right mind would want to trade or buy used sneakers?

  “Interesting,” the father mumbled. “And these kids all have their own money?”

  Jon-Jon nodded eagerly. “Yes.”

  “I see. Well, this is good training for business. You sell, buy, trade and make sure you get the best deals.” Jon-Jon’s father also noticed the kids in line were of many ethnicities.

  The organizers opened storefront doors at noon as the line quickly entered and dispersed into a wave of anxious shoppers.

  “Okay, let’s see how this goes,” the boy’s father said with energy and optimism.

  Scores of hungry sneakerheads paid their ten dollars to enter, getting lime-green admissions wristbands. They then filed into an open store space of table booths filled with sneakers—Nike, Air Jordan, Adidas, Reebok, New Balance, Converse, Under Armour, ASICS and more.

  “How much you want for these LeBron 7s?” a sixteen-year-old sneakerhead asked a vendor in his thirties.

  “A hundred and twenty,” the vendor answered calmly.

  The teenager picked up the Nike shoe in the white, black and red of the Miami Heat.

  “I’ll trade you these Kobe Bryant Olympic 7s for ’em,” the sneakerhead offered. He showed the vendor his dark-blue, white and red Nikes from one of his three boxes. They were the model of shoes worn by Kobe Bryant and several of his USA teammates during the 2012 Summer Olympic Games in London.

  “I’m not here to trade. I’m here to sell,” the vendor said sternly.

  “I’ll give you ninety for ’em,” the teenager countered.

  “Not this early you won’t. But I’ll tell you what. If you go sell your Kobes, you’ll have enough money to get these LeBrons unless I sell them to someone else before you get back.”

  He had one pair of the LeBron 7s left in a size ten.

  “All right, well, put ’em up for me, and I’ll be back to get ’em,” the teenager requested.

  “Yeah, I’ll put ’em up as soon as you lay a hundred and twenty dollars on the table. Nice try though.”

  The sneakerhead nodded and remained confident. It was still early in the day, and his shoe hustle was just beginning. “I’ll be back.”

  The vendor was not as certain. “We’ll see.”

  Nearby, in the middle of the showroom, a preteen eyed a box of Jordans and engaged a slightly older teenager. “What size are your Jumpmans?”

  “Seven and a half.”

  “Perfect. Let me see them.”

  The teenager pulled out his blue and orange Nikes from the box for the preteen to inspect them.

  “Aw, man, you got the New York Knicks colors!” the kid exclaimed. “How much you want for them?”

  The teenager looked at the kid and took it easy on him. “Give me eighty.” He really wanted a hundred for the shoes but not from a twelve-year-old.

  The kid checked out the shoes and quickly decided their condition was good. He then pulled out a hundred dollars from his pocket and paid eighty. His father watched him from the corner of the room. The man had gotten used to his son conducting his own business deals, and he enjoyed it.

  “Thanks,” the teenager told the kid. “What shoes you got?” he then asked, eyeing the box that was tucked under the kid’s arm.

  The kid opened all three of his boxes, with two more on the floor in front of him. “I got some gold and blue KDs. I got white-on-white Derrick Roses—”

  “Oh, he got the new Kevin Durants!” another kid shouted, cutting him off before he finished. “Oh, my God! How much you want for those?”

  “One fifty,” he answered.

  “I’ll give you one twenty for ’em.”

  The kid shook it off. “Nah, man.”

  “Well, what size are they?”

  “Eight.”

  “Eight? You wear a size eight?”

  He looked smaller than a size eight. He looked more like a six and a half.

  “I buy my shoes a size up so I can keep them.” Or sell them to bigger guys, he thought. The smaller sizes didn’t sell as well.

  Another sneakerhead spotted the KDs and jumped into the fray. “Let me see them. I wear a size eight.” He looked at the gold and blue Kevin Durant Nikes and smiled. “You said one fifty, right?”

  “Yeah, one fifty.”

