By
Sari Botton,
who publishes the newsletters Oldster Magazine and Memoir Land.
I am no one’s idea of an athlete. A clutz who failed gym in 9th grade (requiring me to stay after school for one-on-one remedial P.E. with an Amazonian teacher who hurled dodge balls at me while the cheerleaders practiced on the other side of the gymnasium), I find even the prospect of playing a sport to be utterly traumatizing. For anything that involves throwing, catching, or hitting a ball, count me out.
Still, despite my aversion to all things athletic, growing up in the ‘70s and ‘80s I was always concerned about having the “right” sneakers—the ones that would make me look cute while also hopefully helping me to fit in, despite being the last picked for any team—Converse All Stars, Puma Clydes, Nike Cortez, Adidas Stan Smiths, Tretorn Nylites.
