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Our resident deacon investigates the gym shoe and lives to tell the tale

by Montford Manassas

I got up one Saturday morning, took a shower, and got dressed. I couldn't find my sandals, and it was too hot for boots. That was the point at which I suddenly realized that I did not own a pair of tennis shoes. And me a former varsity tennis star—recipient of the 1986 Science Hill High School tennis team "Most Improved" award, thank you very much.

I haven't played much tennis since then, which I feel a bit guilty about. If there's a sport out there at which I don't suck, I should keep up with it, or at least drop it a postcard now and then. But this! I couldn't go out and play a game of tennis if I wanted to, simply because I didn't have any shoes! How did I degenerate into this sordid condition?

I no longer knew how to go about buying tennis shoes, either. The last pair I bought was in 1992, somewhat before athletic footwear was such a thing (hell, at that point, Michael Jordan had won only two NBA championships). Now that the airwaves were full of ads for shoes incorporating technology NASA didn't have when Neil Armstrong planted his size 11s on the moon, what was I to do?

I picked up the Metro Pulse "Best of Knoxville" issue and looked up "Best Shoe Store." Just For Feet—where the 13th pair is free! I couldn't go wrong there, even though at my current rate of purchase, I'd be enjoying that 13th pair on my 115th birthday.

So I hopped in the Saturn and toodled out to the footwear megalopolis by East Towne Mall (don't give me that "Knoxville Center" crap). I immediately sensed that I was in over my head (or feet, as it were) when I was greeted outside the door by a security guard—unarmed, at least to the naked eye, but sporting a badge, a wireless headset rig, and a nametag that identified him as "Just For Feet Security." No rent-a-cop, this man, and I could tell that he didn't like my looks.

"Good morning, sir," he said, fixing me with a cool stare that made me want to confess to crimes I never committed. "How are you today?" "Um, fine, sir!" I managed to squeak before scuttling inside. My fear and confusion were compounded by signs bearing ominous rules and inexplicable protocol, such as, "Absolutely no photography inside" and "Don't forget to add your shoes to the family plan. It's not automatic." By this time, I was on the verge of a bona fide sneaker freakout.

I took a few deep, calming breaths and looked around. Right off the bat, I was puzzled by the name of the place. Just For Feet? If I had walked up wearing basketballs, sports bras, or promotional umbrellas on my feet, I would have never made it past that security guard, let me tell you.

And the shoes themselves! When did footwear become the last frontier of graphic design? There were rows and rows of shoes that might've been commissioned by David Bowie for the Ziggy Stardust tour. All I wanted was a basic pair of tennis shoes—something without bladders, pumps, or orifices.

I began searching around, wondering if such a shoe was still made. In the course of the quest, I came upon the realization of just how powerful Michael Jordan really is—the "Air Jordan" line does not bear the Nike logo. Hell, if there was an "Air Bill Gates," I bet it'd still have that swooshTM.

Fortunately, there isn't an "Air Bill Gates." But there is the venerable Converse Chuck Taylor, the Model T of the NBA and a staple of my own childhood. And o lordy, what's that over there? The Adidas Stan Smith, far more obscure but nearly as retro, and still in production? I grew more baffled by the minute. Stan Smiths are like my 1972 Kenwood receiver with its dial that moves a needle along a horizontal chart of radio frequencies that you have to twiddle with manually to get just right. Pretty snazzy 25 years ago, but nothing more than basically functional now. Yet there they were, sitting two rows over from a pair of space boots made purportedly for the playing of basketball.

Eventually, I did find what I was looking for—a simple canvas shoe with tasteful blue accents. "Ah, here we go," I think, shifting back into my familiar clothing-purchase mode—jump in, grab what you came for, jump out—until, by what I suspect to be a masterwork of product-placement psychology, I was seduced by a slightly snazzier pair a couple rows down. Not too close to be overtly flirtatious, but just close enough for an easy shift of focus. It was the kind of thing that people in singles bars have been trying to perfect since forever.

Needless to say, they were a few dollars more. And they were the sweeties I took home with me, but not to worry—they still embodied that sense of quiet dignity that all my friends have come to associate with my persona. None of this "Dual-Cantilever Twin Overhead Cam" stuff for me, thank you.

And now I can rejoin civilized company, standing tall in my sneakers, that basic element of footwear you'd assume everyone has a pair of. Tennis, anyone?