Stars of the Shoemaker

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  The Shoemaker's dancing fills the thousands of glittering pixels glowing upon the arena's massive video board during a timeout in the basketball game. He's now stepping a Charleston with his ever invisible partner. The spectators cheer and join in with whatever steps they think constitute a dance. No one seems to miss a beat, and I am spellbound as I watch from the back of an aisle as a thousand pairs of green and gold sneakers twirl and tap. So many pounding feet turn the arena into a drum. I have underestimated the Shoemaker's craft, have underestimated his power to charge the air with so much electricity that the rafters shake. All those green and gold sneakers indeed attest to a kind of magic.

  I'm the only one not dancing. I'm the only one not wearing the Shoemaker's sneakers.

  "Now do you think Nelson's gonna break the century mark? You still think that old record's gonna hold after tonight?"

  I shake my head at the blue-shirted usher dancing next to me. The Shoemaker's sneakers move his feet so madly that the man has to pant to find the oxygen needed for conversation.

  "He'll break it," I answer. "There's still three minutes on the clock, and he's got ninety-two points notched in the box score."

  The usher twirls in joy. "He's not missed a single shot. Nothing but net every time. Doesn't even use a backboard. I've never seen such a shooter."

  I chuckle. "And I've never seen anyone move around the court like he does."

  The horn blares and the players return to the hardwood. Tarence Nelson's uniform looks two sizes too small. His jersey struggles to cover his prominent stomach, flapping to show a jiggling crescent of fat as he hustles from one end of the court to the other. Braces cover Tarence's ankles and knees, forcing his strides into a stiff, robotic type of gait. His wooly headbands and wristbands stopped collecting the sweat pouring out of Tarence's pores after the first quarter, and I marvel that none of the other players have slipped in the wake of moisture trailing behind Tarence. Without the basketball, Tarence never seems to know where to put his hands, and he moves so awkwardly around the gym floor that it's hard to believe that anyone would invite him to a humble, pickup game in the public park.

  Yet Tarence wears the newest incarnation of the Shoemaker's green and gold sneakers. While trained athletes in fit condition labor to provide their muscles with oxygen so late in the game, Tarence's lumpy body betrays no indication of fatigue. Tarence's braced ankles and knees manage to come open off of screens, and he never fails to find the open shot no matter that he's not participated in a single team practice.

  And he's not missed a single bucket under all those lights now flashing throughout the arena, a streak all the more incredible as Tarence hasn't met a shot he didn't like all night long. He's drained three-pointers from all the corners. He's drilled medium-ranged jumpers. He's even tipped in a few rebounds that clanked from his teammates' efforts before they learned to resist the temptation to shoot and instead pass the basketball to Tarence. Thus Tarence Nelson, who less than three days ago spent his mornings with a broomstick and his afternoons with a beer, has tallied ninety-two points with nearly three minutes remaining on the clock.

  The usher's feet tap a flourish as Tarence drops another three from the top of the arc. "Man, I tell you, it's enough to make a person believe in miracles."

  I raise an eyebrow. "Or sneakers."

  Tarence drops a couple more buckets as quickly as the shot-clock and his teammates' defense can return him the ball. The arena holds its breath as the last minute arrives to find Tarence's tally at ninety-nine. He's not wasted a moment on the bench, and Tarence's green and gold sneakers still squeak across the floor, cutting through defenders to find the open spot for Tarence's pure shot.

  "Here it comes!"

  The usher grips my arm, and I feel his fingernails biting through my sleeve. Everyone in the arena goes still. Even the Shoemaker stops dancing. Another revered record is about to fall. All those in the stands are about to witness the night Tarence Nelson scored more than one-hundred points in his first professional basketball game.

  I can't resist smiling. "Tarence was always a pure shooter."

  The arc of Tarence's three-point jumpshot nearly brings down rain. The basketball doesn't skim the rim as it passes through the hoop's heart, snapping the string with that exclamatory swish that is every gun-slinging shooter's rush. The crowd erupts as Tarence claims point one-hundred and two. Officials hurry the basketball off of the court, for inclusion into the league's hall of fame. Cameras flash and whirl. Teammates lift Tarence upon their shoulders. Spectators stream onto the floor as hundreds of pairs of green and gold sneakers squeak across the court.

  The Shoemaker dances in the middle of the throng, stepping out a waltz with his imaginary partner. As they always do, his sneakers look terrible at the bottom of his otherwise crisp business attire. Only now, I can't wait to finally be fitted for my own pair.