I was thinking of spring when I laced up my white and dark navy blue Air Force 1 high-tops. The shoes brought back memories of spring break in Austin where I'd purchased them on sale. The shoes were beautiful and new. Last year I called them my dancin' shoes. I wore them for every game.
The tops started to go after they were soaked in rain. I threw them in the washer and dryer and the toes bubbled up like a bad sunburn. I could not resist picking and I peeled the blistered folds.
The shoes are scrappy now, but not enough to be cool. I don't pull up my jeans to comment on them. Those damn toes peek out from below the break in my jean scars first. The rest of the shoes still have their appeal, but the toe reminds me of my lapse in vigilance.
This year I lost interest in any superstition. My thoughts turned to statistics and skepticism. Then ku came and a wry grin formed as I walked out the door.
"These are my lucky shoes."
I meant it ironically. It was the kind of foolishness that can only be entertained when you have no expectation that your desire will be satisfied. I gave it little thought despite the win. But I reached for the shoes again and again as games came and went. The shoes were comfort; a reminder of what was lost and what remained.
The shoes were there when I bumped in to triple f's wandering the concourse having seen me during a game. We were in a dream like state. Back in OKC. Back where we had punched our ticket with Huggins to the Big Dance two years prior. A long dark drive from where had sat in a Drury Inn. Out in the boonies. Hating Joe Lunardi, the bubble, RPI, and bracketology.
Time and miles passed.
This year the shoes were forgotten until that ku game. Fatty and I were as out of sorts as ever. Senior Day though. We showed early. Milled around the concourse with familiar faces, no one euphoric nor dreary despite the cold. Everyone was halfway to some emotion. No one really believed in much. Our hearts aren't ready to love unconditionally. It is a grown love. The lusty days of Denis are gone.
But then there's Jake. 3 Star Stink. Shoulders strong enough for a chip and the team. The Get-Up Kid.
The pre-game ceremony fell silent as his achievements were read out. Jacob awkwardly shifted his weight in anticipation. The crowd gave a strong ovation, Jake and his mom let some tears go. And the band played the fight song, then the Wabash.
I turned to Fatty, "Well that was nice."
"Yeah. Nice ceremony."
"Well, want to Wabash for old times sake."
We measured up, picked a to and a fro and Wabashed.
