Our Shoes
by Alex Huang | Grade 10 | Scholastic 2022 | Short Story | National Gold Medal
He sat chest height at his desk, staring. The early morning rays brightened his face, highlighting the stubble on his cheek and the intricate wrinkles on his forehead. For a second, his hands remained quite still as he held the scissors wedged between the line on the leather; then, seeing the rest of the pieces laying on the table, he mustered enough courage to cut the last section.
“Can this be?” he whispered to himself. “My best creation?”
The craftsman nodded in reassurance. He hummed as he stitched the pieces together, and I could feel his very pulse hasten as he thought of his final masterpiece, me, being worn by a famous basketball player. Call it the creator-created connection, or whatever you wish, but I could really envision what he was seeing in his mind’s eye. Shoes glistening from the bright spotlights. The player leaping, rising, performing a dunk with one hand, airborne. The suspense. the glory, and of course, the pride.
After a while, the vision fogged, then faded. The craftsman slid his fingers across the clear, orderly seams. Finally, he applied a coat of shiny white paint that seemed to perfectly reflect the golden rays of the morning summer sun. The light diffused and wove through the threads, my threads, illuminating our beauty, our perfection.
The craftsman nodded once more and set me on the front pedestal of his store.
That’s how I was born. Four years ago.
Back then, the craftsman was arrogant. He wanted us to be sold for a thousand dollars, and nothing less. I waited on the pedestal month after month, watching customers meander around the store, pick me up, and set me back down. The passing time created a layer of dust that hid my potential, but at least his small wooden shack offered decent protection against the elements. I sat, motionless, but also warm, cozy, and lonely. I pondered, waiting anxiously, not sure when the day would be when my creator would give up. Then, it came.
Unable to sell me, he hid me in the dumpster in desperation. There I was, cushioned between water bottles, a used toothbrush, and a dusty mattress for weeks until finally, a skinny hand yanked me by the collar. A smile spanned across his dusty face as he ran home, barely able to believe his own luck. He lived with dusty floors and ripped rags, but I didn’t mind. I felt treasured. He was my first owner, my only owner.
I’ll never forget the first time he tried me on. As his foot slid onto my inner sole, his toes still had an inch of space before touching the tip. It was certainly not a perfect fit. To be honest, the unoccupied space was quite obtrusive, but it allowed plenty of room for his feet to grow.
That evening, he shifted his weight left and right, then got up and jumped three times. I hung on to his feet just by the friction of our soles. As soon as he tied those shoelaces, we zoomed — off to the court. Back in those days, the “court” was made of dirt and the hoop didn’t even have a net. But that didn’t matter. We played for hours that day: hundreds of attempted lay-ups, mid-range floaters, and free throws. So many free throws! In those days, Darien’s form wasn’t great. Some extra muscle on his bones may have helped too, but boy did he have energy. Hoop after hoop. Shot after shot.
I’ll never forget when Darien made the team. As a freshman, I might add! He was timid back then, shaking with nervous energy as he ran beside the other six-foot basketball players on his school’s shiny polished practice court. His fingers, feet, and even his face trembled while holding the ball. Each dribble was a jarring crack and his every movement felt forced, exaggerated. His eyes were always wide, wide as a canyon, always looking around, but unable to really process anything. His teammate’s shoes squeaked hard against the waxed wooden floors, drowning every one of Darien’s shouts and pleas for passes. The wax soaked into the grooves of my sole as he stood, stuck in the center of the court.
“Here!” his teammate shouted. D turned, but he was slow, too slow. The ball flew at him and crashed into his nose, followed by a stream of blood. Some of it even landed on me, but D wiped it off before anyone could see. In fact, he wiped me off even before wiping his own nose.
D started as one of the most incompetent and inconsistent players of all time. He missed most of his free throws and even some wide-open lay-ups. During practices, D and I often spotted Coach’s head floating above the wall of players, his open mouth and balding head moving furiously as he traced his fingers from one player to the other. Most of the time, Coach was pointing at us. And not in a good way, I might add. But the more Darien practiced, the more clearly Coach saw his potential and the more he grew. I always supported him, giving him a little extra nudge whenever he pushed off my soles. At the end of those first months of practice, D moved up the ladder, and by the end of his season, D was a starter! He could barely touch the rim of the hoop, but he was a 3-point sharpshooter, a one-of-a-kind marksman.
I’ll never forget that first game. Harsh white lights soaked into our eyes, which also revealed the new yet familiar ten-foot hoop, but even it was daunted by the sky-high ceiling. The air was stale and dense, crowded with the sweat and gasps of breathless athletes. Kids shuffled around. Patches of sweat infested their backs. The pressure was immense, but Darien had spent all year preparing himself for the game. A left neck crack was followed by a right. A left dribble was followed by a right. A left corner three-pointer was followed by a right. My boy D was a machine! In just three quarters, he’d already smashed the school record for most three-pointers in one game. But it came at a cost. My wear was beginning to show by then, my paint already starting to chip off. Flakes of white dust revealed my bare leather skin.
I’ll never forget our last game. We were in the finals for college basketball. Darien was a small forward, number 12, repping Duke. Squeaks filled the large auditorium and stomps shook the wooden floor. The game flew by with both teams exchanging buckets and blows. But D was unstoppable. Whenever he got the ball, his feet pressed down on our soles, creating a magnificent force as he propelled upwards, just high enough for him to reach the rim and tip the ball into the hoop. As he landed, I winced. I could not keep up with his blazing pace. My seams moaned and loosened; my soles cracked and cried. Just one more game, I thought as I held on to my loose strands. My sweat-soaked interior gnawed and weakened the glue that held my inner sole in place.
I’ll never forget our final moments together. The score in the fourth quarter was 107–106. We were in the lead with thirty seconds left. D’s teammates urged him to use his spare shoes, but he remained loyal to me, and for that, I’ll always be grateful. “These were the shoes that started it, and these are the shoes that will end it,” he’d said. D had the ball, and his gaze fell to my broken seams as he swooped past the defenders. One by one, each step became more critical and increasingly difficult. But my final breaths pushed him on. All that mattered was helping Darien get to what he wanted to do: a slam dunk. He crossed the court in three significant strides, a perfect euro step. The air swirled around him and he floated and glided, while my ripped soles gasped and flapped. Still, I felt like a million bucks. He was where he needed to be and so was I. It was destiny.
I’ll never forget him. It’s been fifty years, and who would have thought that I would outlive him. Here I sit, back on the pedestal, in the Duke Hall of Fame Museum, marked as the first shoes of one of the most legendary and renowned college basketball players of all time: Darien “D” Hopkins. I was the shoe that got him that game-winning, championship-sealing slam dunk. He had a lot of other shoes in the years to come, but I would always be his first. I’d always be his and he’d always be mine. Our souls linked. Our shoes. Our victory.
