Shoes don't grow on trees

I had promised to let Monte embarrass me on the basketball court again after the workday. Teenagers need their opportunities to prove their superiority over their betters I suppose. Anyway I was hanging up my suit which, I guess, seemed an odd enough action that he wandered in to watch, all the time talking smack - and we hadn’t even left for the court yet.

It wasn’t until I put my shoes away that his mouth slowed down. He pulled out a pair I hadn’t worn that day and asked, “What in the world are these things?”

“Shoes?”

“No, dude. These wooden feet inside the shoes.”

“Oh.” I stopped a smart remark on its way out of my mouth because I realized he was serious. And I saw a teachable moment on the horizon and thought there might be a lesson here for the boy. “Those are shoe trees.”

“Nothing about this thing looks like a tree,” Monte said, pulling one out of my black oxford. “It looks like a wooden foot with no toes. What’s the point of putting something in your shoe?”

“I’m not sure why they’re called shoe trees,” I said. “Shoes sure don’t grow on them. But they’re made out of trees. These are cedar. They keep the leather the right shape, and they absorb the sweat inside the shoe so the moisture doesn’t degrade the leather.”

Monte rolled his eyes. “What’s the point? I mean it’s just a pair of shoes. It ain’t even your only pair.”

“The point isn’t the shoe,” I said, returning to the living room. “It’s about stewardship. The same reason your grandmother tries to get you to hang up your clothes when you take them off.”

“She’s just being a pain, making rules to be making rules,” he said, but I knew Monte knew better. In the time it took me to tie my sneakers he was able to mull it over and ask, “What’s stewardship?”

“It means, I don’t know, taking care of stuff I guess. Yeah. Taking care of stuff is one of the most important habits a man can get into. That’s what your grandmother is trying to teach you.”

He stood at the door, bouncing the ball. “She just don’t want to have to get new stuff.”

“There’s more to it than that, buddy,” I told him, leading him out into the sunshine. “Being a man means taking care of stuff. Not just your clothes, but everything. Look around you. Men, real men, learn about the value of things early. They learn to take care of their books. Then they learn to take care of their bikes. They learn to take care of their teeth. When they grow up they’re in the habit and they take care of their cars. They take care of their lawns. They take care of their kids.”

I stopped as we came within sight of the courts. I had taken my analogy too far. Monte was one of those kids whose father wasn’t man enough to take care of him. He ran off when Monte was just a baby. When they looked for a pickup game, half the boys on their teams would be in the same boat. I figured I had fumbled the ball.

But then Monte stopped at the fence surrounding the court. He held onto it with one hand, staring forward. I waited.

“So, you’re saying that the shoe tree is just a way of saying you give a fuck.”
I didn’t even care about the language. I just put a hand on his shoulder. “That’s right, Monte. A man gives a fuck about everything he’s in charge of. That’s what men do. Men care.”