ONE IMPORTANT FACT ABOUT DANTE: HE DIDN’T LIKE
wearing shoes.
We’d skateboard to the park, and he’d take his tennis shoes off and rub his feet on the grass like he was wiping something off of them. We’d go to the movies and he’d take off his tennis shoes. He left them there once, and we had to go back and get them.
We missed our bus. Dante took his shoes off on the bus, too.
One time, I sat with him at Mass. He untied his shoelaces and took off his shoes right there in the pew. I sort of gave him this look. He rolled his eyes and pointed at the crucifix and whispered, “Jesus isn’t wearing shoes.”
We both sat there and laughed.
When he came to my house, Dante would place his shoes on the front porch before he came inside. “The Japanese do that,” he said. “They don’t bring the dirt of the world into another person’s house.”
“Yeah,” I said, “but we’re not Japanese. We’re Mexican.” “We’re not really Mexicans. Do we live in Mexico?” “But that’s where our grandparents came from.”
“Okay, okay. But do we actually know anything about Mexico?” “We speak Spanish.”
“Not that good.”
“Speak for yourself, Dante. You’re such a pocho.” “What’s a pocho?”
“A half-assed Mexican.”
“Okay, so maybe I’m a pocho. But the point I’m making here is that we can adopt other cultures.”
I don’t know why but I just started laughing. The truth is that I got to like the war Dante was having with shoes. One day, I just broke down and asked him. “So how come you have this thing with shoes?”
“I don’t like them. That’s it. That’s all. There’s no big secret here. I was born not liking them. There’s nothing complicated about the whole thing. Well, except there’s this thing called my mom. And she makes me wear them. She says there are laws. And then she talks about the diseases I could get. And then she says that people will think I’m just another poor Mexican.
She says there are boys in Mexican villages who would die for a pair of shoes. ‘You can afford shoes, Dante.’ That’s what she says. And you know what I always tell her? ‘No, I can’t afford shoes. Do I have a job? No. I can’t afford anything.’ That’s usually the part of the conversation where she pulls her hair back. She hates that people might mistake me for another poor Mexican. And then she says: ‘Being Mexican doesn’t have to mean you’re poor.’ And I just want to tell her: ‘Mom, this isn’t about poor. And it isn’t about being Mexican. I just don’t like shoes.’ But I know the whole thing about shoes has to do with the way she grew up. So I just wind up nodding when she repeats herself: ‘Dante, we can afford shoes.’ I know the whole thing has nothing to with the word ‘afford.’ But, you know, she always gives me this look. And then I give her the same look back—and that’s how it goes. Look, me and my mom and shoes, it’s not a good discussion.” He stared out into the hot afternoon sky—a habit of his. It meant he was thinking. “You know, wearing shoes is an unnatural act. That’s my basic premise.”
“Your basic premise?” Sometimes he talked like a scientist or a philosopher.
“You know, the founding principle.” “The founding principle?”
“You’re looking at me like you think I’m nuts.” “You are nuts, Dante.”
“I’m not,” he said. And then he repeated it, “I’m not.” He seemed almost upset.
“Okay,” I said, “You’re not. You’re not nuts and you’re not Japanese.”
He reached over and unlaced my tennis shoes as he talked. “Take off your shoes, Ari. Live a little.”
We went out into the street and played a game that Dante made up on the spot. It was a contest to see who could throw their tennis shoes the farthest. Dante was very systematic about the way he made up the game. Three rounds—which meant six throws. We both got a piece of chalk and we marked where the shoe landed. He borrowed his father’s tape measure that could measure up to thirty feet. Not that it was long enough.
“Why do we have to measure the feet?” I asked, “Can’t we just throw the shoe and mark it with the piece of chalk? The farthest chalk mark is the winner. Simple.”
“We have to know the exact distance,” he said.
“Why?”
“Because when you do something, you have to know exactly what you’re doing.”
“No one knows exactly what they’re doing,” I said. “That’s because people are lazy and undisciplined.”
“Did anybody ever tell you that sometimes you talk like a lunatic who speaks perfect English?”
“That’s my father’s fault,” he said.
“The lunatic part or the perfect English part?” I shook my head. “It’s a game, Dante.”
“So? When you play a game, Ari, you have to know what you’re doing.” “I do know what we’re doing, Dante. We’re making up a game. We’re
throwing our tennis shoes on the street to see which one of us can throw his shoe the farthest. That’s what we’re doing.”
“It’s a version of throwing the javelin, right?” “Yeah, I guess so.”
“They measure the distance when they throw the javelin, don’t they?” “Yeah, but that’s a real sport, Dante. This isn’t.”
“It is too a real sport. I’m real. You’re real. The tennis shoes are real. The street is real. And the rules we establish—they’re real too. What more do you want?”
“But you’re making this too much work. After every toss, we have to measure. What fun is that? The fun is in the throwing.”
“No,” Dante said, “the fun is in the game. It’s everywhere.”
“I don’t understand,” I said. “Throwing a shoe is fun. I get that. But taking out your father’s tape measure and rolling it out across the street seems like work. What’s so fun about that? And not only that—what if a car comes along?”
“We move out of the way. And besides, we could play in the park.” “The street’s more fun,” I said.
“Yeah, the street’s more fun.” We agreed on something. Dante looked at me.
I looked back at him. I knew I didn’t have a chance. I knew we were going to play the game according to his rules. But the truth is, it mattered to Dante. And to me, it didn’t matter so much. So we played the game with our tools: our tennis shoes, two pieces of chalk, and his father’s tape measure. We made up the rules as we went along—and they kept changing.
In the end, there were three sets—like tennis. There were six tosses per set. Eighteen tosses to make a game. Dante won two out of the three sets. But I had the longest toss. Forty-seven feet, three and a quarter inches.
Dante’s father came out of the house and shook his head. “What are you guys doing?”
“We’re playing a game.”
“What did I tell you, Dante? About playing in the street? There’s a park right there.” He pointed his finger toward the park. “And what—” He stopped and studied the scene. “Are you throwing your tennis shoes around?”
Dante wasn’t intimidated by his father. It wasn’t that his father was frightening, but he was still an authority figure standing there, confronting us. Dante didn’t flinch, confident he could stand his ground. “We’re not just throwing our tennis shoes around, Dad. We’re playing a game. It’s like the common man’s version of javelin throwing. We’re seeing who can throw their shoe the farthest.”
His father laughed—a real, hearty laugh. “You’re the only kid in the universe who could invent a game as an excuse to beat the daylights out of his tennis shoes.” He chuckled again. “Your mother’s going to love this.”
“We don’t have to tell her,” Dante said.
“Yes, we do.”
“Why?”
“The no-secrets rule.”
“We’re playing in the middle of the street. How can that be a secret?”
“It’s a secret if we don’t tell her.” He grinned at Dante, not angry, but like a dad being a dad. “Take it to the park, Dante.”
We found a good spot in the park to set up our game. I watched Dante’s face as he threw his tennis shoes with all his might. His father was right—Dante had indeed turned the game into a way to smash the hell out of his shoes.
