Time Machine Skateshop Snapped a Rare Pokémon Deck. Is Resale Value Becoming More Important Than Skateboarding?

In a hobby increasingly driven by hype, resale values and the pursuit of rare objects, one controversial act has raised an interesting question: does every collectible deserve to be preserved?

There are certain things in skateboarding that people simply aren't supposed to destroy. Rare decks, limited-edition graphics and historically significant pieces can become treasured possessions, particularly when skateboarding crosses over with another collecting culture. Pokémon is one of the biggest examples of that crossover.

So when Time Machine Skateshop snapped a rare Pokémon skateboard deck, it was always going to attract attention.

For some collectors, the reaction is obvious: why destroy something rare when its scarcity is precisely what makes it desirable? For others, the incident raises a more interesting question. Has collecting become so obsessed with rarity and potential resale value that we've forgotten what skateboarding is actually about?

Personally, I think Time Machine Skateshop did the right thing.

When a skateboard becomes an investment

Skateboarding has always had collectible objects. Vintage decks, discontinued graphics, legendary collaborations and limited releases can all hold considerable appeal. Add Pokémon to the equation, and the audience expands beyond skateboarding into a global collecting market.

Pokémon is a particularly powerful brand because nostalgia, scarcity and fandom combine to create enormous demand for certain items. A skateboard featuring recognisable Pokémon imagery isn't just a skateboard anymore. To some buyers, it's a piece of pop-culture history, a display item or even a speculative asset.

That creates a strange situation. An object designed to be ridden becomes more valuable when nobody rides it. Its condition becomes more important than its function. A skateboard's greatest achievement, in the eyes of some collectors, is to remain untouched in its packaging.

But should every skateboard be treated like a museum exhibit?

Skateboarding was never supposed to be precious

The culture grew around experimentation, creativity and using equipment to do things that seemed impossible. Boards were ridden, scratched, broken and replaced. Damage wasn't necessarily a tragedy; it was evidence that the equipment had been used for its intended purpose.

Of course, modern skateboarding also has a legitimate collecting culture. Nobody should be criticised simply for preserving a rare deck, and some pieces genuinely deserve historical protection. Collecting and skating can comfortably coexist.

The problem begins when monetary value becomes the only measure of an object's worth.

If a rare skateboard becomes so precious that touching it is considered a crime against collecting, something has changed. The object may still be beautiful, but its relationship with skateboarding has become complicated.

Snapping a board challenges that mentality. It reminds people that a skateboard is a physical object, not an untouchable financial instrument.

Why the destruction matters

Destroying a rare deck is provocative precisely because it cannot easily be undone. The scarcity that made it desirable is now part of the controversy.

That doesn't automatically make the act admirable. Deliberately destroying historically important equipment can be wasteful, and collectors are entitled to feel disappointed when an irreplaceable item is damaged.

But controversy can expose the assumptions behind our reactions.

Why does a broken skateboard provoke such outrage? Is it because of the loss of a genuinely important piece of skateboarding history, or because somebody has destroyed something that could have been sold for a substantial amount of money?

Those are two very different objections.

If the outrage is primarily about lost resale value, then the argument is less about protecting skateboarding culture and more about protecting a market.

Collecting isn't the enemy. Obsession is.

There is nothing wrong with buying a rare deck, displaying it proudly or building a collection over many years. Collectors help preserve designs, document collaborations and maintain a record of skateboarding's evolution.

The distinction is between appreciating an object and treating its market price as its entire identity.

A skateboard can be valuable because of its design, history, cultural significance or personal meaning. It doesn't need to appreciate in price to matter. Equally, destroying something rare doesn't automatically make a statement worthwhile.

The context matters. Was the deck historically significant? Was it part of a limited collaboration? Was the act intended as a critique of speculation, a piece of performance or simply a provocative gesture? Without knowing the full motivation, it would be unfair to claim certainty about why Time Machine Skateshop did it.

Nevertheless, the reaction is revealing. The incident has forced people to confront the tension between skateboarding as a participatory culture and skateboarding as a market for increasingly scarce objects.

The uncomfortable question

Imagine two people looking at the same rare Pokémon deck.

One sees a collectible that might increase in value over the next decade. The other sees a skateboard that should be ridden, used and enjoyed.

Neither perspective is automatically wrong. But only one insists that the object's condition must remain unchanged for its value to survive.

Skateboarding has always involved a degree of irreverence. It takes ordinary objects and gives them new meaning through use, creativity and sometimes destruction. A snapped deck can therefore be interpreted as more than a damaged product: it can become a statement about ownership, scarcity and the expectations that collecting places on objects.

Whether that was Time Machine Skateshop's intention or not, the incident has created a debate worth having.

Final thoughts: a broken deck, an unbroken argument

I believe Time Machine Skateshop was right to challenge the idea that rarity automatically makes an object sacred. A skateboard doesn't lose its cultural identity simply because someone refuses to preserve it for a future buyer.

That doesn't mean every rare deck should be destroyed, or that collectors are wrong to value what they own. It means we should question a culture in which potential resale value can overshadow the original purpose of the object.

A skateboard can be art. It can be history. It can be a collectible. It can also be a skateboard.

Perhaps the real issue isn't that Time Machine Skateshop snapped a rare Pokémon deck. Perhaps it's that the act of breaking one has become more controversial than the idea of never using it at all.

When did skateboarding become more about protecting the price of a deck than celebrating the culture that created it?