Shoe-per Star

Calling me an athletic supporter wouldn’t be too farfetched. However, I could have been a prime athlete if I lived with anyone else.

Silver threads sparkled in the sunlight, woven into the fabric of my aqua-tinted nylon skin. Down my side, a neon green streak signified my maker. An emerald-colored rubber sole bled into dark blue cleats below me, my engineering and materials explicitly manufactured to be the best for playing soccer.

Alone, I relaxed on the floor and relished my time off. A short distance from me, lurking beneath the bed, my twin intermingled with dust bunnies and discarded socks.

Stretching my matching laces and adjusting my tongue, I anticipated being called to duty. 

Charlie stumbled into the room as if on cue, his feet intertwined as he fought to stay upright—a classic klutz if I ever saw one. His choice to play soccer over a less physical activity like badminton or chess amazed me, but I understood. Charlie didn’t do this for the love of the game; his reasons lived deeper in his heart and soul. A connection with his emotionally distant father drove his futile attempts to be athletic over artistic. Dad only noticed his youngest son during sporting ventures, never for the real things that mattered. Seeing his father in the stands cheering thrilled him, but he longed to get the same affirmations for his real passions. 

And so, he tried, dreading that he could be called in to play at any minute.

Thank God it never happened.

However, my status as an elite Soccer shoe was wasted on this teenager.

“Dammit,” he muttered under his breath, checking over his shoulder to see if his mother heard. Closing the door, he stripped down, running a hand through his shaggy brown hair while scrutinizing himself in a full-length mirror. A wiry, hairless body reflected back at him. He hated his mother’s label as ‘a late bloomer’ and cursed God for not answering his prayers.

Scurrying around the room, he gathered his uniform and dressed. A totem pole-like bird team mascot dominated the front of his jersey. He plopped down on the bed with a sigh and reached down. Grabbing me, his foot wriggled down into my depths, and he pulled my laces tight. A quick knot later, his hands spidered under the bed to locate my mate.

With both of us secured on his feet, Charlie took a deep breath, stood, and lumbered out the door.

Time for me to go to work.

A quick car ride later, we arrived at our destination.

I relished the fresh perfume of the green grass. My cleats sunk into the terrain, and the damp earth surrounded me with a cool, loving hug.

Ah, heaven. Joy filled every ounce of my being. This is where I belonged.

Charlie felt quite different.

Voices in the stands echoed around the stadium as Charlie entered. He jogged across the field and ducked into the locker room, where the rest of his team already sat on low wood benches. Past teams’ ghosts roamed the room and filled the air with sweat, soap, and deodorant.

The meeting finished, Charlie followed his team onto the field and took his position on the bench. 

A shrill referee’s whistle initiated the season’s final game.

Charlie pulled his leg up, setting his ankle and me on his knee. He fingered my cleats, his fingers moving between my bumps.

Watching his teammates scurry around the field, I could tell he longed to be home, writing the tales bouncing around inside his head. His blue eyes looked at the players, but he didn’t see them, lost in his thoughts. 

Crowds cheered, and coaches yelled as Charlie flushed out his latest adventure about a boy everyone loved no matter what.

On the grass, flashes of blue and green clashed with red and yellow as each team struggled to end their seasons with a win. Grunts and snarls filled Charlie’s ears as his companions fought for the victory; their efforts were rewarded with two goals, putting them in the lead.

His coach screamed maneuvers at the players as the other team answered with two scores of their own.

Across the field, a teen girl perched on the opposition’s bench, clothed in the rival’s uniform. She jumped up, her pink lips open in a cheer as her team took the ball to the goal. Her shoulder-length, curly red hair bounced on her back as she ran down the sideline, her fists in the air. Her long, coltish legs carried her alongside the players as they kicked the ball downfield toward the goal.

The kick veered left, and the score remained tied.

Charlie’s fingers ceased caressing my soul, his hands grasping tight around my toe as he stared at her.

