A group of unshaven, bleary-eyed men milled about our local Target store Saturday morning, waiting for it to open. I realized with a sinking feeling they were there for the same reason my son and I were: to grab any Pokémon cards the stock clerks might have put on the shelves the night before.
I listened, amazed, to these dads–who probably scoffed last year when their wives waited in line for Beanie Babies–as they rhapsodized about Pokémon cards.
“Man,” said one, “when I brought home that starter deck last week, you woulda thought I was giving him a Porsche!”
Very few kids I know actually play the role-playing card game based on th Pokémon video game and cartoon show. Instead, they trade the cards and memorize “Pokémon data.”
Grade-schoolers who can’t learn multiplication tables to save their lives can rattle off vital statistics like “Pikachu. Mouse Pokémon. Length: 1 foot 4 inches. Weight: 13 pounds. 58/102.”
Within a week of my boys receiving their first Pokémon cards their journals began to look like Pokémon commercials. “In the past, Magikarp was strong than its horribly weak descendants that exist today.” That’s from my 9-year-old, who previously was happy writing about his dog.
Now my boys are addicts. They risk $3 on a tiny, foil-wrapped hit (er, I mean, “pack”) of 11 Pokémon cards, not knowing what’s inside until they rip it open. Then they either praise heaven or gnash their teeth in despair, depending upon what they got. They run all over the neighborhood offering to pick snails, pull weeds, and sweep porches for cash so they can buy more cards.
They trade their cards and then berate and beg each other, “How could you trade that Beedrill for that stupid energy card? Beedrill is rare–17 out of 102!”
“Please, please, trade me Pidgeotto! I need him so badly!”
We parents didn’t fall under the thrall of the Pokémon so easily. We had to pass through what is known as the Five Stages of the Pokémon:
- Indifference, as in “Huh? Poke-what?”
- Annoyance, as in, “Thanks a lot, Sue, for bringing Pokémon to the neighborhood!”
- Denial: “No, I will not camp out in front of Sky High Comics the night before a Pokémon shipment is due.”
- Acceptance: “Well, it’s like when we traded baseball cards when we were kids.”
- And finally, Addiction: “Kevin, wake up! Let’s be the first ones at Target this morning!”
Which is how I came to be at Target at 7:45 a.m. And once I realized these macho male shoppers lined up in the dew were after the same thing I was, I formed a plan of action. I’m not a veteran of the Beanie Baby Wars, but I listened to women who are. I knew what to do.
I nudged my 9-year-old and whispered, “Honey, when the doors open, you run as fast as you can for those Pokémon cards.” His eyes opened wide.
“But Mom, you said we could never run in stores!”
“I know, sweetie,” I said, “just this once. Now look at these big men–I’ll bet you can run faster than they can!” The look on his face told me he was up to the challenge.
When the doors swung open, my son took off like a jackrabbit, the dads close behind. As the only woman in line, I’m proud to say I was able to keep up with the guys, who were all grousing at each other: “No running, no running!” We were doing a fast clip, power walking and flapping elbows so nobody would move out of his (or her) place.
Breathless as we rounded Lawn and Garden, the ranks broke formation and everybody sprinted the last 50 feet or so to Toys. My son poked his head out from behind the Legos and shook his head sadly.
A few seconds later, the baritone groans and moans confirmed it as each one of the dads hit the Pokémon rack: there would be no Pokémon this day.
“It wouldn’t have mattered anyway, Mom,” said my son sadly. “I wasn’t the first kid to reach the rack. Two boys made it ahead of me.”
“Yeah,” I said, “but you beat the Pokey Men.”