A long, long time ago way back in the 20 aughts, there was a girl. She dreamed of making the middle school basketball team, a team that would go on to have a, like 2(?) win season.
Now after making the team, she was super excited for all the perks of being a student athlete. Middle school was hell so every little bit helped. There would be team photos for the yearbook, gossip sessions on the way to games, some sort of branded merch to help them feel like a team (it ended up being dope windsuits). First on the list was team shoes. Very important. They would break them in during practice together, wear them to all their games, and potentially sign them at the end of the season to auction off to one lucky bidder who wanted a keepsake from the 2005-2006 season (that never happened).
At practice the girls all agreed on a pair of shoes, the Nike something or others. They were black in the front, white in the back, and that is literally all I remember. And judging by the plot of this story, all I really knew back then as well. It's true...I am the girl from the story. A power forward with two left feet and nothing to lose!
My dad picked me up from practice and had Patrick with him. I am never sure how to refer to Patrick. I usually just tell people that we're related by marriage or that I'm his AA sponsor, but sometimes I want to convey that he is the older of my younger brothers. Saying oldest brother I guess is closest? Maybe I should start referring to him as Patrick from the year of our Lord and Savior, 1997.
Anyways. I tell Dad we gotta get those shoes and we head to the premier sneaker shop of the area, Siler City Shoe Show. It was likely closing very soon and as a teenage girl playing basketball and wearing a size 8 (or anywhere from a 7-10 for the right price), I would have dozen to choose to from. That's not a typo. There were maybe 12.
So we comb the shelf (also not a typo) and my dad finds some options based on the very specific and technical description I have given him: black and white Nikes. But I insist that these are not right. Those can't be the shoes. Do I remember clearly how they looked? No. But do I have a friend I can call to ask? Also no.
You see, most of my friends had cell phones at this point but in my parents' determination to exacerbate the torture that is middle school, they deprived me of a cell phone, access to makeup, a hair straightener, and pop music. While everyone else was begging their mom for the new Backstreet Boys CD, I was wondering why they never played Amy Grant at the school dances. When asked if I liked the Black Eyed Peas I looked at my classmates like they were insane. "No ew! My grandma loves them though."
After quite a few minutes spent talking to the salesperson and confirming his theory, my father insisted that these had to be the shoes. I was still unsure. "IDK Dad" - scratch that, I didn't have a phone yet so I probably said "I don't know" like a freakin' caveman. "I just don't think these are the shoes that I saw earlier. What if these aren't the right ones and then I never get to play?" My dad, bless his heart, pretended that this was of true concern. Surely the wrong shoes would be the shackle keeping me on the bench and not my inability to pick and roll, less than mediocre free throw percentage or refusal to practice alone at home.
To my surprise, my dad seemed to believe me. He said we could go. My dad, my AA sponsee and I walked out of the store. That's not the opening to a joke, it's what actually happened. When we got in the car my dad said that we were going to Dick's. A sporting goods store with a wider selection that also happened to be 45 minutes away. On a school night.
My parents are not spontaneous people. My dad wasn't suddenly taken with the notion of a Tuesday jaunt to the suburbs in search of sneakers, he was proving a point. I briefly considered reporting myself as kidnapped, but with what phone? And I realized that ultimately my mother would likely kill him upon our return. I thought she was mad when my dad randomly took me to Walmart after a softball practice and suggested I get my ears pierced. Now whether she was mad because this should have been a mother/daughter thing or mad because I was 8 and they inevitably grew in sometime between softball tournaments and basketball practices - I can't say. But how much more mad would she be that he took us all the way to Apex on a school night?! I could be attending a funeral, I could be having 2 Christmases. Either way, I wanted to see how this would shake out.
Ever the diplomat, I tried to deescalate the situation. "Dad we really don't have to go get them tonight, it's okay. Maybe this weekend?" And instead of saying something akin to "it's fine sweetie, I've been wanting to get more NC State polos anyway," he said that since I didn't believe him we would go to Dick's Sporting Goods and see.
I don't really remember but I think I cried. I was legit scared. He didn't seem mad per say, just over me in general. A sentiment I've grown very apt at detecting in others. And he wasn't wrong. I was (and am) a lot. He needed to prove to me that the Shoe Show shoes were the correct ones, and the way to do that was to take me to see more shoes. Or maybe he was going for sleep deprivation torture? Who's to say?
We all rode practically in silence, just straight down the highway, for nearly an hour. Patrick would have been in 3rd grade, probably wondering if he would ever see his Pokemon cards again. We finally got to the store and viewed their entire selection of shoes. Girl, boy, Nike, Adidas, hiking, golf, basketball, waterproof, glow in the dark, light up, clearance, sale. And after all of that - sweeping us off to the suburbs under the cover of the night, leaving my mother at home alone with a 2 year old Colby (he's easy - youngest brother), not once stopping for gas or food, going off of only rage and exasperation - he was right. In Dick's we found the exact same shoes that were the only thing close to what I was envisioning.
I don't know what the moral of this story is I just know that I am glad North Carolina's safe surrender laws only extend to the first 7 days and not the first 7 grades.
Thanks dad, that one's on me.
