ORIGIN
If you had told the kid I used to be — the one growing up in his grandparents' house, the one with casts and surgery scars, the one whose family used food stamps and drove a beat-up VW Bug — that someday sneakers would take him farther than he knew a life could go, he wouldn't have believed you. Back then, life felt small. The world felt distant. Dreams didn't feel like something meant for people like me.
But sometimes the thing that changes your whole life doesn't show up with fireworks. Sometimes it arrives quietly, sitting on the floor of your friend's apartment next to a TV, glowing like it somehow chose you.
I was born in the spring of 1984 with a hypoplastic left thumb, an arm-length discrepancy, and radial dysplasia. Nine surgeries before I reached second grade. Two drug-addicted parents on welfare. A full house with not enough space. A childhood shaped by survival. But somehow, even in all that, baseball found me. Thanks to my dad's love for the Dodgers, I was on a baseball field at age five, playing in Tee Ball, then Farm, Minors, Majors, Juniors, Seniors, and eventually umpiring from ages five to fifteen. Baseball was the first real thing in my life that felt steady, something I could count on when nothing else made sense.
And then 1992 happened. Shaquille O'Neal got drafted into the NBA, and a totally new universe opened. I fell in love with basketball on the spot. Shaq was everything to me. I wore an Orlando Magic Starter jacket three sizes too big because nothing made me feel cooler or more connected to something bigger than my own little world.
THE ONE THAT STARTED IT ALL
But in 1994, something happened that I didn't understand at the time, something that would eventually shape the next thirty years of my life.
Seattle Supersonics star Shawn Kemp stepped onto the court wearing the Reebok Kamikaze. The moment I saw that shoe — the bold black and white, the Sonic green hit on the ankle — something inside me lit up. It felt electric. I didn't know sneakers could make you feel anything. I didn't know they could stay with you for days. For years. But that pair did.
A few months later, in a moment that's still burned into my memory, my friend Josh and I walked to our friend David's apartment to get him for a game of Home Run Derby at our local little league field. We knocked. We waited. He opened the door, and everything froze.
Right there on the carpet in front of the TV sat the Reebok Kamikaze. Not on a screen. Not in Eastbay. Not on Shawn Kemp's feet. Five feet in front of me — real and tangible — everything I'd been thinking about for months.
It felt like a movie moment where the Holy Grail glows and a choir sings. I kept it cool, because we all did in the '90s, but inside something burst wide open. I knew nothing about the sneaker industry or the world behind it. But I felt something. Something big.
Later that year, David showed up wearing the black/white-blue colorway — a pair I didn't even know existed — and my obsession grew even deeper. We were poor. On welfare. Expensive shoes weren't for kids like me. I didn't ask. I didn't even consider asking. But the Kamikaze became my holy grail, the shoe that shaped something in me I couldn't name yet.
From there, my love for sneakers and athletes exploded. Jordan. Penny. Griffey, Jr. Rodman. Bonds. Jerry Rice. Jason Kidd. On and on. In 1995, after seeing a kid at our local Single-A baseball field wearing a pair of Nike Zoom '95s, that shoe became my next obsession — but again, too expensive. Then I learned there was a cheaper takedown version called the Air Thrill Flight. I finally worked up the courage to ask for them. My grandma said yes, drove me to Sports Authority, and bought them. I wore them into the ground.
My teenage years were a timeline of sneakers. The Jumpman Team One. The Reebok Answer. The "Mushroom" Air Force 1. The "Syracuse" Dunk High. The Total Air Foamposite Max. Every pair felt like a tiny burst of joy in a life that didn't have much of it.
Everything shifted when I reached the end of my teenage years. At seventeen, I was shot at point-blank range — something I wasn't prepared for in any way. At that age, you don't truly process something like that; you just survive it and keep moving because you don't have another option.
Two years later, my dad died suddenly. Whatever foundation I had left cracked again. Those years felt like a blur of fear, grief, and trying to stay upright when nothing felt steady. I didn't know what direction my life was supposed to take, only that staying where I was didn't feel possible anymore.
