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From Lining Up to Logging In

A Tribute To Jordan Sneaker Culture

Illustration by Kashuss Belmar

Growing up in Toronto, Jordans were not just shoes, they were tied to status, identity, and community. The moment you laced up a fresh pair, you were not just wearing sneakers; you were stepping with a flare that separated you from the average joe. My admiration for Jordans ran deep. As a teen, I collected every numerical pair I could get my hands on whether it be the 1s, 5s, 12s, or 18s, each one carrying its own story. Watching Like Mike and Space Jam, and seeing the augmentation of Air Jordan flash across the screen made it all feel larger than life. Owning Jordans meant you were part of something bigger and it did not stop at the sneakers, we collected headbands, finger bands, gym shorts, and even silver-plated earrings. Within every community there existed a sub community of kids who knew the power of an exclusive drop and would line up at the mall when a new release hit stores.

But my love for sneakers did not always make sense at home. As a first-generation Nigerian-Canadian, my parents, especially my mom, could not grasp why I was spending so much money on shoes. Coming from a working-class background, their priorities were clear, education, stability, food on the table. Sneakers? That was an unnecessary luxury. For me and my brother, Jordans were in many ways, an extension of the game itself. I played basketball, and there was something about stepping onto the court in a pair of retro Jordans that felt different. While my opponents laced up their Adidas Crazy 8s or Nike Huaraches, I had the Jumpman on my feet which served as a silent reminder of greatness. Most people reserved their Jordans for special occasions, but wearing them in a game felt like an edge, an extra boost of energy, like I was carrying a piece of history. In a city like Toronto, where sports culture and hip-hop heavily influenced our upbringing, having the “right” Jordans made you feel like you belonged. It was a connection to the culture, a way to participate in something global, even when it was happening from afar.

There was a comfort in seeing them lined up in your bedroom, knowing each pair carried a memory. Even walking down the street and spotting someone else wearing the same pair creates an unspoken connection or a mutual respect, an understanding that feels very “if you know, you know”. Whether on the court, in the city, or in a box tucked away in your closet, Jordans hold that sense of belonging. 

But as I got older, my style matured, my interests expanded, and I did not feel inclined to chase every drop. Yet, despite stepping away from the hunt, my appreciation for Jordan as a brand never faded. What fascinates me now is how sneaker culture has transformed with technology. The days of lining up outside Foot Locker for hours has pretty much been replaced by online raffles, SNKRS app releases, and third-party marketplaces like GOAT and StockX. Now, instead of braving the cold for a pair of 12s, you can tag a friend on Instagram for a shot at an exclusive drop. The process has evolved, but the excitement remains the same, or at least I’d like to believe it has.

The recent re-release of the Flu Game 12s in 2025 brought all these feelings full circle. Seeing them again transported me back to my younger self, the boy who saved up for months to cop his next pair, who argued with his mom about the pricing, who felt invincible in his Chrome 2s. This story is not just about nostalgia; it is about bridging the past with the present and honoring the era of mall lineups while acknowledging the digital evolution of sneaker culture. Air Jordan has always symbolized legacy, and whether you are a teen in 2009 racing to grab the Flu Games or an adult in 2025 securing them through an app, the feeling is priceless. 

It is evident that the way we access the culture has changed, but the love for it never will.