It was the fifth game of the 1997 NBA finals. Sweating profusely and at times leaning against his teammate Scottie Pippen’s body for support, Michael Jordan somehow scored 38 points while battling a severe case of influenza. Later, while hooked up to an IV drip in the locker room, MJ stuffed his damp socks into his black-and-red Air Jordans and handed them—flu bugs and all— to an elated ball boy.
Presumably the virus was no longer viable 16 years later, when the former ball boy sold Jordan’s autographed “flu game” shoes for $104,765 at auction. The figure garnered headlines back then, long before the spectacular rise in sports-memorabilia prices that would follow the onset of the pandemic. Had the money been invested in the S&P 500 in 2013, it would now be worth $351,000. Instead, the Jordans were auctioned again in June for $1.38 million.
Once associated with basement hobbyists who jammed baseball cards and game-ticket stubs into shoeboxes, sports memorabilia is emerging as an industry akin to the art market, fueled by testosterone-driven valuations and replete with appraisers, rating agencies, authenticators, specialized insurance, leased vaults, and elite security systems.
Prices have skyrocketed with sale after record-breaking sale, causing many a baby boomer to rue the day their mother threw out their baseball-card collection with the trash.
Anthony Giordano, whose mom tossed his cards when he was drafted into the Air Force at 18, began building a new collection with his two sonsMantle Topps “rookie” card for $50,000 from a legendary baseball collector named Al “Mr. Mint” Rosen.