After high school, I left my hometown and moved to Los Angeles for college. It wasn't a bold, decisive plan — it was me trying to find room to breathe and rebuild my life after everything that had happened. I brought the two or three pairs of sneakers I had with me because they were the only familiar thing in a world that suddenly felt unfamiliar. I didn't know anyone in LA yet, didn't have much beyond classes and a desire to start over, but being there felt like stepping toward the version of myself I was trying to become. That move is what eventually led me to Undefeated.
A couple of years before moving to LA, I joined ISS forums. It was how I learned there were other sneaker lovers. And when I moved to LA, I used ISS to turn online friends into real-life friends and to start buying shoes — from UNDFTD, mostly. I started buying Dunks like my life depended on it: Iron, Cali, Sea Crystal, Carhartt, Shimizu, T-19, Ostrich, Celtic, Orca. Every shoe felt like a story, a moment, a world I wanted to be part of.
And then came one of the most important days of my life.
I rode the city bus from Ocean Park and 31st in Santa Monica to Undefeated on Main Street. That's where I met Alex Bruzzi — someone whose kindness changed the entire direction of my life. It was a hot summer day, and after meeting me, after I'd walked and rode the bus to get there, he reached behind the counter and offered me an ice-cold Gatorade. Such a small thing to him, but to a kid like me, who rarely felt seen or welcomed anywhere, it meant everything.
That moment turned into hours on the metal bench outside Undefeated, talking sneakers with Alex, "Yo," and anyone who came through. For the first time in my life, I felt like I had people. A community. A place where I wasn't an outsider.
Alex started inviting me to launches and parties I didn't know existed. And then the night came that changed everything for me: the Mr. Cartoon x Nike Air Force 1 Low event at Undefeated on La Brea. Alex introduced me to Cartoon, had him sign some stuff, and even introduced me to Cartoon's dad. I ended up passing out mochi with him — something I still smile about all these years later.
It was the first time I didn't feel like I was watching from the outside. I felt like I was finally part of it.
Not long after that, another unexpected moment arrived. Jason Gaines, who worked at Conveyor inside Fred Segal, invited me to a launch party at the Nike Blue House in Venice for the Nike Considered line. It was the first real "industry" event I had ever been to — valet parking, gift bags, people from the forums, collectors, designers. It was the first time I ever stood in a space like that and thought, "Maybe I actually belong here."
And not long after, as life would have it, I was pulled from Los Angeles. I moved to Bozeman, Montana — from a city where I finally felt connected to a world I loved, to a small town where I stuck out without trying. Dirt roads, quiet streets, and a community where no one dressed like me. SBs, New Era fitteds, baggy denim, all of it felt out of place. My sneakers became the one thing that felt familiar, a link back to the life and identity I was still shaping. They were my connection to home when nothing around me looked like home.
When I finally returned to California, the weight of that connection was literal — every pair I owned was packed into the car, stacked to the roof. We broke down in a snowstorm at the base of the Rockies because of it. I had to leave the shoes behind temporarily and have friends ship them to me piece by piece once I got home. It sounds dramatic now, but at the time it felt symbolic: this thing I had carried with me for so long was still going to find its way back. And so was I.
At this time, Twitter was taking off, and I talked about sneakers on it the same way I talked about them in person.
Then came the message that altered my entire future.
Nick Engvall, one of the most respected figures in sneaker media, messaged me saying he liked how I carried myself and how much I knew. He said he was temporarily taking over Complex Sneakers from Russ Bengtson and asked if I wanted to write for the site. I had never written professionally outside of a few album reviews, but I didn't hesitate. I said yes.
I helped Nick and Brandon Edler launch the Complex Sneakers Instagram.
I wrote news articles.
Interviewed athletes.
Covered events.
Found myself in spaces younger me would've thought were imaginary.
