Some people - which I don't understand - kind of get mad like

P. J. Tucker, warrior of the basketball courts, spoke words that carry both simplicity and profound truth: “Some people—which I don’t understand—kind of get mad like I’m disrespecting shoes. I’m like, ‘They are sneakers, they are meant to be worn, meant to be played in.’ And I hate when people use them as trophies. They are sneakers. It’s one of my pet peeves. I got pairs if I don’t want to wear, I will get a couple pairs of them.” Though at first his words seem to speak only of sneakers, in truth they echo an eternal wisdom: that the purpose of a thing is in its use, not in its idle display.

The ancients would have understood this well. A sword was not forged to rest upon a wall, gathering dust as a relic; it was forged to defend the helpless, to fight for justice, to carve peace out of chaos. A lyre was not strung to sit in silence; it was meant to be played, to awaken the soul with melody. So too does Tucker remind us that sneakers—symbols of movement, energy, and vitality—fulfill their purpose not as untouched trophies, but when they carry the weight of footsteps across the court, when they are baptized in sweat and effort.

This is more than a reflection on shoes. It is a rebuke against the human tendency to worship possessions, to elevate objects above the life they were meant to serve. The one who treats sneakers as holy relics forgets the higher purpose: that they are crafted to liberate the body into motion, to make play possible, to be vessels of performance. To cage them in closets or display them in glass is to deny their destiny. And to deny the destiny of a thing is, in a sense, to deny the destiny of oneself.

History bears witness to this truth. Think of the Spartan warriors, whose shields were not ornaments but lifelines. Each shield was precious, yet no Spartan would dare mount his upon a wall in idleness, for its meaning came only in the clash of battle, in defending the life of the one beside him. Or recall the pens of revolutionary writers—Voltaire, Thomas Paine, Frederick Douglass—simple instruments of ink and wood. They were not cherished as fragile treasures; they were wielded fiercely, their ink staining the world with ideas that ignited nations. Tools, whether of leather, metal, or ink, are sacred not in being preserved, but in being used.

Tucker’s passion teaches us also about authenticity. In a world that often values image over essence, collecting over living, he calls us back to the real. Sneakers are not crowns, they are companions. They are not trophies, they are tools. Just as life itself is not meant to be admired from afar but lived with vigor, so too the things we hold must be brought into action. The lesson is universal: honor the purpose, not the pedestal.

From this, we learn the way forward. In our lives, let us not imprison our gifts, talents, or possessions. Do not keep your voice silent when it was meant to speak. Do not hide your strength when it was meant to act. Do not hoard what was given to you to share. Just as Tucker wears the shoes he loves, use the gifts you have been entrusted with. For they grow in meaning only through expression.

Therefore, let the wisdom of these words be carried into your own days: live with use, not with idle display. Let your tools be worked, your talents poured forth, your possessions serve their purpose. For in the end, no one will remember the unworn sneakers or the unused gifts—they will remember the life lived, the battles fought, the games played, the songs sung. To honor something is not to preserve it untouched, but to fulfill the purpose for which it was made. This is the lesson of sneakers, and it is the lesson of life.