When I was seven, my friend and I were creatures of chaos. We lived next to a construction site.
On the weekend, we'd go in and go wild. We'd crack boards, kick shit around, and generally act like small localized hurricanes of destruction.
One day, while walking along the top edge of some almost finished walls I slipped and my leg got stuck in the middle of the wall. When I pulled it out, I was missing a shoe.
A few days later, one of the workers came up to me and my friend. From behind his back, he produced a small white Adidas shoe with my first name written on the side.
He asked me, “Are you Scott? Is this your shoe?” I replied, “No, that's not my shoe.” He asked me several times and I kept saying no until he gave up and left us alone.
Shortly after, we switched our focus to the construction site down by the tracks.
I still like Adidas but I don't sign them anymore.