Captain’s Blog: What to do with my Kyrie Irving sneakers?
“What we wear, eat, dwell in, drive, and use all express who we are and what we are. Possessions are symbolic expressions of ourselves.” (Luke Timothy Johnson).
In light of recent events, I ask myself a simple question. What the fuck am I supposed to do with the three pairs of Kyrie Irving sneakers I have in my closet? Seriously! I can’t fucking wear them now. What would my Hebros say to me? I’d be exiled like Moses in the Desert. Here is the backstory for people who don’t immediately know what I’m talking about. I’ve spent years rolling my ankles in basketball sneakers. If a player had a shoe, I tried it: Tmac, Kobe, Lebron, Marbury, etc., etc., etc. But then, suddenly, I discovered the perfect sneaker, the design, the colors, the name recognition, Kyrie Irving sneakers. It was like “Like Mike” when I put on those sneakers. I became “BOX OFFICE.” I could do it all in these sneakers. A winner of three men’s adult league championships. My honeymoon was spent in Kyrie’s sneakers. I saw Avengers Endgame in those sneakers. When new Kyrie’s came out, I could not get them fast enough.
At the height of the covid-19 pandemic, Kyrie declared himself anti-vax. There were rumors of Nike dropping their shoe deal with him, and I acted swiftly and ordered multiple pairs to maintain my relationship with the sneaker. I felt strongly that my relationship with the sneakers could work through all the anti-vax bullshit. Cut to two months ago. Kyrie Irving took to Twitter to boost a movie and book, “Hebrews to Negroes.” A film jam-packed with antisemitic tropes, produced by Alex Jones. Yes, that Alex Jones. I have no desire to go into the film or speculate whether Kyrie is an antisemite, criticize his actions, or debate whether a repost has the same implications as a standard post on Twitter. Instead, a more significant question plagues my mind. There are three pairs of Kyrie Irving’s shoes in my closet. Can I still wear them?
While it feels like most of the sports world has moved on, Kyrie Irving’s name still conjures a pit in my stomach. As a Jewish man, I will say what he did was hurtful, and I will not soon forget about it. So how can I wear the shoes? If someone's name forces you to think of antisemitism, it’s a bad look to be associated with them. Like, let's say I was hosting a classy dinner party, and my boy Steve hits me, and he’s like, “Yo, who’s the crew for the dinner party?” and I hit him back with Scott’s list, “Dave, Tina, Joy, Spencer, Christian, Brian…” and Steve interjects with “Wait, isn’t Brian a racist.” That’s a bad look on me that I’m inviting a suspected racist to my classy dinner party. Therefore I must get rid of the sneakers. However, to play devil’s advocate, one could argue that if I were to drop every product that is somewhat associated with an antisemite, I’d be living on the street with nothing but Second Avenue Deli and the vaccine for typhus. Not to mention, I already paid for the shoes, and Kyrie already got my money. The problem here is wearing Kyrie Sneakers in public is a statement. Kyrie’s repost of the film was open support of the film. Thus my wearing Kyrie’s sneakers is open support for Kyrie Irving and what he stands for—leading me to conclude that in order, as my parents would say, “be a good Jew,” I can not wear my Kyrie Irving sneakers.
What’s next? I need to find new sneakers, but I can’t risk spending more money on shoes that may one day be associated with antisemitism. The solution is to create my own sneaker, one I can guarantee isn’t antisemitic. And with that, I embark on my journey to create the perfect non-anti-Semitic sneaker.
TO BE CONTINUED…
