The New Testament says “the love of money is the root of all evil”, but I believe the devil is in the detail.

My relationship to money is a strange one. Having been poor, claims that it couldn’t buy happiness didn’t ring true for me, so I’m not surprised this sad rich guy fiction was debunked by a number of studies.

As a kid, we had more money than some and less than others. I hadn’t seen bank statements, but made this assumption based on the economic indicators available to a ten-year-old, like the size of the family home. Being that we lived in a humble weatherboard house, I knew we weren’t atop the rich list. (I secretly wished our place was brick, believing it represented a more premium build). The only other obvious way to gauge someone’s finances, in a schoolyard where we all wore the same uniform, was by the shoes they wore.

This was in many respects the more important metric for where a classmate sat in society’s class structure, as only a few friends would visit your house, but everyone saw what was on your feet. The right pair of runners could easily wallpaper over the cracks in your weatherboard abode.

Even at this young age, having money, or not being poor, felt like it mattered. Like it was a proxy for your parents success. As for which footwear denoted wealth, it was largely based on the basketballer that wore them. This was the early 90s and the NBA was in the process of blowing up here in Australia.

There was very little access to games on TV, but we caught snippets when they aired. We also bought magazines that detailed what went down on the courts half a world away. But a couple of years later, thanks to the advent of basketball cards, our connection to the sport became stronger.

I had been a collector of AFL cards and stickers, and loved learning more about the teams, the players, and their individual statistics from them. They were valuable as a set and to swap with friends, but as pieces of rectangular paper, there was no monetary value attached to any of them. That’s where basketball cards were different.

Thanks to Beckett, a monthly booklet that acted as a universal price guide, we learned there was a very real(ish) dollar amount assigned to certain rare-to-find gems. Because of that, buying a pack of basketball cards wasn’t just an educational pastime, but akin to a ticket in a fun NBA themed lottery. The thrill of cracking open a crisp pack of UpperDeck, Skybox or Fleer to find a “one in thirty-two packs” special was addictive. The right one could be worth as much as $100 to you. (see: a lot of money for a kid in 1994).

Beckett put in plain sight that Alonzo Mourning was considerably more valuable (to us, and his franchise) than Mookie Blaylock, and that Reggie Miller was more coveted (on and off the court) than Chris Jackson (now Mahmoud Abdul-Rauf). From this, we knew who was who, and what shoe he wore.

Michael Jordan was the best player, as evidenced by his accolades and card re-sell value. It stood to reason that the shoes he wore were the most decorated as well: Nike. But other kicks put a kid at the top end of the schoolyard income test too and I was lucky enough to have one such pair.

SIDE NOTE: “Air Jordans” were outside the reach of almost everyone at my school, but for one boy in the year above me. For a short period, they elevated him from relative obscurity to the most known kid at school. Such was their cache; people would do favours for him in exchange for a short walk in his Jordans. (Don’t worry, it wasn’t as sinister as it sounds).

In 1994, my grandparents were going to the USA and United Kingdom, so they measured up my foot and returned six weeks later with some Reebok “Cross Trainer” Pumps for me. Like those worn by Shaquille O’Neal. He was the new generation of NBA star, with a penchant for pulling down backboards, so Reebok were to be respected. Converse was the other brand you could comfortably brandish down the corridors thanks to Larry Johnson of the Charlotte Hornets.

At the other end of the shoe envy spectrum was Aerosport and Lynx. These treads told of hard times and a probable cash flow crisis. Rather than being sold in a sports store or worn by a NBA superstar, they had a reputation for being cheap and you could pick them up at Kmart. I never owned a pair of either, but some years we were clearly short of funds. I recall leaving SportsPower with a pair of Slazengers and worrying what it meant for me. Being embarrassed about my footwear sounds silly now, but I wasn’t the only one feeling self-conscious.

I remember attending a friend’s 10^th birthday party and arriving to find him begrudgingly sporting a new pair of white and orange runners. He tried to swap into an older pair but his parents urged him to keep them on. So, as we ran around outside and played games, he went about purposely scuffing them up and rubbing them in dirt, all to try and hide the word “Sfida”.

