As I set foot out of Quicken Loans Arena on a Friday night, the glass door locking behind me, I took to the cold, mid-December Cleveland, Ohio, streets with my standard post-game belongings: notepad, pen and credential lanyard. What made this night different, however, was that tucked under my left arm was a brightly colored box that encased a pair of brand new Nike Kyrie 1s — the first edition of a shoe made for Cleveland Cavaliers point guard and reigning All-Star Game MVP Kyrie Irving.

Thing was, it wasn’t just any pair; it was the very first pair to leave through those arena doors. The kicks — Nike’s newest signature basketball shoe, actually — would not be available to the buying public until that following Tuesday. The loud and decorated box itself was made exclusively for the evening’s events, and only the select few who took the (questionable) financial plunge would possess this limited edition packaging. I was officially on what many in the sneaker-collecting community would refer to as #TeamEarly, and I was over the moon about my elite status.

A handful of Kyrie 1s had been floating around already, but those were sample models made for photo shoots and aesthetic-based reviews. A few individuals who were on hand during Nike’s unveiling of Irving as their first signature athlete in six years had even had the chance to wear the shoes on-court as a test run. In Cleveland, however — where only Cavs fans in attendance had the chance to acquire the shoes in advance of the worldwide release — just one man had them in hand.

As I made my way home, I didn’t exactly skip down the avenue, but I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t considered it.

Nike.com

I’ll be the first to admit that the term “sneakerhead” is silly. At its core, the social media-friendly denotation is no different than “audiophile” or “yogi” or “gamer.” It represents a person who, once synthesized, is passionate about an item or activity in an era where everyone and everything has to be given a name in the way of sophomoric categorization.

Growing up on the west side of Cleveland in the late 1980s and early 1990s, I wasn’t a “sneakerhead” — I was just a kid who loved basketball and the shoes worn by those who played it.

Like most of my peers, I grew up playing driveway hoops at a time when Nike unveiled what was and remains the most significant sports apparel marketing campaign in history. Michael Jordan’s “It’s gotta be the shoes!” and “Be Like Mike” spots were the reason why — after years of relegating me to lesser pairs of Nikes and Reeboks and LA Gears — my parents finally relented and dropped $100 on a pair of shoes they knew I would either outgrow or wear down to the nubs inside of a year.