Sport Shop Stories: The Race on the Hill

Ok, so this post technically isn't a sport shop story because it occurred outside the shop. But, I felt it was necessary, because it was a surreal moment, something that had never happened to me before, something I felt I needed to share with the world. Plus, I haven't written anything in ages and weird shit like this inspires me, which after reading this you'll probably find a little unusual, but yer, whatever.

So, after a days work at the sport shop, pretty busy day actually, a Monday as well which was a pain, I was on my way home. Now, my journey home involves nabbing a lift off my manager, which he is more than happy to do. I think it's because I'm such good conversation, I mean I talk to him all bloody day I would've thought the last thing he's thinking of is spending more time with me. Anyway, so he gives me a lift to the little town I live in, and then I begin a ten minute walk (well on a bad day, normally it would take like seven minutes but I thought rounding up would be more appropriate) up a reasonably legendary hill in my area. How can something be reasonably legendary you ask? You're about to find out...

The first thing I have to take into consideration on my journey home is the people who take the train. If all is well, I will get to the hill before the crazy commuters, if not I will be ambushed by people all around me, which sucks because I like a smooth walk. At the bottom of the hill, I can see the commuters and I know already I'm in trouble. Now, I like to think of myself of the Usain Bolt of walking, if I need to turn on the pace I'll do it, whoever you are, if I'm behind you, you're under pressure. I'm like a hyena running after an antelope on one of those animal related programmes with David Attenborough as the narrator. Except instead of eating my pray, I merely waltz past him/her and smile after my sensational work.

However, as I was saying, trouble was brewing. Brewing like a cup of tea which had been left on the side for ages and forgotten about, or you know, pouring milk into your tea after waiting ages for the kettle to boil but forgetting that the milk is off, now that's a disappointing situation right there. But this was different to curdled milk, this was walking suicide. People are coming in all directions as I watch in horror, but I know at the end, waiting for me, is home.

I managed to find a gap in the commuters, but it was a difficult gap to find, which meant the position was already questionable. At the first turn I only had two in my view, both middle-aged men, both with good pace, not pace I was willing to put pressure on at the early stages of the hill. The nearest to me was a bald man with what appeared to be walking-style shoes, this man already demanded respect, and that was what I was willing to give him at this point. On the other hand, I was well armed. My shoes were about a month old, trail shoes perfectly designed for walking, more cross country walking, but strong enough to deal with such hills as this one. However, I could sense traffic, the second man, who was ahead of the pack, had reasonable pace, but you could tell we were gaining on him. At this point, it felt more like Baldy McBalderson and I had formed an alliance telepathically in order to take out this "Average Joe" of walking.

Thankfully for Joe, we hadn't got to a point of overtaking yet, the path was narrow and all Baldy and I could do was maintain pace. It was the end of a long working day, and I could sense both were tiring, but I don't think my pace intimidated them, so all I could do was wait. The first point of overtaking was upon us, a double turning, I was relying on Balderson to make the move, he had a little too much pace for me to make the move on both men so he needed to get things moving.

This was where, in my view, the alliance was destroyed. He slowed, but at precisely the wrong moment. He was right on his tail, but didn't grab hold of the opportunity, I thought this man had balls, but instead, he just had a bald head with disgustingly average looking walking shoes which my feet wouldn't be seen dead nestled inside. He was a disgrace, and all the respect I had for the man vanished within seconds, I was now on my own again, where I should have been all along. But this distraction had back-fired on me drastically, there was suddenly someone else in the game, and he looked a real contender. When I turned back to cross the road, there he was, gaining on me, suddenly I was the bait and he the hunter.

I couldn't escape, the hunter had become the hunted. I was under the spell of the unknown genius and I couldn't get out of it, I panicked, I knew I had to pick up the pace, but with Baldy that close in front I would've just walked into him, AND THAT WOULD BE WALKING SUICIDE. Thankfully, the path had narrowed, but the unknown genius still maintained a new pace, a pace where I had been before, but I was worried about Baldy, Joe was still going at a snail's pace, and not a very fast snail at that. Let's face it, slow and steady doesn't win the race, I mean what the hell that hare was doing against that tortoise I'll never know. Well I wasn't up for making the same mistake, I had no time for rest, I had an unknown genius up my arse and a Bald Man not getting out the friggin way.

