When I Tried Making Homemade Reebok Pumps

In the winter of 1991, I was sitting on the couch in our living room with my eyes glued to the TV like it was broadcasting a message from another planet. The NBA Slam Dunk Contest was on, and Dee Brown, the rookie from the Boston Celtics, stepped onto the court wearing the most magical shoes I had ever seen. Reebok Pumps. Not just shoes, but shoes you pumped up. I watched him bend down, squeeze the little orange basketball on the tongue, and inflate them like he was powering up a robot. The crowd roared, the announcers went wild, and then he took off, soaring and twisting and hanging in the air like gravity had taken the night off. When he threw down the no look dunk, the one with his arm across his face, my jaw dropped so hard it nearly hit the carpet. In that moment, I knew with absolute certainty that I needed Reebok Pumps. Not wanted. Needed.

The next morning I started my campaign. I followed my mother around the house insisting they made you jump higher, insisting they protected your ankles, insisting they were good for your feet even though I had no idea if that was true. I demonstrated the Dee Brown dunk in the kitchen and nearly wiped out a stack of Tupperware. I pumped my thumb against imaginary buttons until it got sore. I even tried the sad eyes and the long sighs and the “I guess I’ll be the only kid without them” routine. My mother never budged. “Mickey, I am not paying that much for shoes you are going to outgrow in six months.” I tried again the next day, and the next, and the next, but nothing worked.

Eventually I decided that if I could not buy Pumps, I would build Pumps. I dug out an old pair of high tops from my closet, the ones with frayed laces and a sole that flapped when I ran too fast. I found a rubber bouncy ball in my toy box, cut it in half with kitchen scissors I was not supposed to use, and taped the half sphere onto the tongue of each shoe. Then I drew a tiny basketball on each one with a marker. They looked terrible, but I didn’t care. I pressed the rubber half ball and pretended I could feel the air rushing in. I bounced on my toes, jogged in place, and even tried a test jump in the hallway, which ended with me hitting my head on the doorframe because I misjudged the distance. Still, I felt unstoppable.

The next day at recess I strutted onto the blacktop wearing my homemade Pumps. I pumped them up dramatically, just like Dee Brown, even adding a little head nod for flair. A few kids gathered around asking what they were supposed to be and why the basketball was crooked, but I ignored them. I took a running start, leapt toward the metal playground rim, and missed by a foot and a half. I landed with style though, and with the confidence that if I kept pumping, one day I would get there.

I never did get real Reebok Pumps. My mom held firm, my dad said my feet worked fine without gadgets, and my brother laughed every time I mentioned them. But the magic of that night never left me. I can still see the glow of the TV, hear the roar of the crowd, and picture Dee Brown pumping up his shoes like he was activating superpowers. And somewhere in a box in the attic, there is still a pair of old high tops with half a rubber ball taped to the tongue, the closest I ever came to flying.