Excuse me, but is there a decent size 13 basketball shoe left in the five boroughs of New York? I've been to seven different stores, including Paragon, and every time I ask for my size, the hapless, underpaid shoestore employee comes back and says some shit like "the biggest we have is a 9 1/2."
9 1/2! I haven't worn that size since the NBA gave up on Chuck Taylors, for god's sake. When the shoe guys return from the bowels of the store, they're usually holding a size 14 pink women's volleyball sneaker and gossiping about how fucked up the shoe racks are. They remind me of the scene in "Raising Arizona" when Glenn tells Hi how he had to wait five years to adopt a healthy white baby ("I said 'Five years? What else you got?' Said they got two Koreans and a negro born with his heart on the outside").
The shoe I really want, poetically enough, is Vince Carter's signature line, the heel of which looks like something off the draft table of a 19th-century carriage designer. All I desire is something that has ankle support and doesn't jar my back when I land, and unfortunately, those are the shoes that cost the most. Tessa and I have a little rule about things we'll spend good money on, and one of them is "stuff that will be constantly touching your skin." Technically, shoes don't count for me, as there are socks in the way, but it's still in the spirit, right?
Other rules include "stuff that impacts your career," "places where you fall asleep," and "experiences that don't come along that often." You'd be surprised how often these things come up.
Having failed on the basketball shoe quest, I wore my old high-top Nikes to hoops tonight, mindful that these were the same shoes I wore every day to the Pink House shoot last year. They have zero bouncy-ness left (you wouldn't either, if you'd been at that shoot) but I still managed to play relatively well. Dripping with the sweat of my compadres, I trucked over the Brooklyn Bridge to Brooklyn Heights, where I got to descend into an already-full-steam gossip session with Tessa, Lorraine Tobias, Nell Casey, and Virginia Heffernan - four of the reigning queens of media in full dander. Most guys don't get such pleasures as to hear these women swap stories, and I consider myself blessed to be surrounded by such company. I mean, but for the grace of god, I could still be fixing ham radios in Brad Loney's basement.
Posted by at July 11, 2002 8:27 PM