I remember the first time I saw you, looking so innocent in the clearance rack at Copelands. You looked eagerly at my feet, and I really needed something to replace my baseball spikes for softball. You pointed your toe at the $19.99 price tag, and I didn’t need to put you on. I just grabbed you and went to the cashier.
The next few months, I broke you in, running around the base paths, but you were bored. You wanted more. You asked me if we could play rugby, and so we did.
You fought through the wind, snow, rain, and gargantic spikes other people wore in rugby. You tried your best to protect my ankle when that other huge spike landed on the bone, but you kept me playing the entire season. We had a few good runs and good tackles. We had fun, and we survived the season in one piece.
The next year we only played softball, but we started to play a little more often. But the wear was starting to eat at you. From battling the elements, you started to get wrinkles. And then holes started to appear. But you still held together.
When we came back from Seattle, you said you had one more season in you. And we were able to piece together a good, not great season. But I knew the time had come. … It was time to replace you with a younger, bluer version of you.
Ripped, tattered, and torn I retired you in a place where all Hall-of-Fame shoes go. And since no one wanted you on Craigslist, you are now resting in the graveyard in the Lockwood dump. Thanks for the nine years we played together.