An over-emphasis of what was on my feet continued into high school. I wanted to wear Doc Martens when in school uniform, and Airwalks on Physical Education days. Then around fifteen or sixteen I started to let that go. I don’t remember what footwear anyone wore after Year 9 and had learned you could rock (almost) anything if you wore it with confidence. It also dawned on me that we were all at the same school, and in the same lower-middle to middle class household income band. But by the time I was 19, after my parents separated and Mum and I moved out, we no longer were, and money was much tighter.

I was going to university and only working occasionally at a video store. Because I had finished school, I was now paying board, which I bemoaned. I’m sure there was a valuable money-related lesson learned somewhere in there, but at the time I wasn’t looking to spend $50 a week on a financial literacy course that carried no credit towards my actual degree.

A year later, despite living in a brick house and wearing Nike shoes, Mum and I were, to the best of my knowledge, poor. She wasn’t working much. Me neither. I was getting financial assistance from the Government (shoutout John Howard), but it didn’t stretch far. I recall us relying on food donations, but our financial situation was in no way representative of my Mum’s success.

She is the sort of person who is generous with money, despite never really having an abundance. It’s an admirable quality. I think / hope I have inherited that trait. If someone skips out on a shout, I’m not fussed. If I’m on the wrong end of a badly split bill, I figure it will even out in the long run.

NOTE: if I owe you money, please sing out! I won’t be offended and am mortified to think I’d forgotten to settle an outstanding debt.

For me, this was my first experience of being forced to say no to things, and it sucked. It wasn’t as though I was at home in tattered clothes and covered in soot, but I couldn’t afford nights out and did have to forgo things. While still happy, I’d be lying if I claimed to be indexing higher in that respect than a year earlier.

By the time I was 22, I had completed my course and was working full-time. I felt rich. My bankroll woes behind me. This led to an upswing in overall satisfaction, and it was all thanks to having money. But I had to write off some of my newfound bliss, like a bad debt, against the disgust I had for the job I’d taken. I shouldn’t have let it go on so long.

I could’ve worked fewer hours. Found a part time gig to pay my way. Work to live instead of live to work. But (somehow) I stuck it out for seven years. Looking back, the fear of being broke again must’ve been a major reason why.

As a teenager, when I had the security of parents to clothe and feed me, I’d elected to work and earn just enough to be comfortable. It’s why I chose to enjoy a job at Movieland for a slave wage, rather than get paid double and have half as much fun in the IGA deli. But as an adult, with board and bills to pay, and the memories of missed nights out with my friends still fresh, I’d forgotten that.

The month I turned 30, I quit my uninspiring job and took a hefty pay cut to re-train as a high school teacher. A grossly underpaid and under-appreciated profession. I knew I’d never be rich doing it, yet immediately felt a lot happier. It turns out money can buy happiness… up to a point.

Having had none, it felt good to have some, but there’s a dollar amount for everyone where satisfaction plateaus. Depending on what you read, that number could be as low as $80,000 a year (or all the way up to half a million bucks). If you’re thinking that earning twice as much will bring double the joy to your life, it’s unlikely.

For me, the annual income figure isn’t that high, and once I exceed it, I get far greater results investing my energy elsewhere.

All those years working the wrong job weren’t a complete waste though. They bought me one thing that made it all worthwhile. It wasn’t shoes, basketball cards, or the ability to shout an uncanny amount of strangers’ beers on a night out - instead, the freedom to take a break, change careers, and try new things.

I wish I’d known at the age of ten that there was no relationship between the shoes a person wears and their families fortune. It might’ve helped me be less self-conscious. (You’ve got a lot to answer for Nike and Reebok marketers).

I wish I’d known sooner that there’s no relationship between a person’s income and their intelligence, nor is there a positive correlation between someone’s net worth and their worthiness. Still, I’m happy I learned it all as early as I did.

ZP / NpG

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