Stars of the Shoemaker Read online

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  "Are you serious?"

  The Shoemaker nods at me. Framed portraits of athletes wearing green and gold sneakers line the conference room's walls. They are the hockey players and golfers, the soccer goalies and point guards, who are paid fortunes. Those athletes smile on cereal boxes. They fill homes with televised highlights. They are the athletes we name our children after, whose chiseled physiques we envy, who the rest of us wish we could be. They are the athletes who sell the Shoemaker's sneakers by wearing those shoes on every field and in every advertisement. Like they have done for me, the talents of those players have made the Shoemaker rich.

  "It's a win-win for you, Blake," the Shoemaker offers me a bottle of his company's re-hydrating sports fluid. "Have more faith in my product. I'm telling you, my shoes can make a star out of anybody, no matter their skill. Think how easy finding talent is about to get for you."

  I laugh. "I'm not sure what you're asking me to find, but it doesn't sound like talent."

  The Shoemaker begins stepping the Rumba with an invisible partner, another one of the spontaneous dances the Shoemaker twirls whenever excitement, or inspiration, overtakes him. He is a fantastic dancer, and the Shoemaker claims he owes his grace to the green and gold sneakers that always cover his feet. It wouldn't do me any good to ask the Shoemaker questions while he dances about the room. So I patiently wait for the fervor to sweep through him.

  The Shoemaker suddenly stops. "What do you think is more important, Blake? The skills of the athlete, or the rubber of my sneakers?"

  "You've never been short on confidence," I reply. "You make good shoes, but you have to admit that shoes can only do so much. Those athletes dedicate their lives to developing their talents. I remind you every time we negotiate a commercial contract for one of my players not to underestimate how those athletes help you sell shoes."

  "That's why I want you to find the player I need. You're the toughest negotiator out there, Blake. You're every athlete's agent of choice. I know I can convince anybody that my shoes make the man if I can convince you."

  I would laugh if I didn't know the Shoemaker plays only the games he's certain to win. "You're suggesting that you could pluck any man or woman off the street and, by simply putting your green and gold sneakers on their feet, turn them into stars on any court, field, track or diamond?"

  "You've got it."

  I do my best to ignore my knotting stomach. The proposition is preposterous. But when was the last time the Shoemaker's been proven wrong?

  "You would make an agent like me obsolete. If what you say about your sneakers is true, then no one would need me to find any talent. Anyone could play any game."

  "You're not seeing the larger picture. I'm not concerned with the sport of it. I don't care how quickly an athlete might run. I care about commerce. I've got to sell shoes. I've got to grow. And, Blake, it gets harder and harder to grow."

  I shrug.

  The Shoemaker's eyes sparkle. "Just imagine how badly everyone will want one of my shoes if they know those sneakers will instantly give them the abilities of all those athletes we worship. I could provide people with one less reason to feel inferior. They wouldn't have to invest all that time and sweat in practice and training. They would just have to buy one of my green or gold shoes. We wouldn't be able to keep up with all the orders."

  "Wouldn't be much reason left for sport." I scoff.

  The Shoemaker laughs. "But plenty reason for shoes."

  "Strangely enough, I follow your logic now," I lean forward. "That's why you want me to find you the player who can score more than one-hundred points in a professional basketball game. You want to see one of the last, revered records broken by a player wearing your sneakers."

  The Shoemaker nods.

  "You don't want anyone who can run, jump or dribble. You want a pure shooter. And the less anyone has ever heard of this shooter, then all the better."

  "That's all I need, Blake. My sneakers will do all the rest."

  "I don't believe it."

  "Don't you?"

  My fingers twitch. The Shoemaker has never unnerved me during all of our negotiations. But he's unnerved me now, and that smile stretching across the Shoemaker's face tells me he knows it.

  "Other than the destruction of my livelihood, what do I have to gain?"

  "If you find me the man I'm looking for, and if that man proves me wrong," and the sparkle vanishes from the Shoemaker's eyes, "then you will represent every single athlete who wears my shoes. Your representation will be required of any athlete who asks for a pair of my green and gold sneakers."

  I cough. "And if you're proven right?"

  "Then you work for me. You'll still make a mint, Blake. But you'll have to wear a pair of my green and gold sneakers instead of those overpriced Oxfords that are always on your feet."

  The Shoemaker's placed too much on the table for me to walk away. I already know just the man to fill the Shoemaker's request.

  "I can have your man for you in three days," I shake the Shoemaker's hand as I stand from the table. "Do you have a team ready willing to give my man playing time after I bring him to you?"

  The Shoemaker winks. "That's taken care of."

  Less than four hours later, I'm bouncing through turbulence, first class, on a flight taking me to just the man needed to fill the Shoemaker's request. The flight's not terribly long, but it gives me ample time to read the sports section of my favorite paper, in which I learn of the Shoemaker's sudden purchase of a premiere basketball franchise.

  I can't say I feel very surprised.