Red and Mark exist in this world as a pair of twin shoes, both being sewn as boys. The twins thought of themselves as light and breezy for their makers did not form them out of thick leather. Lace weaved throughout their heels and soles for air-conditioning, serving as drain pipes when their master’s feet started overheating, flooding, or starting to reek. Three red streaks of thin leather were sewn on their cheeks. To other shoes, these streaks appeared to be scratches from the family dog, but in reality the shoemakers made them as birthmarks. Although the shoemakers created for running, their master wore them for everyday relaxation, but tomorrow, unbeknown to Red and Mark, will not arrive as a relaxing day. This story is told through the tongues of the shoes.


Every morning, master snatches Red and me from sleep, then stuffs us with his dreadful feet, and lastly whisks us away into a large silver motorized contraption, a car… we think. Our master was a tall, brown-haired, and animated teenager who every morning is sent to a place called “school”. Apparently, “school” is where humans learn to read and write. The morning dragged on as usual although master bounced around a bit more than normal. All through Spanish, Science and even Math, he did not sit still. Eventually, lunch arrived. At first we speed-walked down the hall, most of the other shoes usually do, but instead of pushing forward onto the cold, clammy cafeteria tile, master decided to coast into the carpeted office. There, talking with the secretary stood his Michigan-loving mother. His mom always loved Michigan, being born and raised in Flat Rock and attending the college of the maize and blue. Something was not right. Where could they be going? She scribbled something onto a chart and together, we left for home.


After an hour of stress passed and several large cases filled, the whole family climbed into the car. We arrived at an airport with our master’s family each holding a ticket to a land where only wolverine lovers live, Michigan. Hours passed and during the trip from plane to plane we slowly drifted asleep.


Awakened by loud vigorous banging, we found ourselves walking around, already stuffed with master’s feet. Where ever we were, the place was amazing; old buildings, bustling people, shops, restaurants, the whole shebang. This was the life! Only one sight worried us. In the background an army of noisemakers stood. The noisemakers dressed in coats of navy blue and yellow and boots of shiny white. Their hands held onto glistening brass weapons. In the front, a man clothed in a white army uniform checked his soldiers while placing a feather topped hat upon the crown of his head. A mob of fans swarmed all around us and they walked at an extremely slow pace. Our speed reduced to a shuffle. With a foot left between the battalion and us, the crowd dispersed. We were freed from captivity!


Just then, we shoes figured out whey we were here, the football game. School bands always march up to the stadium before home games. Master and his family strided up to the gates and produced another set of tickets not unlike the ones before. The attendants took a peek at master’s ticket and let us through. He stepped into the outer section of the stadium. The onslaught of feet and legs appeared and robbed us of our sight. Commotion rampaged all throughout the game, and sadly none of the 222,000 shoes present knew what happened during the game.


Later in the week at school, some shoes informed us that Michigan had beaten their opponent. Those shoes watched the game on TV with their owners while cluttered in a pile on the floor. They also stated something about a Notre and a Dame, whatever those are. Football is too complicated for us. Just one suggestion to all shoe owners: instead of clapping and jumping for joy, lean back and kick your feet so our disadvantaged eyelets may behold he wonders of the game, too.