It’s a warm summer evening along the Northeast coast of England in 2011. You’ve finished attending your University lectures for the day, having also been for an ocean swim and beach barbecue with your friends. You’re now back in your apartment, showered, clean and invigorated. Not just because of the cold water swim, but because short-form digital heroine has not been invented yet. You’re in your comfy evening wear. You’re going through the post delivered to your box earlier in the day and notice your Skyridge booster box has been delivered from the US after having finally cleared customs.
You feel a sudden nostalgic pang of excitement in your chest; not because you’re trying frantically to calculate the EV of the contents of the box, but because you just want to see which of those obscure e-series cards you’ll manage to pull, which you never had chance to experience in childhood. Hell, it’s not a bank-breaking endeavour either - so maybe if you really like the cards, you’ll start a collection that has half a chance of being completed.
You sit on the floor in the bedroom of your apartment with golden-hour sunlight pouring through the window, illuminating the dust particles in the air. You can smell the old cellophane and cardboard ink from the box, and simultaneously wonder why more people don’t want these rare, out-of-print items from a generation-defining IP. You take a moment to consider whether spending £250 on this box of childhood cardstock is a wise decision while you’re a part-time employed student. Oh well; you don’t pay it much thought beyond that. This is a little nostalgic indulgence for you to re-engage with your former self.
You have your fresh penny sleeves and toploaders sat next to you on the floor ready to go. You open the box and are surprised to see a large, over-sized crystal Charizard box topper card staring back at you - nice - you didn’t know about box topper cards in e-series because the stores always used to dispose of them while setting out their booster displays. Great start. You carefully and slowly take a handful of boosters and admire the pack artwork; the gleaming green foil is really pleasing to the eye.
You take your kitchen scales to weigh-out the packs and organise them by weight. Not to scam anyone on eBay, but to ensure you’ll maximise your pulls from the 32 packs you open before deciding which four packs to keep as an art set at the end. You take each pack and open them using your thumbnails to carefully prise the glue seal in the middle of the foil edge of the pack. You ensure the seal is opened fully to each edge before delicately sliding all 9 cards out of the pack, while minimising the pressure your freshly-washed and dried fingers exert on the edges of the cards. You carefully look through each card in the order they present themselves straight out of the booster. There’s no rush here. This is a moment to savour; every common and uncommon represent a colourful and happy moment, reminding you of the same joy you experienced as a child.
You individually sleeve your holos and rare cards, while grouping commons and uncommons together to place in a bulk box. With a smile on your face, you place each holo you’ve just pulled into a toploader, while taking the time to admire each one, rocking them back and forth in your hands to appreciate how the light catches the holofoil. Towards the end of the experience you set aside your four packs: a memento of the experience and a time capsule to retain covetously in your drawer to look fondly upon at a later time when they can no longer be bought for a reasonable price… if such a time should ever occur. Maybe in 20 years? We’ll see. There was no camera in sight, no audience - or even friends - around to scream memes at the top of their lungs each time you discovered a holo. This was always intended to be a quiet, private moment to reminisce and reconnect with a previous time. And it was perfect.
That is the correct way to open Pokémon cards.
