I was waiting in line outside the stadium when I accidentally stepped on the shoe of the man in front of me. The man’s heel popped out of the sneaker, and as consequence he did a sort of shuffle-stumble, nearly falling to the concrete in the process. After catching his balance, he looked back to see who was to blame for his trouble. I could feel the heat in my cheeks and knew my face to be beet red. As such it was clear that I was the culprit—not that I’d have denied it.
“I’m so sorry,” I said. “Lost track of my feet.”
The man’s annoyance melted away in an instant, replaced by an easy smile. “Hey, no problem,” he said, before using his index finger to pop his sneaker back over his heel.
Instantly, I could feel my face cooling. As if in celebration of our detente, the line suddenly began to move. Not quickly, but we moved twenty feet over the course of a minute. Yet somehow, within this short span, I managed to step on the man’s shoe again. Once again his heel popped out, and once again he looked back toward me, only this time the annoyance in his face did not fade into a smile.
“I’m so, so sorry,” I said. As before, I felt my face flushing, though maybe not quite so much as the first time. “Total accident—for real.”
“Maybe just give me another couple feet, here,” said the man, not unkindly, given what I had done, but brusquely, to be sure. He was not an old man, nor was he young. Perhaps my age or a little younger. Which is to say, older than preferable.
“Of course,” I said, and gave the man his two feet. Even so, within seconds I had stepped on his shoe yet again. No idea how. All accidents, I assure you.
This time the man didn’t turn around. I could see him breathing deeply, in and out, in and out. What I decided to do, I decided to give the guy a good ten feet. He must have sensed my increased distance, as he never did turn around this time. The line moved again, and I took a step. The line stopped. I stepped on his shoe.
The man whirled around. “What the hell, man? Did I do something to offend you? Do I know you? Are you just some dimwit? Why are you doing this?”
By this point, people were looking. Not staring, but rather the half-looks given to a neighbor arguing with his wife on the front lawn. I am not one for seeking attention, and had a hole in the Earth opened beside me at this precise moment, I’d have gladly jumped inside, rather than deal with the public shaming.
“I… I don’t know why it keeps happening,” I said. “I even backed up a good ten feet—you saw me do it!”
Eyes still wide with anger, the man finally turned around, and I managed to stand behind him for a full thirty seconds before stepping on his shoe yet again, and with some real force this time, unlike the previous occasions, which had been mere incidental contact. This time I could feel his ankle roll under the sole of my shoe. The man didn’t say a word, just turned around and took a swing at me. I have pretty good reflexes, and his fist merely glanced off my left cheek, but the contact seemed to give him some satisfaction, as he did not attempt a second swing, and of course I welcomed any de-escalation.
“You know what?” said the man, who had clearly entered some frightening new elevated state of anger, “I have a solution.”
As the crowd continued to half-watch us, the man removed first his left shoe, then his right shoe, followed by his left sock, then his right sock. He stuffed the socks into the shoes, and draped both shoes from his left hand via his fingertips. “Problem solved,” he said over his shoulder with a sneer.
The line moved.
For the third time that morning, my face reddened. But it was not from embarrassment—not this time. I had been made a fool of, in front of a crowd of rugged sports fans, no less! The man had removed his damn shoes! The implication being, of course, that I could not control my own body, my own actions—that I was no more than a child. And while the previous ten minutes had proven this implication resoundingly true, I was still offended by the slight. This was entirely unacceptable. My dignity was at stake! So what I did was this: I removed my own shoes and then I tackled the man to the ground. I wrestled in college, and have kept in decent shape my whole life, so this was not so difficult as it might sound. And while the man was decently tall, he was rather wiry, and so I had no problem keeping him pinned down.
All around us, people commented, but no one yelled, and no one dared try to break us up. Perhaps they had become accustomed to our bickering over the course of our collective time waiting, and found this tussle the next logical escalation. Regardless, I was left unmolested as I wrestled him to the ground, pinned him using an ankle pick, and pushed my own shoes onto his bare feet. When I finally released him, I fully expected the man to remove my shoes from his feet and throw them at my head. But he did not remove them. He simply stood up, resumed his place in line. He did not look back at me. He did not say a word.
The line moved.
We inched forward in fits and starts for several minutes, me barefoot, the man ahead of me wearing my shoes, holding his own.
The line stopped.
I did not.
I stepped on his shoes.
My shoes.
I was prepared for his anger. I was not prepared to be tackled.
“I will burn down your house!” screamed the man into my ear, as he rubbed my face into the sidewalk. “I will poison your children! I will rape your wife! So help me God, you little fuckwit, I will destroy everything you hold dear!”
Now, I’m not married, and I rent, so the joke was on him. Still, the sentiment was upsetting enough that I figured it was my solemn duty—to the species; to the planet; to our damn team—to finish this fucker off, end his bloodline, prevent any more of his brood from ever dispatching around the globe. Using a throw-by to get him off balance, I flipped on top of him and pushed his head into the gravel. Holding his head down—and still with no one attempting to separate us; quite incredible—I looked around for something blunt to finish him with. Off to my right I found a rock the size of a cantaloupe that I felt would do nicely, and I had raised it over my head when the crowd began to move more quickly. They must have opened more doors into the stadium. We were losing our place in line!
When I next looked down at my quarry, it was—to my surprise and amazement—to find him crying. Not loud sobs, but rather the quiet dignified crying of a competent man, defeated by life. I lowered the rock. What had I become? Here I was, so concerned with destroying this man’s existence that I had forgotten that he was on my team. We were wearing the same color jersey, after all. Same for our face paint.
I dropped the rock. I no longer wanted to see the game. I just wanted to go home. I wanted to go on a long walk. Or join a church. I needed to ponder what I had become. But also the line was moving so quickly now, and the game would begin soon, and actually come to think of it I did want to be inside well before kickoff, and so I helped the man up and dusted off his jersey—we were both wearing the same jersey, number 87, I had only just now noticed. Number 87 was Wydell Overton—incredible wide receiver. Anyway, it was my intent to apologize to the man—for the shoes; for everything—but I’m not sure if I did, come to think of it. He was still sort of crying softly, this whole time, but he accepted my help in getting up and we made our way toward the open doors, which we could finally see ahead of us.
We arrived at the doors together. Which was appropriate, seeing as we were here to root for the same team—seeing as we were on the same team. The man removed my shoes from his feet, handed them to me. With a sort of speed walk, the man separated from me—still barefoot—and slipped inside the stadium, never once looking back. Part of me feared finding our seats to be in the same row—some cosmic joke—and I once again considered leaving the game. A stadium is big, but not endless. But I stayed, and I never saw the man again.
Oh, we lost the game. First round of the playoffs. Here we were favored to win the whole thing.