  The interested boy looked back at his older brother. “Give me fifty dollars, and I’ll give it back to you when I sell my shoes.”

  His older brother, only eighteen, didn’t hesitate. He peeled off two twenties and a ten from a stack of cash and gave it to his younger brother.

  “You owe me fifty.”

  The boy put a hundred and fifty dollars in the kid’s sweaty palm.

  “Thanks,” the kid mumbled, pocketing the money.

  The teenager, who had sold him his pair of Jordan Jumpmans for eighty dollars, watched it all in astonishment. The kid just pocketed one hundred and fifty bucks. The teen kicked himself for cutting his price. He was seriously thinking about getting his Jumpmans back or asking the kid for an extra twenty dollars for them.

  “What else you selling?” he asked.

  “I got some rainbow Kobe 8s,” the kid answered. He opened up his third box of multi-colored Nikes. “But I definitely want a hundred and twenty or more for these.”

  The teenager had heard enough. The kid was a hustler, a pro salesman. Just when the flustered teen had gotten up the nerve to ask for his shoes back or twenty more dollars, the kid called his father over.

  “Hey, Dad, come here.” The kid had a system of calling his dad over whenever he felt he needed to, which was usually after making a big sell.

  “Yeah, son,” the kid’s forty-year-old father answered. He stood nearly six foot tall and weighed more than two hundred pounds.

  The teenager backed down from his plans without saying another word. The kid had gotten him good. The kid then gave his father the one fifty and the Jordan Jumpmans that he had scored.

  “Hold on to these for me.”

  His father nodded and smiled. “The Knicks. I’ve never seen Jumpmans in this color before.”

  “I know, right,” his son responded excitedly. “And I got them for eighty,” he boasted. “You want those Kobe 8s for a hundred?” he asked the duped teenager.

  The whole conversation rubbed salt into the teenager’s wounds. At a hundred dollars, he would have been adding twenty of his own on top of the measly eighty that he made a minute ago.

  He shook it off.
“Nah, man, I’m good.” And he walked away to heal his wounds.

  The East Indian father watched the scene, admiring the hustling preteen’s business savvy and teamwork with his father. Meanwhile, his own son, Jon-Jon, couldn’t sell a thing. He even tried to help him out a few times, which was against the unwritten rules. Young sneakerheads didn’t like anyone’s parents in the middle of their business, and they would only use a mom or dad sparingly, like the preteen had, or suffer the consequences of customers not wanting to deal with them. It was an unwritten law of the business. Parents were not allowed.

  Jon-Jon warned his father, “Dad, you can’t stand behind me like that. You’re scaring people away.”

  “Jon-Jon, I’m only trying to help.”

  “Well, you can’t help me like that. They’re gonna think I don’t know what I’m doing.”

  Sure enough, when the sneakerheads noticed his father hovering over him like a bodyguard, they were hesitant to engage him. So Jon-Jon became more frustrated until his father stopped following him around the room. He decided instead to watch his son from a distance, like the other fathers.

  On and on it went as the excited kids moved rapidly throughout the room with their shoes and money in hand, selling, trading and admiring sneakers, while listening to the deejay spin hip-hop records.

  As time passed, the older sneakerheads began to show up, including a few North Carolina Tarheels basketball players and their entourage. Older guys with money paid top dollar, bidding up prices. An extra twenty, fifty or even a hundred dollars didn’t mean much to them.

  Asking prices for desirable shoes rose from one fifty to two fifty and up to more than three hundred dollars. And the shoe sizes increased from eight to ten, from twelve to fourteen. That’s how it usually went at the conventions. The tweeners did most of their work during the early part of the day, while the older heads showed up in the afternoon and early evenings.

  This is amazing! Jon-Jon’s father continued to marvel. There were thousands of dollars being spent in the room for sneakers, all from the hands and pockets of teenagers. And the place was so packed, the crowd could not move without pushing its way forward.