My pulse started to race, and no I don't mean my pulse actually jumped out of my body and got involved in the battle to the top, because that's just ridiculous. All I could do was look down and all that was staring back at me was the shadow of the unknown man, breathing down my neck, putting pressure on all three of us. At this point I was disappointed that my choice of song on my Ipod didn't really match the epic battle that was going on around me. I should've been listening to Eye of the Tiger on repeat but instead I was stuck with Steven Wilson's new album, a mere floaty album which I would normally listen to the day after a heavy night out to relax. Don't get me wrong, it's a fantastic album, but it just didn't add up. Nope, nothing was adding up...and I had never been under so much walking pressure in my life.

However, there was a chance, my overtaking zone, the zone of uncertainty, the opening of all openings. This was a legendary area for me, one where I did most of my best work, and people just don't see it coming. The hill had levelled out, so it was no longer a battle with the hill as well as the players involved. I sensed my legs appreciated this, and suddenly second gear was a very realistic prospect, I took a glance behind to check on the anonymous god-like walker, I've never seen so much concentration on a man's face, unbelievable stuff.

We entered the zone, and Baldy was slowing up, I had really miss-judged this man's quality, he had used up all his energy at the bottom of the Hill and was losing pace fast, I had him in my pocket. He darted left and I jumped at the opportunity, jinking round him to his right like a gazelle. And this is where I really got excited because Joe, who had maintained his averageness, had a similar line to the one I had created meaning a gap to his left, I could do nothing else but take the opportunity.

I was in pole position, number one, top of the pops, I had the freedom of nothingness ahead of me and really turned on the pace. No-one was catching me now, I wasn't turning back for Joe or Baldy, and the unknown genius? Not even he had the pace to keep up with me, he must've missed the chance.

Opening the front door was like breaking the finishing line tape, never have I been under so much walking pressure. I have never been unexpectedly overtaken whilst walking, and I don't intend to be any time soon.

So, the moral of this story? Don't be Joe, Joe ruins it for everyone. Maybe on this occasion Joe was the fool on the hill. After all, the Beatles wrote:

But the fool on the hill,
Sees the sun going down,
And the world in his head,
Sees the world spinning round.

So, basically, he wasn't really concentrating.

Idiot.

Sport Shop Stories: The Shoes That Got Away.

We come to the second edition of Sport Shop Stories and this one was…well…fantastic for the neutral. But being involved was rather awkward.

The story begins on one Saturday when my manager sold a pair of shoes to this man, who he said was AT THE TIME a nice guy, no problems, just needed a standard pair of trainers.  He proceeded to try on some, seemed convinced by the shoes quality and fit and went on to the counter to purchase the shoes.

Now this is where you have to pay attention.

He bought the shoes, but asked my manager to keep the shoe box as he was going to wear them straight away. This, for anyone that doesn’t shop for shoes much, is a dangerous step to take (see what I did there?). At this stage, as that box will immediately be destroyed and taken off to recycling, which means if he fancies bringing them back, well, we won’t be able to sell it as the box is long gone. So, if you haven’t worked out what is going to happen next, well you just haven’t been paying attention, have you.

I rock up Monday morning, likely hungover and frustrated due to the lack of knowledge I have after part-taking in a pub quiz the night before, but content that I have a fairly sub-standard day of work ahead of me.  Manager and I discuss how brilliant our weekends were over a nice cup of tea and so far, all is well.

I can’t remember exactly whether he was the first customer of the day, but he was certainly an early bird, but was clearly in no mood to catch any worms. Of course, I haven’t met this man yet, so I am understandably composed and ready for selling, as is my manager. Let the conversation commence:

Manager: Can I help sir?

Shoe man: Yes, I’d like to return these shoes?

The tone of my managers voice changes. He doesn’t like returns, neither do I, it makes us look rubbish. When the takings of the day kick off with negative figures, generally not a good start, is it?

