Mary Ann Fitzmorris/ L’Observateur / September 19, 1999

Hopefully no one saw my son walk into the girlie magazine joint. Theycouldn’t have. He wasn’t in there even half a second. The clerk took onelook at her youngest customer and shook her head. “Thursday or Friday,”she said.

On the way out he was passed by another elementary school age child who was in there about as long. Just a week ago we saw a girl in my son’sclass going into the same shop, wondering if she was buying cigars.

What a difference a week makes! Last Monday, my son got his first Pokemon card. He must have been wandering aimlessly around recess whena well stocked friend gave him that first card.

We are, in our home, pop-culturally challenged. Until about a year ago Istill thought Pokemon was the full name of Gumby’s sidekick. Now, afterhaving had this phenomenon explained to me, I admit that I still don’t get it. Nevertheless, in my son’s class at school, if you’re not playing football,and you’re not trading Pokemon cards, you might as well hang out with the teachers.

After considering the alternative, my son decided to bring on the Charmanders, so one day after school he gets into the car chattering about having gotten a Staru from his friend. Then another friend swooped uponhim and traded a Fake Onyx. Based on what he told me, it seems he wentfrom having a card worth nothing to one worth even less than that.

It’s not that we haven’t tried to get more cards. Where is a Black Marketwhen you need one? These things are impossible to get! It’s occurred to me, though, in the mere week that we have joined the Rush to Pokemon, that the search for the cards is at least as much of the game as the game.

And probably more fun.

When my son goes to a friend’s house, instead of riding bikes or playing on the computer, they spend the entire time on the telephone calling any place rumored to have Pokemon cards. So I guess it can be said thatPokemon is educational, too. My son would never voluntarily look up atelephone number in the book.

Anyway, when they rush in to report who has them and who doesn’t, it is with such glee that I can’t imagine them having more fun doing whatever it was they did before. I’m tempted to mutter, “Whatever happened tomarbles?” But then I’d sound like my father, and I’m certainly not ready for that.

Yesterday we stopped at Blockbuster Video for an after-school movie. Myson blasts out of the store, grinning from ear to ear, “We just missed Pokemon cards!” he shouts. It was a brush with greatness.I believe that was the closest we have come so far to getting our hands on actual packs of cards. We could practically sniff them. As soon as wepulled away from Blockbuster, the phone rang. “Pokeman cards atWalgreen’s!” the caller said. I felt like a spy receiving new instructions. Savvy computer literate parents have cars with far less mileage, although it can’t be as much fun. They sit in front of that screen, credit card inhand, where Pokemon cards are only a click away. When the supply is out,no return trips are necessary; the nice screen clerk will be happy to put your name on the waiting list.

One of my son’s friends gave me that tip, as he outlined his plans to acquire all available Pokemon cards in the universe. Then he began to tellme how much they’re worth. (There are books speculating on the potentialvalue of these cards to collectors.)Judging by his degree of titillation as he relayed this information, I realized the fantasy of selling the cards is also part of this craze. I askedthis informed young man if he had ever seen or even heard of anyone paying money for a Pokemon card. “Well, no,” he said, completely undaunted.Another friend gushed, “A Holographic First Edition Japanese Dragonite is worth $150,000 dollars! His mother sneered, “Yeah, all you have to do is find some idiot stupid enough to pay it.”I chided her for her lack of enthusiasm. “I’m not the cheerleader,” sheexplained tartly, ” I’m the driver.”Back to Top

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