Sneakers | A longing for PF Flyers

Longing (adverb)

“a strong desire especially for something unobtainable”.

We’ve all felt it. As children it can be for almost anything, like those brightly-coloured sweets promising untold pleasures. But your pocket money has run out and your parents won’t treat you. “This is a valuable lesson", they say. You lie face-down on the pavement and pound the floor with your tiny, helpless fists.

As a teenager, the girl next door creates such longing you think your heart will break in two unless she notices you, returns a smile, or laughs at your immature jokes. Then she moves to Lancashire and leaves you singularly alone.

For adults, longing is more abstract. We’re cynical creatures, protecting ourselves from unrealistic fantasies by a lifetime of emotional armour.

Sometimes we yearn for simple things like a lie-in at the weekend, or a week of winter sun. But there is deeper longing too: for the youth which was wasted on us at the time, or hardest of all, for the one that got away.

PF Flyers know longing. Their designs hark back to a simpler time, referencing classic baseball and basketball styles. Their catalogue features archival reissues of the shoes which made the brand so popular in the 1950s and 60s, and this heritage appeals to anyone wanting an alternative to the ubiquitous Converse All Stars.

In American baseball nostalgia-fest, The Sandlot (1993), PF Flyers are imbued with almost mystical properties; “shoes guaranteed to make a kid run faster and jump higher” – which comes in handy at the film's climax. The Center Hi Sandlot Edition is an all-black colourway available in celebration of that rose-tinted coming-of-age movie. But not only does the brand continue to honour its roots with its vintage styles and authentic detailing, it collaborates with contemporary designers, artists and trend-setters, knowing that nostalgia will be around for a while.

I've worn PFs almost exclusively for 10 years. I love the combination of classic silhouettes and contemporary touches. And they are the most comfortable sneakers I've ever owned.

Sadly, it's hard to find them in the UK these days. They're owned by New Balance – a brand that's been having its own renaissance in recent years – so PFs are not regularly distributed or marketed here. I have imported several pairs from the States, but it's a costly business. I long for a time when I could buy them in little independent stores in Soho, but, like all of us, I long for many things I can't have.

- Adam. Designer.

You can find Adam on Twitter and at Street and Two Veg.

Introducing OurCaste

Blogging, it's a funny thing. When you start, it's you doing the searching, trawling the internet to find things you (and others) might like. After a while, people start approaching you, asking if you (and others) might like their brand.

Don't get me wrong, there's still a fair amount of trawling to be done, as it still throws up the most interesting finds (see these beer growlers - what's a beer growler? I bet you're asking).

I'm glad people do approach us bloggers though. I can't count the number of brands, products, and adventures I'd have missed if people hadn't.

OurCaste are one such brand, all the way from sunny California. Would I have heard of them if they hadn't emailed me? No. Am I glad they did? Most definitely.

OurCaste are the sort of brand where I scroll through the online store and want everything. Their clothes are perfect for me. Not showy, not 'fashionista', not highly sartorial - just that perfect American workwear style, focusing on solid, straightforward design, with the odd quirk, colour, or feature to give each piece an edge.

I own a pair of their Paul - DWR trousers - a nice gift from the guys at OurCaste, I will admit; but people have sent me things before and I've not written so kindly about them (the most recent being that aloe vera drink - grim).

I like the look of their check shirts too, as well as the plain single pocket tees. I imagine if these are of a similar quality to the Paul trousers, they'd be a very good buy indeed.

Check them out here!

Images: OurCaste.

A blog to read | Our Ruins

Abandoned places are one of my favourite subjects. Not to visit, really - aside from an East German skate park and a VW camper van graveyard, I don't have the bottle for that.

Besides, other folks cover them far better - Worship Blues' post on Porto being one of the best examples I've ever seen.

Our Ruins is a blog that focus exclusively on abandoned places. And it's stunning. Truly stunning. Incredible places, with flawless photography. If you like abandoned places, this is one to bookmark, follow, read, and absorb.

