First off, I don’t even know who Chuck Taylor is.  I guess I should, but that would require either:

a)  Executing a cheap google search that would simply lead to a crappy Wikipedia entry of dubious accuracy and/or quality, or

2)  Accessing the deep recesses of my increasingly faulty internal memory banks to try to remember what is was like in the “good ole days” and why I used to care.

Instead, I will just lay out the story simply and quickly, and then you can figure out how much older I’ve become.

As many of you know (and probably lots more don’t), I usually treat myself to a foo-f00 coffee on the way to work most Friday mornings.  Most of the time I try to leave the house a little bit early to make up for the delay along the way, but today I actually left later than usual, with the very predictable result of longer lines in the shop and heavier traffic on the interstate afterwards since every other Muggle in existence seemed to have gotten a delayed start to their Friday morning like me.

Whatever.  Work will wait, I know.

While standing in line waiting for my beverage, I noticed a young lady amongst the throng of other  customers also waiting for their (to me) indecipherable specialty drinks, and she was wearing a pair of high-top Converse Chuck Taylor basketball shoes. 

I happen to be familiar with these shoes because:

a)  I used to own several pairs myself from the ages of 8-14 or so — you know, back when they were actually used for athletic events, and

2)  I’ve seen Daughter wear some version of the same footwear around the house on occasion. 

I must say that my first-hand exposure to Chuck Taylors in my youth was when they were pretty much considered the de rigueur basketball shoe back in the day.  Owning a pair of Chuck Taylors was something every young kid aspired to, and an especially sought after color was Carolina Blue. 

On the other side of the tracks, the lesser, uncool kids had to make do with shoes from Kinney’s or Sears or, God forbid, Montgomery Ward.  Don’t ask me how I know.

Just google those stores if you’ve never heard of them.

I seem to remember a real battle for supremacy in the athletic shoe market took place at some point between increasingly upscale Converse and ProKeds.  I could only afford the Keds, and I used to own a pair (factory blems, mind you) of suede ProKeds that not only weighed about twenty pounds each, but were also nuclear fallout-proof. 

They were rugged. 

I eventually gave them away when,  after years of ownership, they simply never wore out.  Their real fault was that they smelled bad and had fallen out of style. 

Canvas Chuck Taylors still survived, of course, and periodically I still wore them, but time was beginning to pass them by since the 800-pound Nike gorilla had entered the scene and was beginning its long, inexorable march to market domination.

Side Note:  When Nike first appeared, my friends and I didn’t know if the brand was cool or not (we hadn’t been bludgeoned by their marketing yet), and none of us knew how to pronounce the name.

Nowadays, Chuck Taylors have become some kind of “street cred” fashion statement, and I’m sure most of the punks kids wearing them know nothing of their long and storied sporting history. 

As for myself, I no longer care what brand of athletic shoe I wear, as long as they are comfortable.  Good grief, three layers of tissue paper have more cushioning than Chuck Taylor soles, after all. 

So, I figure I can talk reasonably intelligently about three types of shoes at the next holiday party I attend (Yes, maybe I’ll be invited to one this year.  Who knows?):  Chuck Taylors, loafers, and espadrilles. 

Well, I really don’t know anything about espadrilles, but I do remember a creative writing instructor in college using the term in one of his short stories and me thinking, “How the hell does he know anything about women’s shoes, and I need to get some more life experience.”

And platform shoes.  I can talk about platform shoes, I think. 

The irony is that now that I can afford basically any Chuck Taylor version out there, I don’t care to wear them anymore.  I know they would hurt my feet, and other Muggles might think I’m pretending to be seventeen years old or something. 

Sorry, Chuck.  But the good new is that googling you is on my “to-do” list this weekend. 

– Dad