The Price of Sneakers

It was a dreary day. I had left work in a haze of boredom and headed out to the wall of strip malls to feed my capitalistic glut, if you have nothing to do then go shopping.

I ended up at the shoe store in search of some brown work shoes, or so I told myself. But I spent the bulk of my time in the casual section trying on converse colors.

A boy of 12 or 13 walked by with a man in tow. He looked past every pair to the price tag. He did not want to see the shoe until he knew what it would cost him, or more accurately, his father.

Father: Do you see any you like?
Boy: They are all so expensive.
Father: Well, son, sneakers are expensive.

The boy looked disheartened.

Boy: They don't have any track shoes.
Father: I know, son, these will be for practice and for gym.

The boy looked sick and the father pulled his long fists from the pocket of his soiled jeans which hugged his hips below a pot belly that was covered by a second-hand muscle shirt and a raggedy, unbuttoned flannel. The father put his arm around his son. The two of them were completely out of place in something as swanky as a new shoe store where the other sons were jocularly negotiating to goad their parents into buying the most expensive shoes possible, like it was a sport. Daughters made a show over a pump or a Puma, buckling in the knees, promising bored parents they would be happy, finally, if they just had this one last thing.

This family looked as if they hadn't had anything new in their lives.

Father: Don't worry, son, we will find a way to get you track shoes, but for now you need a pair of nice sneakers.

And the boy timidly began trying on the least expensive pairs he could find.

I flashed back to a day in the early 90s. It was the week of my first soccer game. My single mother sat gaping at the price of cleats. Already she had a basketful of socks and shin guards - one pair each for my sister and I.

Mom: I didn't know cleats were so expensive.
Salesman: Oh yes, mam, these are the top of the line. Imagine how many goals your son, er, daughter could score in these.

He looked me up and down, then saw my sister.

Salesman: We have some pretty ladies cleats.
Mom: Well, girls, pick out the ones you like.

The cleats were on a wall. The kids cleats were a little lower than the adult ones. I picked up every pair and turned it over and pretended to be looking at them. But, really, I was trying to see inside to the price to find the pair that was the most affordable. The last pair I picked up was a pair of black Mitres, $15. They were all the wrong shape for scoring goals. And ugly, sinfully ugly. I knew the other kids were going to tease me.

Me: These ones, I want to try on these ones.
Mom: Hold on, put on these socks and shin guards first so we know they will fit.

I squeezed my foot into the shoe. It rubbed on my heel. It pinched my toes, it was hard to balance.

Me: They are perfect!

They were, if fact, bad enough to stunt my development as a player, but still, I scored my first goal in those shoes. I played my first half as a goalkeeper in those shoes. I fell in love with the sport I went on to play in college in those shoes. And they are still hanging on a hook in my mom's garage, waiting for me to come home to them.