The pictures are mostly (perhaps exclusively) locations in Texas. These guys clearly have an abundance of suitable places on their doorstep; however, we all do - I'm sure of it - and it takes real skill, commitment, and courage to go out and shoot them.

Take a look at their blog, gain some inspiration, and go and shoot!

Images: Our Ruins and one from me of the German skate park.

New York, Meet Football

Football’s brilliance lies in it’s unpredictability. A team can dominate 90-minutes of football and walk away with nothing. One moment of stupidity, one moment of bad-luck, one moment of rare skill from the opposition, and you’re a goal down, staring defeat in the face.

A few fans cling to hope at the bar, the others retreat to play pool, hearts wiped clean from their sleeves. And then it happens. The 93rd minute, man of the match chosen, the whistle wet in the referees mouth, a cross flung across the box, and the ball meets the back of the net.

3,000 miles away, in a bar in Manhattan, a bar stool flies over the heads of the Bundesliga fans. The jubilant roar from one man, deafening all seven people in the room. He tumbles forward, sinks his beer, and rushes to the street outside, screaming the words ‘Strip club!’

The time was roughly 1.00pm, EST. The day, Sunday. As Richard Dunne stands on the sunbaked turf of a West London football pitch, head in hands; four Qpr fans sway on the sun-blistered sidewalk of 3rd Avenue, arm-in-arm.

Football’s brilliance lies in it’s unpredictability, but not just on the pitch. Away trips can be dull, boring affairs. A long drive to Coventry, a warm Budweiser in a pub under the M6, and a two-mile walk in the driving rain. Fantastic.

Away trips can also be fascinating; a chance encounter with interesting people, in interesting places, and a tale or two to be repeated for years to come.

This Sunday was my first introduction to New York. No work to do and a faded Google Maps printout in hand, I searched for a downtown sports bar, sticking to the shaded side of the street for fear of death by sunstroke.

Quiet, peaceful, dark. Two English fans at the bar, staring at the small TV, while the Germans sat watching the big screen. Small-talk about games watched, what could have been, should have been, and what will be. A nice way to spend a jet-lagged morning.

Then arrives the third. A former cockney with an acquired wise-guy accent, he threw his arms around every fan of his colour, and flicked Vs at those who weren’t.

‘Oi, Sanchez. What ****ing language do we speak in this country?’

His opening gambit, in reference to the German commentary trickling from the speakers. The barman had heard it all before and pointed to the white-shirted Klinsmanns, a group far larger than our own.

‘What the ****?! Did we lose the War?!’

The first of many barbed comments flung across the room, to be followed later by the stool.

Two hours and six pints. That’s an impressive record, especially for a Sunday lunchtime session. The barman poured, the beer flowed. Hearts should be worn on sleeves. Live for your club. Die for your club. Love those in your colours. Hate the rest, especially the Germans.

The never-ending roll of violent cliches never ended.

Then we were a goal down. Tempers frayed. Blood boiled. Klinsmann and in his friends had drunk their fill too. Stares bore across the room. A few comments in reply. Even after six pints, most men can still count, and we fans of the same colour made it clear that death at the hands of fellow Europeans was not on our agenda that day.

90 minutes. We’ve lost. It’s game over. The ball still bouncing around, but never threatening the net.

And he’s left. The toilet door swinging on its hinges.

Then it happens. The cross. The goal. Through the glass of the small TV we see the net ripple and a West London stadium erupt in celebration.

3,000 miles away, in a bar in Manhattan, a bar stool flies over the heads of the Bundesliga fans. The jubilant roar from one man, deafening all seven people in the room. He tumbles forward, sinks his beer, and rushes to the street outside, screaming the words...

‘Strip club!’

I pose for one picture - taking the risk for a single record of the memory - turn on my heels and sprint two blocks in the opposite direction.

New York, meet football. Football, meet New York.

Images: My own.