Pele Had a First Pair of Cleats or How Not to Cry In a Payless Shoe Store

I'm somewhat reluctant to admit this (No.  Not that I almost cried in an open-to-the-public, discount shoe retailer.  I'm fine with that.), but Ginger and I have decided to let Walt play in one of those one-month long, we-don't-keep-score-because-we're-all-winners-here, co-ed youth soccer leagues next month.  My initial reservations were, well, myriad.  I grew up somewhat of a sports purist and remain largely unchanged.  Girls play against girls, and you play to win.  And that typically means you have to keep score.  Call me old-fashioned. 

But.  Chalk it up to maturity (or fear), because when Ginger pitched the idea, I didn't say any of that.  I think I said, "Does this mean we get to buy him some soccer cleats?"  That was quickly followed up with a threat to show me the family budget, which I have avoided viewing for over ten years now, and an assurance that were I to look at it, it would resemble that of most of the investment banks in the country. 

What good are sports, especially ones that Spicklers can't dominate, i.e. all of them, if you can't go out and buy the best gear?  So, after some intense negotiations worthy of ol' Hank Paulson himself, I garnered authority to "not spend a lot of money" on some shoes for my son's first foray into organized, albeit not competitive, sports. 

After checking the Internet, including eBay, and finding out that, yes, you really can spend $85 on single-purpose footwear for a pre-schooler, I decided that we needed a new plan.  Lo and behold, I found myself with an opening Monday afternoon as I picked up Walt from school while Ginger helped run her employer's annual golf tournament.  We quickly dispatched with the trip to the Children's Museum and got on to the business at hand.  I'd identified Rack Room as my best bet for a brick-and-mortar footwear bargain as I've had much success there myself over the years.  However, I was foiled by what were, I'm certain, a cadre of similarly situated and budgetarily constrained fathers in the greater East Memphis area.  They had one final pair of sweet Nikes.  15 bucks.  Size 13.  Try again.

Plan B: Payless.  Walt is not too good for off-brand kicks, at least until he proves himself.   And, hey, I remember my first pair of athletic cleats.  Cuga, a brand name that doesn't even yield a decent Google result in a World Wide Web dominated by my generation.  Embarrassment or brand collapse?  Probably both.   Fine footwear they were not.

Regardless, Payless delivered.  One style.  Made in China.  Just like the Nikes at Rack Room, mind you.  And multiple sizes.  After almost having to sedate Walt three separate times for the three different sizes we tried, we found the ones.  Size 9.  At the end of the aisle.  "Run down to the other end and see how they feel,"  I instructed, as if he knew what a pair of soccer shoes were supposed to feel like.  Of course, he ran.  This is why I had barely been able to keep him in one place long enough to tie each of them: once he found out that he got to run each time we tried on a new pair, he was hopeless. 

"Can I run to the orange thing, Daddy?  Can I?" 
"Not yet.  Let me get the paper out first, Walt."

Finally, with the impossibly small black and silver spikes strapped to his tiny little feet, he took off with that all too familiar stride and enough energy to play 90 minutes right then and there.  I don't know what it was.  My own memories of new cleats or pads or helmets or gloves.  How big those stupid shoes made him look.  Or the foreknowledge that I would be the one taking him to his first practice today and watching him run around in dizzying circles with his buddies in those same shoes not caring where the ball is.  Whatever.  I had to check over my shoulder to make sure the clerk hadn't come out of the stock room.  I teared up real good.   Like a big, goofy crybaby.

So much for teaching him to be tough, huh?  At least they're not keeping score . . .