An old friend, Nastase

That day in July 2001 felt like a grand day for personal rein-vention. As I’ve been severely dulled by wearing leather shoes all my high school life, and it was that summer before college where I have a clear vision of that new Ping Medina person that I should not be, some strange voice in my head was telling me to look inside our old shoe closet.

I went digging through all the dusty stuff, berating that crazy voice that I’m at risk of a severe rhinitis and asthmatic attack that can render me useless for the rest of day, so this better be goddamn perfect. But he kept on blabbing about one thing, I promise you hidden treasure. New kicks, bro! True enough, it was a beautiful sight to behold. Sitting pretty was love at first sight.

The pair was absolutely prime. The fit was exactly how I would pick fresh ones off the rack. Did they feel so good to my feet? Oh, yes. They were the lightest sneakers in the world. It was like Legolas running on the goddamn snow. It was the magical sneakers that could make it all happen, and everything was already starting to feel like freaky fate.

I got attention for the slogan shirts I wore, but it was always Nastase who did the trick. People would come up to me wanting to buy the precious pair, or asking where they could get one, or stuff I couldn’t answer. Hey, I’d love to spread the love, but I haven’t seen anyone wearing an exact pair. Even though it’s impossible, I would just say, try looking inside your lolo’s shoe closet.

Nastase was the perfect fit for me, but he didn’t come with no feet hazards. He had soles like onion skin, so stepping on jagged rocks was not an option. Occasional unforeseen puddles in the rainy season, which Nastase was more than willing to soak up owing to the absorbent nature of its material, always left me compromising with sloshy socks I absolutely hate.

But I guess this is what people found most appealing about Nastase. Nastase was a crappy old shoe, but he was very comfortable being one. And in his prime, he looked quite damn good. At one of the countless gigs I would go to before, I was hanging out with a crush and she complimented me:

“I like your sneakers. They look pretty old. Vintage.”

A song later, I ask her, “So what do you usually go for? Older men?”

“Nope. Guys with nice sneakers.” (Wherein she flashes a very cute smile.)

I unearthed Nastase inside a magical shoe closet from another world. So I guess one thing that will forever remain a mystery to me is his actual age. I used to play a lot of tennis, so I know the model was named after Ilie Nastase, a popular Romanian tennis player in the ’70s. If I were to carbon-date this, Nastase (the shoes) would be born around the mid-’70s, which would make him around 25 years old the first time I met him and approaching mid-30s as of present time.

Nastase used to be a vibrant pair of gray. He was smug and unique. Now, he’s just exceptionally dirty. The seams have exploded all over the place, and you can peek at all my toes if you can poke the secret entrances. I contemplated seeking Mr. Quickie’s help, but I knew the inevitable.

The last few months I spent saying goodbye to Nastase, I also spent getting comfortable with the replacement shoes. The new pair was the same brand, still a ragged hand-me-down pair, because I couldn’t let go completely just yet. I did eventually move on to other pairs, from bright-colored skate shoes to the classic docksides, with all of them exceptional in their own right, but Nastase will always have a special place in my sole.

So here’s to you, Mr. Nastase. It was you and me for five years, with me thirsting for crazy adventures and you having no choice. Those were some crazy good times.