Published April 12, 2026
Collecting rarely starts with a plan. It begins with a pack, a trade, or a moment that sticks. Over time, those small decisions add up. What starts as randomness becomes preference, and eventually something more defined. This is a look at that progression, from collecting without thinking, to understanding value, to building something intentional.
The Beginning: Collecting Without a Plan
I started at around 9 years old in 1990, when my parents bought me some 1988 and 1989 Topps baseball cards for my birthday. I carried those around in an old cassette case at school and traded with my friends at lunch and at recess. Collecting was about fun and trading. Condition didn’t matter to us then. It was about the vibe, and value wasn’t part of the conversation with the cards we were collecting. Packs were cheap, and the experience created lifelong memories. Players like Don Mattingly, Ryne Sandberg, and Ozzie Smith were some of the names we all knew and looked for during that time.
We all had our shared chase cards, even if we didn’t think about them that way at the time. The Billy Ripken error card was a favorite, and whoever eventually landed a Ken Griffey Jr. Upper Deck rookie was basically a king in the rest of our eyes.
That’s how most collections begin. There’s no plan, no structure, and no real sense of direction. You open packs, trade what you have, and over time a collection forms almost by accident.
Looking back, that phase matters more than it seems. It’s where taste starts to take shape. The players you gravitate toward, the designs you remember, and the moments tied to those cards quietly set the foundation for what your collection will eventually become.
Most collectors don’t realize it at the time, but this is the starting point. Not just of a collection, but of a point of view.
The Boom Years: Hype, Community, and First Signals of Value
As I transitioned into my early teenage years, Michael Jordan mania took hold, and sports cards exploded into the mainstream. The hobby cemented itself as part of Americana. This was the peak of the boom. Demand was everywhere, new collectors were entering the market, and cards started to feel like more than just something you traded at school.
For me, it was about being lucky enough to mow a lawn or two and pick up some cards on the weekends, while my father, brother, and I set up at the local flea market alongside about 10 other dealers and enthusiasts doing the same thing. We became a community.
We had our vintage guy, our spin-the-wheel guy Tony, sealed wax dealers, and regular people like us who were there as much for the experience as we were to make a few dollars. During this time I chased young rookies and added the occasional Jordan, but most Jordan singles were 2–5 times more expensive than your average player. When you only have $5–10 to spend, you can’t target his cards very often. Shaq was huge, Penny was on the rise, Chris Webber looked like a sure thing. The Billy Ripken error card was still making its rounds, and overall the world felt pretty good.
This was also when cards started to look the part. Designs improved, foil inserts were introduced, and collecting became more visual and engaging. You weren’t just chasing the hot rookie anymore. You were chasing cards that felt rare, cards that stood out, and cards that looked different from everything else in the pack.
Looking back, this is where you start to notice the nuances of collecting. You’re still having fun, but you begin to see differences. Some cards are harder to get. Some players cost more, and hierarchies start to emerge. Without realizing it, you’re beginning to understand demand.
As Brendan C. Boyd wrote at the time, “Baseball nostalgia is the next big thing.” The hype was real, and even at a local level, you could feel it.
I wasn’t thinking about what my collection would look like as an adult. It was about having fun with my dad and brother. But this was the point where collecting started to intersect with something else. Not quite strategy yet, but the first signs for my generation that some cards mattered more than others.
The First Real Decision
As I moved through high school and started having more of a social life, collecting went on pause after my sophomore year. Girls and school took priority.
But I did learn something important during this stage. A friend brought a Dr. J rookie into class one day and needed some money. The $5 I had in my pocket was enough to buy it. I was ecstatic. This was a $100–200 card at the time, and I got it for $5.
I had always looked at vintage cards when my father and I set up at the flea market and wanted one. Now I had it. That moment marked a shift in my mindset. For the first time, I started asking a different question. What would I want the finished version of my collection to look like?
Up to that point, everything I owned had been the result of what I opened or what I could trade for. This was different. This was a decision.
That’s the point where collecting begins to change. Not all at once, but enough to notice. You start to think about what you want to own, not just what you happen to have.
The broader hobby was evolving in a similar way. As Dr. James Beckett told the Los Angeles Times in 1990, “Now when I go to card shows, it’s 60% baseball and 40% everything else. It’s not like 10 years ago when one company put out cards for one sport.”
At the time, I didn’t fully understand it. But looking back, that moment with the Dr. J rookie was the first step away from accumulation and toward something more intentional.
Stepping Back as the Hobby Gets More Expensive
As I transitioned into young adulthood, I finished school and went to college. Cards were still on my mind, but I wanted to collect with intention when I eventually returned.
I held onto my childhood collection and my Dr. J rookie during this period, aside from opening a few packs during LeBron’s rookie season. By then, pack prices had started to rise, and there were more premium products like Bowman Signature and Topps Pristine. I could only afford a few packs total, which naturally pushed me toward being more selective, even if I wasn’t actively collecting at the time.
The hobby itself was changing in a noticeable way. Premium products were becoming more common, and the cost of entry was rising with them. As Benjamin Charles Germain Lee wrote in Manufacturing Nostalgia, “By the time I had started collecting in the early 2000s, hobby products were already reaching unconscionable prices ($100 for a sealed box of sports cards was a common sight). But 2003 saw the release of a new tier of product: Upper Deck’s Exquisite Collection.”