My first interview for Complex was with Melody Ehsani at her Fairfax store during the release party for her first Reebok collaboration. I was nervous — packed room, loud energy — but once we started talking, the interview fell into place. Seeing my first byline go live afterward, and being recognized at events as "the guy from Complex," rooted something real in me. It felt like arrival.
And it was at that Melody Ehsani event where I met Jazerai Allen-Lord, who at the time was the Director of Operations at Kicks On Fire. That connection eventually led me to write for Kicks On Fire. During my time there, I was invited by adidas to participate in a gift exchange-style influencer design program. I designed my own adidas Samba and called it the "Lemon Ginger Blast," named after Lou Corona's famous raw juice. The shoe was produced by adidas and made available via the miadidas program. Having something I designed live on adidas' site felt surreal.
Now I was settling into sneaker media — getting press releases, being seeded shoes — when the announcement hit me straight in the heart: Reebok was re-releasing the Kamikaze.
After almost 20 years, the shoe that started everything for me — the moment in that doorway at David's house — was coming back. I bought them immediately. Holding them again felt like shaking hands with my younger self.
But the moment that truly completed the circle came later.
One day, I was scrolling through Twitter notifications when I saw it: Shawn Kemp followed me.
The details of our exchange blur now, but the feeling doesn't. It hit me with the same shock I felt as a kid staring at that Kamikaze on my friend's carpet. It was a full-circle moment I never expected to touch in my lifetime.
And then... we eventually exchanged messages.
Eight-year-old me would have fainted.
The final moment, the one I still feel in my chest, was when I got my first pair of Kamikazes signed by Shawn Kemp himself. That pair is one of the most meaningful things I could ever own. A reminder of what a spark can become. How far a feeling can carry you. How a small moment in a doorway can lead to an entire life.
Since then, sneakers have taken me across the country — to global launches, brand HQs, behind-the-scenes moments with athletes and designers, and projects I never could've imagined when I was that kid staring at a pair of Kamikazes on the carpet. I've written and managed social channels for Nice Kicks, Kicks On Fire, Shoe Palace, Sole Retriever, Modern Notoriety, and more. I've been seeded hundreds of pairs of shoes, covered major releases, and worked on projects that reached millions. I've stood in rooms younger me would've never believed he belonged in.
And all of it, every bit of it, traces back to one moment in 1995.
A doorway.
A TV.
A friend's apartment.
And a pair of Reebok Kamikazes sitting on the floor like destiny.
I think about that moment often, how small it was, how huge it became, how strange and beautiful it is that a shoe can become a compass. Everything I've been able to do, every person I've met, every opportunity I've touched, it all comes back to that spark the Kamikaze gave me. A spark I didn't ask for. A spark I didn't understand. A spark that somehow shaped my future. A spark tied to a love I had, a love I lost for a while, a love I miss, and a love I'm slowly finding my way back to.
All these years later, I'm still grateful.
Grateful for the shoe.
Grateful for the journey.
Grateful that I never let go of the things that made me feel alive when I was a kid.
And grateful that the story's still being written.
What followed the origin story became a decade of work that took me far beyond anything I imagined when I was first writing for Complex and Kicks On Fire. Starting around 2016, my career opened into global projects, brand partnerships, athlete interviews, product launches, and behind-the-scenes access with some of the biggest names and companies in footwear. I worked across Nice Kicks, Shoe Palace, Sole Retriever, and other platforms — covering events, managing social channels that reached millions, and creating content that shaped how releases and stories were seen in real time.
WHAT CAME NEXT
Those years brought me into Nike and adidas launches, private brand activations, design studios, athlete suites, production sets, and moments with creators, designers, and industry leaders I grew up looking up to. I've traveled for work, photographed major events, interviewed athletes, built campaigns, and been trusted with projects that connected me to the heart of sneaker storytelling.
It's the chapter where everything I dreamed about as a kid became real — and where my work in sneakers became a lifelong, ongoing journey.