Manager: May I ask why?

Shoe man: (Epic pause, like really long, probably a sigh in there as well, for effect) Well they’re slightly too big.

Too big? A little bit odd, mostly you’ll get returns for a shoe being too small which is fair enough because no one wants broken toenails, too big is rare, but I’ll accept it at this point.

Manager: Have you got the box to go with them?

Shoe man: No I left it to you.

AWKWARDNESS then occurs. My manager and I know we can’t refund these shoes and he looks pissed off enough as it is. This is when my involvement mixes things up.

Me: Have you got your receipt?

Then, Vesuvius erupted. His face turned to me as if I’d just said “Your wife was really good in bed last night. Might pop back again tonight if you’re out?”

Harold Shoeman: (In an angry tone) Don’t be so bloody cheeky!

He is right. I mean what kind of outrageous question is that to ask a customer, whether he has a receipt or not, the mind really boggles. My face was probably similar to the first time I saw Inception at the cinema. Not really one of fear, but more complete confusion as to what was going on in front of me. Any composure I had when first meeting this man had vanished in the blink of an eye, I was in a different world. My manager on the other hand was equally as shocked, but was somehow prepared for the situation.

Manager: What’s cheeky about that? He doesn’t know who you are; you could’ve walked in with any pair of shoes without a box from another shop.

It’s lucky my manager has balls; I was still in another world. Of course my manager decides now is the time to drop the massive bomb, while he’s riled-up.

Manager: Besides, without a box we can’t re-sell these shoes.

AWKWARDNESS then occurs. Followed by a full blown argument between the two, in which Harold called me “rude” and “cheeky” several times. I manage to wake up and get away from the other world I temporarily got lost in, not because my map skills are terrible (which they are), more because I’d rather be lost in another world than the ridiculous one in the shop. I sneakily broke away from the conversation and into the back, because I had to laugh at this point. I felt if I did it in front of Shoeman, I’d be living up to the label he had just given me and I did want him to be right about that, did I?

Harold Shoeman: (Post-argument) I demand you speak to your manager at the bigger store!

Manager: I will (But only because he wants to tell him about the ridiculous customer we have in our shop)

While this discussion is happening, which my manager obviously takes to the back so he can give our other manager the full picture of how much of a $?!$&*(@@:>>@:@@::@ this guy really is, I am left with Shoeman.

AWKWARDNESS COULD NOT OCCUR MORE, no words are spoken, I don’t even look at him, I pretend I’m doing something on the till computer which is really important, but I’m just constantly checking how much money we have done in the day, which given he is one of the first customers, isn’t a lot. It was a shame I didn’t have a beard to scratch, I’d shaved the day before, not that my beard is normally epic enough to scratch, but it would have killed at least 15-20 seconds. Shame I couldn’t go back to my other world, it was a much simpler place.

My manager returns, with these simple words.

Manager:  I’m sorry…

Harold: (Interupts) Right that’s it! I’m going to go to the bank and sort this myself.

Manager: Um… I don’t think you can…

Harold: I will stop this transaction, this is ridiculous!

He was right, this was ridiculous. I was tempted to wait until he was far enough away from the shop, then run to the bank and warn them of the horror that is Shoeman. I mean I wasn’t at my fittest at this point but I would’ve been confident that I could out-run a man with no shoes. The even more ridiculous thing was that he left us with the shoes, before storming out of the shop. The shoes that have now been sitting in a bag behind the counter now for well over half a year and whenever I look at them, I am reminded of the day this happened. That is the only thing I shall thank him for, because he was a right %^*):>@?:@.

 
Just for the record, I don’t think his name was actually Harold Shoeman. If it was that would be incredible. Oh and he wasn’t successful in his mission to stop the transaction either. Bad day at the office you could say, but in this case, he was in a Sport Shop.

Sport Shop Stories - The Beginning

After working in my beloved local sport shop for just passed a year now, I felt instead of moaning constantly about the lack of customers or discussing really pointless things with my manager about whatever the hell we can think of, I would share some stories with the public about the fun times of the job as a sport shop salesman.

