Free The Hard Way on Purpose by David Giffels Page A
Authors: David Giffels
football history.
In 1989, with the last second ticking off the clock and the best Cleveland Cavaliers team weâd ever known leading by 1 point and about to advance in the NBA play-offs, Michael Jordan rose above a double-team to hit a shot now known as The Shot to win the game. It is considered one of the greatest clutch plays in the history of all American sports. All we remember is the physical despair of Craig Ehlo, the Cavsâ player over whose desperate up-stretched arms Jordan had just made history, Jordan leaping euphorically, Ehlo collapsing to the floor, hands clenching for something that wasnât there.
And so we have come to understand this bipolar choice we are offered: we could embrace impossible hope, or impossible hopelessness. But each of us had to choose. You canât stand in a frozen, zero-sum concrete ring and be in the middle.
Through all this, we have become known as a place that always loses.
But thatâs not how I see it.
Iâm from a place that always almost wins.
ALL STARS
If you had to pick a single visual icon to represent the past century of Americana, I doubt you could do better than the Converse Chuck Taylor. The main trait of this seemingly uncomplicated canvas sneaker is not just how succinctly it represents the scope of American culture, but also how broadly. Iconic since its introduction in 1917, the shoe originally called the Converse All Star has offered street credibility to the entire range of American situations: a little boy in a Norman Rockwell painting; Larry Bird as the Hick from French Lick; a teenager in a mosh pit; a grunt on a Parris Island obstacle course; a Catholic schoolgirl; an aging rock star with a new album and an updated haircut; Whoopi Goldberg in an Oscar-night pantsuit; a new arrival at clown school. Like English ivy, the All Star arrived pure and then began to adapt.
For a long time, the shoes came only in two colors, white and black, like Hollywood cowboy hats. America became more colorful, and Converse followed, offering hues that eventually transcended color and would be better described as flavors: Cinnamon, Cantaloupe, Lilac, Amaranth, and Mud. Much like Jimi Hendrix, the All Star has dabbled in leather, hemp, and flames. It has reshaped itself to every new purpose without changing shape at all, tracing an inscrutable line from the ABA to CBGB. As much as anything in our culture, the Converse All Star is itself . And this is both despite and because it is entirely unsuitable for its original purpose.
The Chuck Taylor was one of the first shoes specifically designed for basketball. In nearly a century since, it has proven itself apt to everything except basketball. This is a shoe with the arch support of an emery board, the shock absorption of a Post-it note, and the breathability of a wet suit. That it endures despite itself suggests it has something to prove, something to overcome, which might be its most American quality.
There is one thing, however, thatâs even more American than the Chuck Taylor: the art of marketing. And there may be no better fable of that art than the fable of Chuck Taylor himself.
Chuck Taylor (it seems unthinkable to refer to him by anything other than his full name) is the second-most-famous basketball player ever to come from Akron, Ohio. Most people donât know he even played basketball. Thatâs understandable. He didnât play much. A lot of people probably assume heâs not even a real person, but rather a marketing phantom, like Mrs. Butterworth or Chef Boyardee.
Thatâs understandable too, because his identity is confined to that signature inside the circle of the All Star logo. Chuck Taylor is an enigma akin to the 33 on the back of a Rolling Rock bottle and the arm and hammer on the baking-soda box. This may be the only athletic shoe in existence whose celebrity namesake is someone nobody knows anything aboutâor even whether itâs a real person at all. (Rod Laver is
In 1989, with the last second ticking off the clock and the best Cleveland Cavaliers team weâd ever known leading by 1 point and about to advance in the NBA play-offs, Michael Jordan rose above a double-team to hit a shot now known as The Shot to win the game. It is considered one of the greatest clutch plays in the history of all American sports. All we remember is the physical despair of Craig Ehlo, the Cavsâ player over whose desperate up-stretched arms Jordan had just made history, Jordan leaping euphorically, Ehlo collapsing to the floor, hands clenching for something that wasnât there.
And so we have come to understand this bipolar choice we are offered: we could embrace impossible hope, or impossible hopelessness. But each of us had to choose. You canât stand in a frozen, zero-sum concrete ring and be in the middle.
Through all this, we have become known as a place that always loses.
But thatâs not how I see it.
Iâm from a place that always almost wins.
ALL STARS
If you had to pick a single visual icon to represent the past century of Americana, I doubt you could do better than the Converse Chuck Taylor. The main trait of this seemingly uncomplicated canvas sneaker is not just how succinctly it represents the scope of American culture, but also how broadly. Iconic since its introduction in 1917, the shoe originally called the Converse All Star has offered street credibility to the entire range of American situations: a little boy in a Norman Rockwell painting; Larry Bird as the Hick from French Lick; a teenager in a mosh pit; a grunt on a Parris Island obstacle course; a Catholic schoolgirl; an aging rock star with a new album and an updated haircut; Whoopi Goldberg in an Oscar-night pantsuit; a new arrival at clown school. Like English ivy, the All Star arrived pure and then began to adapt.
For a long time, the shoes came only in two colors, white and black, like Hollywood cowboy hats. America became more colorful, and Converse followed, offering hues that eventually transcended color and would be better described as flavors: Cinnamon, Cantaloupe, Lilac, Amaranth, and Mud. Much like Jimi Hendrix, the All Star has dabbled in leather, hemp, and flames. It has reshaped itself to every new purpose without changing shape at all, tracing an inscrutable line from the ABA to CBGB. As much as anything in our culture, the Converse All Star is itself . And this is both despite and because it is entirely unsuitable for its original purpose.
The Chuck Taylor was one of the first shoes specifically designed for basketball. In nearly a century since, it has proven itself apt to everything except basketball. This is a shoe with the arch support of an emery board, the shock absorption of a Post-it note, and the breathability of a wet suit. That it endures despite itself suggests it has something to prove, something to overcome, which might be its most American quality.
There is one thing, however, thatâs even more American than the Chuck Taylor: the art of marketing. And there may be no better fable of that art than the fable of Chuck Taylor himself.
Chuck Taylor (it seems unthinkable to refer to him by anything other than his full name) is the second-most-famous basketball player ever to come from Akron, Ohio. Most people donât know he even played basketball. Thatâs understandable. He didnât play much. A lot of people probably assume heâs not even a real person, but rather a marketing phantom, like Mrs. Butterworth or Chef Boyardee.
Thatâs understandable too, because his identity is confined to that signature inside the circle of the All Star logo. Chuck Taylor is an enigma akin to the 33 on the back of a Rolling Rock bottle and the arm and hammer on the baking-soda box. This may be the only athletic shoe in existence whose celebrity namesake is someone nobody knows anything aboutâor even whether itâs a real person at all. (Rod Laver is
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