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David Spates The panacea for slow white kids? Man, if I only had a pair of Zips. I'd be
able to outrun everyone on the playground. Nobody would be able
to catch me. All they'd see is a Z scratched in the dirt and
a cloud of dust where I once stood. That was my thinking back in the day. When
I was a kid, I wanted to run fast, and I was convinced that all
I needed was the right pair of shoes. Zips were the key. On Saturday mornings, the
commercials between "Scooby-Doo" and "The Superfriends"
vividly demonstrated how Zips could make any kid a speedster.
It was simple: Buy the shoes, scuff your feet on the ground to
make two parallel lines, connect the lines at opposite corners
with a diagonal line, thereby creating a Z, and you were off,
leaving an audible whoosh and a Zorro-esque mark in your wake.
Zips! In the late 1970s, I was a big, slow, white
kid. (Incidentally, here in the oughts or whatever it is we're
supposed to call this decade, most of that description has increased
geometrically -- I'm bigger and slower. I doubt I'm significantly
whiter.) Big was fine. White was fine. Slow was unacceptable. Athletically, I could hold my own, but adding
speed to the equation would have skyrocketed my social status
on the playground, and when you're 9 years old, there is no more
important status than playground status. School bus status was
big, I grant you, but the bus was too restrictive to properly
showcase one's talents. The playground was where legends were
forged. So with visions of blazing from base to base
on the kickball diamond, I convinced my mother than I needed
a pair of Zips. Off to the local Buster Brown we went, returning
with a snazzy pair of red-and-white Zips. I have no idea what
they cost at the time. Like most products directed toward children
during Saturday morning cartoons, I'm sure Zips were overpriced.
You could probably poke around eBay and find a vintage pair cheaper
today. The next day I headed off to Cedar Bluff Intermediate
School in my gleaming red canvas Zips with white racing stripes.
Anxious to strut my stuff on the playground, I counted the hours
until recess. The playground was soon to be covered in Zs, and
I was to be a big, FAST white kid -- champion of the oppressed,
the sparkle in young girls' eyes, and the kickball king of the
third grade. That's when I learned a good lesson regarding
advertising. Don't believe everything you see on TV, and believe
even less when you're watching Saturday morning cartoons. The Zips didn't make me run any faster. Despite
scratching countless Z's in the dirt like some sort of autistic
chicken, I was still big, I was still white, and, regrettably,
I was still slow. I continued to wear my Zips, and sometimes
I'd even give the Z another chance to reveal its magic, but it
never did. Dejected, I decided to focus my efforts on my school
bus presentation, where it didn't matter that I was slow. I mentioned that I learned my lesson? Well,
that's only partly true. I learned it for a little while. Years
later, in the eighth grade, my foolhardy quest for speed continued.
This time was a little different, however. I was still white,
granted. I was still slow, of course. But in the eighth grade,
I was a really big boy. I was 14, and I could wear my father's
shoes. More importantly, I could also swipe my father's shoes. Dad had a pair of god-awful-ugly yellow Nike
running shoes with a blue swoosh. They were light as a feather,
like a good running shoe should be. I knew that my class would
be running the mile in gym class the next day, and I knew that
my chances of turning in a decent time were rather slim. As with the Zips incident those many (well,
five) years ago, I had it in my mind's eye that if I had some
running shoes -- serious running shoes, shoes designed by the
best and brightest researchers Nike could afford -- that all
my troubles would be solved. Nike made great shoes, I thought,
and any pair of shoes as ugly as Dad's must perform miraculously.
Call it a theory of function over form. With the baby-poop-colored Nikes clandestinely
stashed my gym bag, I headed off to school for my date with what
was sure to be a time reminiscent of Roger Bannister. Of course,
it didn't happen. Big, slow, white, as always. I felt like a
moron for thinking that the shoes would have made any difference.
The one saving grace of the whole experience was that my gym
teacher noticed my shoes and commented on how much he liked them.
He and Dad must have bought their shoes at the same store. I'm 31 now, and I'm still big, white and slow. I've come to terms with my tortoise-like gait. It doesn't bother me anymore. What I'm looking for now is a way to get even bigger and, if possible, even whiter. I wonder if there are any shoes that could do it. · · · |