Hot Kicks

Retro sneakers generate new electricity

BY BRETT O'BOURKE
bo'bourke@herald.com

I was a poor kid growing up, and like most poor kids I wanted stuff my parents couldn't afford. I wanted Z Cavaricci clothes from Chess King instead of the 3-for-$20, assorted-colored shirts from JW. I wanted a Members Only jacket, not some no-name knock-off. And most of all, I wanted the latest sneakers. Cool kicks.

Sneakers were the great equalizer. You could get away with wearing a lot of generic stuff if you had hip shoes. To this day I will never forget the poor sap in middle school whose misguided mother sent him to school wearing stark white, McGregor sneakers with the little black rubber cleats on the bottom. Even then, before I had glanced at my first issue of GQ, I knew they were awful. To make matters worse, everyone knew there was just one place to get McGregors: Kmart. He always got picked last in gym class.

In my worst nightmare I am back in middle school, running around the halls in nothing but tighty-whities and a pair of those hideous McGregors.

Fortunately, from the very beginning, my sweet, blessed mother spared me from the horror of generic shoes. There are pictures of adolescent me wearing Moonwalkers and KangaROOS. I loved those damn ROOS, with the little pocket on the side where I stuffed love notes from summer camp girlfriends. As I got older and my tastes got more refined, Mom wasn't about to drop huge coin on a pair of sneakers.

When you are a poor kid, there are very few things handier than a rich friend. The trickle-down effect is awesome. My first pair of Nike Air Trainers (out of my league, no matter how much my mother loved me) came from a rich friend. He had worn them once and decided he wanted Reeboks instead. His mom gave me the Nikes. They were dark and light gray with a black strap across the front of the foot that said NIKE in green and they had a visible air pocket in the heel. Those shoes ruined me. There was no turning back.

First I mowed lawns on the weekends, then when I was old enough, got jobs as a bus boy, a groundskeeper, a stock boy at a Ben Franklin, whatever I had to do to make enough money to support my sneaker habit. By high school, Mom had long since given up even entertaining the notion of buying my shoes. ``If you want those $100 Nikes, you're going to have to buy them yourself.''

So, I did.

Still do -- a new pair of sneakers every six months or so. I would buy a new pair every three months if I didn't think my wife would kill me.

But all those years of repressed shoe envy left me with sneaker hypersensitivity.

My boss says I only ever compliment her footwear when she is sporting sneakers. I have a friend who is a sneaker freak as well and anytime we see each other, and one has on a new pair of sneakers, we offer an off-hand ''nice shoes,'' even though we are panged by jealousy.

Because God loves me -- the only possible explanation for something so miraculous, I figure -- the past few years have seen the big shoe companies reissue their classic kicks. Puma and Adidas were the first to cash in on the idea; Nike and Reebok weren't far behind. Many of the shoes I always wanted as a kid but never could quite score now line shoe department shelves all over town. Even KangaROOS are back. I bought a pair a couple months ago at Nordstrom.

My new girlfriend -- my wife -- even wrote me a note to put in the little side pocket. It reads, ``I love you. Now, please don't buy anymore shoes.''

I'll try, lover. I'll try.