She returned to her seat and looked at Charlie. She smiled, and sweat sprouted under his arms and on his forehead. He turned around to locate the intended lucky recipient of her grin, but no one stood behind him. Turning back, she shook her head and waved at him. He waved back at her, his face shining.

The timekeeper called halftime, and the groups galloped to their respective team rooms, the game tied.

The players listened to their coach spout new strategies and maneuvers while Charlie stared ahead, his thoughts occupied by the girl.

The two teams ebbed back onto the field as halftime ended, and Charlie resumed his position on the bench. His eyes darted back and forth, scanning the crowd for the girl.

“Charlie!”

She didn’t come back with her team. Did she leave?

“Charlie! Did you hear me?”

Charlie spun his head as his coach’s voice penetrated his thoughts.

“Uh, yes, coach?” he croaked.

“You may as well go in. This game doesn’t really matter for this season, and that way, we can ensure you get your letterman coat,” the coach’s eyes sympathetic to Charlie’s lack of playtime.

Charlie remained in place.

“Get up, kid,” he put a hand on Charlie’s back and pushed him toward his waiting teammates on the gridiron. “Go, this is what you trained for.”

Charlie rose, his heart beat double time in his chest, and his temples pulsated. He bit his lip and took a deep breath before advancing to the field’s edge. His returning teammate took Charlie’s place on the bench.

“Just do your best,” the coach whispered in Charlie’s ear as he pushed him toward the action. Charlie trudged out to join his team. 

Perhaps the action would remain on the other side, where players who knew what they were doing could manipulate the ball.

He took in a breath as the whistle blew.

Watching the skirmish, Charlie ran up the field along with his teammates.

Suddenly, the ball rolled before him, and he kicked it towards the enemy lines. Weeks of practice settled over him like a fine mist, and he skillfully dribbled the ball up the sideline as the crowd roared. The tension between him and the opposing team was palpable.

An exhilaration filled me as my laces bounced with each step. Strength bellowed from me as each cleat grasped the grass and pushed forward. Finally, I had the true experience of doing what my maker meant for me to do.

In front of Charlie, just off the field and to the side, he found what he had been looking for: the girl perched in the same spot. He smiled and advanced, getting closer to where she sat, his confidence growing. 

She jumped up and down, cheering him on while others on her side glared at her.

Reaching the area in front of her, a high-pitched scream escaped his lips as my mate stepped on my laces, and he plummeted to the ground, his face planted in the thick grass. The wind rushed past me as I flew from his foot and landed under a bench.

“Poor Charlie,” I thought as I soared through the air. “His allergies are going to be terrible later tonight.”

My mate, sneaky as can be, miraculously kicked the ball before Charlie’s fall. Silence filled the stadium as fans and players alike turned to find the origin of the hideous sound. With the teams distracted, the ball sailed into the net a short distance away.

Fans stood, their mouths agape, as the whistle blew, ending the game.

Somehow, Charlie won the game.

From beneath the bench, I witnessed a sea of blue- and green-clad teens circling him. They pulled him to his feet, lifted him onto their shoulders, and rushed to their sideline.

After minutes of celebrating, the players lined up in the middle of the field and shook hands with their rival counterparts. 

People exited the stadium, and I lay alone under the bench, my green stripe covered in mud while bits of grass crowned my toe.

Was this my end?

My sides warmed as a pair of hands clutched me from above and lifted me from the ground. I couldn’t make out the person, but it wasn’t Charlie.

The new person carried me towards the last place I saw Charlie but stopped short of entering the room. Muffled cheers and whistles seeped out into the hallway we waited in. Finally, he walked through the door.

“I thought this might be yours,” a soft female voice said.

Smiling, he took me from her hands.

“Want to go get a latte?” she asked.

Charlie brushed off the mud and grass, and the girl from the bench stood before me.

Nodding, he placed me back on his foot, and we went to enjoy our victorious night.