I played the Pokemon trading card game for many years.
Every day after school was another day to fit cards between the slats of the old wooden bench on my front porch, lining up dozens of Pokemon to fight against my neighbor's deck.
I've always dreamt that the cards would go to another good home with kids who would treasure the cards as much as I have, obsessively sorting them to build the best decks with the coolest cards.
One year, these cards traveled with me to a tournament on the morning of my brother's birthday. I'd spent the whole evening crafting and preparing my deck to destroy the competition – I'd even gotten a new card, the Typhlosion Prime, that I hoped would help me best them.
"You need sleeves to play with cards like that!"
"Sorry, but you have five copies of Ponyta in your deck. You'll have to remove one to play."
Yesterday I sold my collection of Pokemon cards for $50. As she left, the woman mentioned she knew some people who might be interested in some of the old cards – that she'd have an easy time flipping them to make a lot of money.
I don't care.