That shift mattered. Packs were no longer something you could casually pick up every weekend. You had to choose when to buy, what to buy, and whether it was even worth it.
Even though I wasn’t fully active in the hobby, that change stuck with me. Without realizing it, I was being pushed toward a different way of thinking. Less ripping, more consideration.
The Down Years: Access, Perspective, and Rediscovering the Hobby
In my early 20s, with a wife and kids on the way soon after, collecting took a back seat again. This is the stage of life where everything feels like an uphill climb. Most people I knew felt like we were trying to build something from nothing, just hoping to eventually own a home, let alone have time or money for hobbies.
Like most things, you get through that phase. We eventually had two sons, and as they reached elementary school age, I took them to a card shop one day. That kicked off another great chapter.
At the time, the hobby was in a different place. 80s and 90s wax was at rock-bottom prices. You could buy a whole box for $5–10. My sons and I ripped a lot of wax together. We must have pulled around 25 Upper Deck Michael Jordan holograms during that stretch. It was fun in the purest sense, similar to how I started.
Looking back, that period was easy to overlook if you were only focused on value. Some of the biggest cards from my childhood were sitting at prices that, in hindsight, look like missed opportunities. I missed chances at grails that would have been easy buys at the time. But at the same time, access had never been better. Cheap wax, affordable singles, and the ability to open product without thinking twice made it one of the most enjoyable periods I’ve had in the hobby.
That environment didn’t happen by accident. As noted by Sports Collectors Daily, “Overproduction in the late 1980s and early 1990s flooded the market and led to a collapse in values.”
For me, that cooling period mattered. It gave me time to reconnect with the hobby without pressure. I had some extra capital and started buying singles, but instead of targeting the iconic cards from my childhood, I focused on lower-cost autograph rookies of former Kentucky Wildcats. It became a fun collection, but it wasn’t really what drew me to cards in the first place.
From Collector to Curator
By the time I reached my late 30s and early 40s, things slowed down a bit. Like many people at that stage, I found myself with a little more stability and some extra capital to put toward the hobby.
That’s when I made a decision. If I was going to do this, I wanted to do it right.
I sold most of the collectibles I had accumulated over the years, keeping only the pieces that truly meant something. I cleared out a room that had turned into clutter. It had been fun, especially collecting with my sons, but it wasn’t something I could actually enjoy or manage. Most of it was low-value and lacked direction.
I used that money to focus on a smaller number of meaningful cards. I picked up grails like early 1986 Star Michael Jordan cards from the 10-card set, pieces I could never afford as a kid but always admired. Over the last seven years, I’ve added some of the most iconic cards from my lifetime. A Topps Chrome LeBron rookie. A Bowman Chrome Tom Brady rookie. The 1986 Fleer Michael Jordan. And more recently, the 1993 Ultra Scoring Kings Jordan, which I still believe is the defining insert of the 90s.
You also start to see something else over time. Each era tends to produce only a small number of players whose cards separate from the rest in a meaningful way, not just Hall of Fame careers, but sustained demand at a different level.
The Babe Ruth era, Bill Russell, Mickey Mantle, Michael Jordan, Ken Griffey Jr., Kobe Bryant, Tom Brady, LeBron James and Stephen Curry, and more recently Shohei Ohtani. These are the names that consistently define their generation in the market.
That doesn’t mean other great players don’t see growth. Many do. But the gap between all-time greats and era-defining players tends to widen over time.
It’s also not always clear in the moment who that player will be. In today’s NBA, Nikola Jokic, Victor Wembanyama, Shai Gilgeous-Alexander, and Cooper Flagg are all building strong cases, but history suggests only one or two will ultimately separate.
This isn’t meant to discourage collecting your favorite players. That’s still the foundation of the hobby. But it’s a reminder to be careful when assigning long-term expectations to the next hot name. Even players with strong careers don’t always become the defining figure of their era. Zion Williamson is a good recent example.
I did keep one card from earlier on. The Dr. J card I picked up in high school that I later had graded, and it came back a PSA 3. It’s not the cleanest card in the collection, but it stays. It represents the first step toward how I collect today, and that matters more than the grade.
But what changed most wasn’t just what I owned. It was how I approached collecting.
I went from filling space to defining it. From accumulation to curation.
That shift takes time. Experience teaches you that not every card needs to be chased immediately, and not every purchase deserves a place in the collection over the long term. As Brett McGrath said when reflecting on his own collecting approach, “But with Peyton stuff, just be patient a little bit and stuff will come your way.”
That idea applies across the hobby. It doesn’t matter if it’s Peyton, Jordan, or anyone else. The principle is the same. Patience and discipline tend to win out over time.
Today, my collection fits into a single case. It’s intentional, liquid, and easy to manage. More importantly, it reflects what actually matters to me.
Curation is a skill. It takes time, patience, and a willingness to delay gratification. You need a vision, and you need to stick to it.
For me, the result has been worth it. I’m just an average collector who stayed in the hobby long enough to see it from a few different angles. If there’s one takeaway, it’s this. At some point, you have to decide what matters to you and build around that.
That’s when collecting starts to mean something different.