I'm going to start with a customer who I remember quite well due to his high level of twatness. His ability to look like the busiest, most impressive person in the world was quite mind-boggling, anyway here we go.

It was a quiet, sunny summer's day in the world of the sport shop. A man enters, dark hair, skinny build, mid-20s, discussing business-like issues on his Blackberry phone...really loudly. He wonders over to the shoes at the end of the shop and begins to browse. After a minute or two, he hangs up the phone after sealing some sort of deal and continues to browse.

A handsome, 22 year old, blonde, (could be me) man with charm and wit in abundance (definitely me) wonders over to the man and conversation commences.

Myself: Can I help at all?

(The man chuckles as if to suggest I am a minion from the land of dunceville and couldn't possibly help him with his situation.)

Man: I suppose, I'm looking for some running shoes for my dad

Myself: Ok, well we have...

(The man then decides that the four words is quite enough from me and interrupts, like the fantastic man that he is.)

Man: Look, (proceeds to chuckle like a devil-mouse) let's not get into you trying to explain to me what shoes are better because you clearly don't know much about your stock so just give me some prices so we can get on with this.

(I step back, stunned by the lack of respect and this guy's pure dickheadedness. But, being the ultimate pro that I am, maintain composure and try again.)

Myself: Well, I do know my stock. (Pause, for sensational effect.) So, how much does your father run a week.

(The awkwardness is overwhelming, but the man is nice enough to give me a second chance. I am obviously so thankful for his generosity.)

Man: Well, (thinks about a ridiculous number of miles that makes his dad comparative to Speedy Gonzalez) about 20 miles?

Myself: (maintaining composure, although I really want to do an Undertaker-esque choke slam on him and tell him he's a disgrace) At that sort of mileage he'll probably need a higher priced running shoe, any idea if he pronates?

(The man looks at me as if to suggest he doesn't know what I mean, but he can't possibly NOT know what I mean, can he?)

Man: I don't think he does, no.

Myself: Well, a high percentage of people do pronate, the duomax technology on the inside of the Asics shoe will help to combat this, which you'll get with the 2160. If you're sure he will require a neutral shoe, he'll need to go up to a Nimbus.

(I'm now the one chuckling, only in my head though, to maintain the professionalism on show. The man, who is now so confused he's light-headed and may as well be hiding in the corner waving a white flag, maintains his smugness and looks up at my glowing smile)

Man: Which ones the cheapest?

Myself: The 2160s.

Man: Ok, I'll have those in a size 9.

Myself: Ok, I'll be back in a second.

(I make my way to the stock room, hoping that the size he wants we do have in stock because I'm sick of having to talk to this outrageous human being. I spot the shoes and quickly return to the shop to claim victory by making a sale.

Myself: (scanning the product, triumphantly) Would you like these in a bag?

Man: Yes, please. (He said "please", have I managed to gain his respect?) Do you take Amex?

Myself: I'm afraid we don't.

(And suddenly, we're back to the beginning again,. His face is one of total bewilderment at the possibility that a shop cannot take his beloved American Express card. It's as if I've just put up a big red sign in front of his face saying "REJECTED". Of course, any logical man just pays by card at this point, but this is someone really special)

Man: I haven't got any cash.

Myself: (taking a risk) There is a cash-point just round the corner.

Man: (Starting to get angry) So, I have to get cash out?

(At this point I really want to congratulate him for stating the obvious so well, leaving me speechless, all I can do is lightly nod)

Myself: I'll keep these behind the counter for you.

Man: Ok, Thanks. (Thanks? Really? Unbelievable.)

So, the man leaves. I'm pretty sure he isn't coming back after such a mind-bending encounter. Me and my colleague proceed to call him pretty much every bad word under the sun, obviously I explained it to her in detail, as for most of it she was dealing with another customer.

Half an hour later, to my amazement, he returns to the battle ground, cash in hand. I am ready, with my scanner, waiting for him to get to the counter so I can claim victory.

Barely a word is spoken as the transaction is completed. He leaves and I haven't seen the man since.

I win.