When Lucky Isn’t Lucky

I had just gotten back into the hobby, looking for rookie autographs, guaranteed inserts, and limited print runs. I told myself, now that I’m an adult, I can afford the nicer stuff. And then—I hit the biggest card of my life: a Sandy Koufax Chrome Legends Autograph Black Refractor, numbered 9/10.

I was stunned. Looked up comps. Called a buddy. It felt like I hit the jackpot. And just like that, I was hooked.

Over the next few weeks, I bought a few boxes each week—$500 to $1,500 at a time. I was excited to visit my local card shop. I kept pulling decent cards, maybe even broke even. I felt lucky. I felt in control. And all I wanted was more.

Then, in October, a friend of a friend introduced me to personals on Instagram—”percys”. Suddenly, I could buy cards live, any night of the week. With a huge selection and an audience watching.

That $500-$1,500 a week? It turned into $10,000–$50,000 a week.
And I stopped caring. I thought I was winning.

One of my first Instagram rips? I pulled an Optic Gold Vinyl 1/1 of a top NFL rookie. I couldn’t believe it. My first one of one. I felt unstoppable.

And then came Whatnot.

It started with singles. Then breaks. At first I thought breaks were silly—why risk getting nothing when I could buy a full box? But then I found the high-stakes breaks. Card drafts. Wheel spins. Massive chase cards. It felt like a game I had to win.

Soon, my weekly spending became my daily spending.

$10,000 to $50,000 a day.

At the time, it was thrilling. I was vibing with the chat, pulling heat, feeling like a king. The breakers rolled out the red carpet—shirts, card stands, voice notes, free hits when I missed. No one ever mentioned limits. No one asked if I was okay.

I would’ve done anything to keep going. To keep feeling like I belonged.

But at what cost?

Eventually, I had to face the truth.
I lied to myself. I lied to my wife. I lied to my kids.
I became selfish. Cards were all that mattered.

In just a few months, I spent over $1 million on cards and breaks.

And for what?

The joy I once felt from collecting my favorite players had been replaced by a need to hit the biggest card possible. The hobby became something else entirely.

This is not what collecting is supposed to be.
I lost myself.

And I’m sharing this now for anyone out there who might be sliding into the same pattern—and doesn’t realize it yet.

#CollectorsMD
Hitting big doesn’t mean you’re winning—especially when you’re losing yourself.

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