“I don’t hate anyone, at least not for more than 48 minutes, barring overtime.”

In sixth grade, I already had a job for a couple of years. I was a newspaper carrier for the Rantoul Press. I took over my older brother’s route when he went on to become a newspaper carrier for The NewsGazette. It was a daily, and the Press was only delivered on Wednesdays.

I needed a job. Even coming out of the fourth grade. Mom didn’t dole out allowance like the other mothers so if I wanted something that wasn’t in the Whitlock Family budget I had to save, and buy it for myself.

I spent most of my money in the first few years on candy at the Rantoul Pool in the summers. Or I’d buy stupid trinkets at Big Lots. Trinkets or Big League Chew. But in 1993 something happened. I found something I wanted. All on my own, save the prowess of advertisements, I decided I wanted to buy some Charles Barkley’s shoes by Nike.

At this point, you’re probably saying: Barkley’s? What about Jordan’s?

I dunno I can’t explain it. I never had any interest in Jordan. He was a hero, a role model, an icon. I gravitated toward the hot-headed temper of Charles Barkley. Imagine: a shy Midwestern girl, barely talks, thinks the world of Sir Charles? The man who spit on a fan in 1991. The wrong fan at that.

I saved my money to buy Barkley’s shoes. They were Phoenix Suns colors. White and black on the shoe with a purple swoosh and orange lettering on the bottom. I wanted and saved forever to buy the Nike Air Max CB 93’s. Every now and then, mostly when I see Barkley commenting on college ball, I get the urge to find a pair again. Jeremy Larson, whose birthday is one day away from mine, also had a pair. We were the only two kids at Northview Elementary who owned CB 93’s.

Those shoes were my first Nikes. I was relatively proud of that fact until…

Billy Smith, the hottest kid in sixth grade, came up to me one morning when we were waiting for the bell to ring to enter school and said:

“Those aren’t even Nikes.”

My rebuttal was:

“Yes, they are.”

“I doubt it. You probably glued that Swoosh on there.”

The Purple swoosh that sliced the side of the design would not have been an easy thing for a sixth grader to glue on a shoe.

“I didn’t glue anything. These are Nikes stupid.”

“Those are fakes. You can’t afford Nikes.”

“Well, then how’d they get this?” (I lift my foot and gesture to bottom of the tread where it says NIKE in big orange immovable rubber letters. I even try to wiggle the NIKE free while balancing on one foot.)

“You glued that on too, probably.”

The bell rings. And scene.

Billy never teased me about my Barkley’s again, the damage I am sure had already been done with the crowd. Earlier that year Billy had Lindsey ask me out for him in the lunch line.

I rashly said No. My refusal was very loud and very unexpected, by all parties. I mean, he was the hottest kid in our class. Who knows what the hell I was thinking.

He ended up going out with Lindsey for a while. He was probably dating her when he was teasing me about my shoes. I don’t remember her being there. After that year Billy moved away, back to Gibson City everyone said to be with his Mom. I can’t remember if I kept my Barkley’s into junior high. I’m sure they got passed up for some other cooler shoes or clothes that my family couldn’t afford. In fact, I know they did…I just can’t remember what those mid-sized loafers (light tan) were called…

Billy Smith never added me on Facebook