Big Shoes to Fill

astontsui
astontsui
Jul 24, 2017 · 3 min read

Standing 5’7 (or 171 cm), I was not the shortest member of my high school basketball team, but I was certainly not the tallest either. For what I lacked in height though, I made up for in spirit. When asked to jump, I’d ask “how high?” When asked to run, I’d ask “how hard”. In my mind, there were no limits to physical exertion as long as I had the will to endure.

Off the court, will was not the sole measure of our value to the team. We had to integrate, get along, and develop trust and camaraderie amongst each other. The funny ones were favored and fortune favored the brave. Heart certainly mattered, but so did size. Stature came in all forms, whether it be verbal, humorous, or physical.

There was also a social hierarchy and a pecking order to the entire system, and me, being modestly meek, tended to stay quiet. Whenever we had meetings to discuss the game plans or the next fundraiser, I would sit in the back corner of the room, sticking to the other so-so players I was most familiar with.

One day, we were talking about our new team shoes. I didn’t care because I didn’t have seniority anyways, so I was willing to go with Nike, Adidas, or whatever the team wanted. It was decided that we would be sporting the Nike Huaraches that year, which was fine by me. And all was settled in my world and all I had to do was worry about the next practice where I would try to get yelled at as little as possible. Then the guy sitting in front of me passed along a sheet of paper.

On this sheet of paper were names. Names and numbers. At first I thought we were listing our jersey numbers but instead, we were listing our shoe sizes. I looked at the column of numbers and started to freak out. 12, 13, 10, 11, 15, 10. How the heck did these people have such gigantic feet? Nobody knew, but I was most comfortable in a size 8, but I probably could have worn a size 7.5 if they were on sale.

I suddenly found myself in a dilemma. I knew my shoe size, but did not want to list it, because then everyone would see my shoe size and would inevitably make fun of me to no ends, on and off the court. And not only that, but the sheet was only beginning to get passed around the whole room. This meant that one by one, each player would be able to look at the sheet and mentally take note of all the names and numbers. “You know what they say about small feet!” they’d say. I knew I would turn red and want to run out of the door, with my tiny quick feet moving as nimbly as a ninja.

“Yo, hurry up!” said the upperclassmen behind me. The clock was ticking. I had to make a decision. Do I shoot it with confidence knowing that it could be an airball or do I pass it, praying that no one would notice?

I grabbed my pen and mentally did the thing any sane teenager would do in my situation. I took the average of the shoe sizes and rounded up. 12, I wrote next to my name. Then I passed it back.

When the shoes arrived, 4 sizes too big, I put the shoes onto my feet and felt the empty space between my toes and the tips of the shoes. It was a good 2 inches of nothing but air. “This season is going to hurt,” I thought to myself.

I got blisters after every practice and game and I felt as if I was wearing clown shoes the whole season. My toes would crash into the end of the shoes when I stopped too hard and the shoes would bend in places that were unnatural, forcing my feet to bend unnaturally as well. I’d trip for seemingly no apparent reason, as if the painted lines on the court were painted too high.

I could jump as high as the coach wanted and run as hard as the team needed, but the next year, when it came time to list our shoe sizes, I knew that it was best to admit that I was only an 8.

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