Before my secular private school allowed sneakers into the dress code, I wore boat shoes every weekday for four years. I would see them each morning, sitting by my front door, and think of a half-deflated football with that soft, burnished brown leather a sorry contrast to the cream-colored lacing. When they came undone, as they often did due to haphazard tying on my part, the tendrils were rigid enough to coil like unruly horns but were still prone to dragging. I never liked them, representative as they were of the tanned Connecticut country club culture from which I felt alienated as a pale and sickly pubescent. The second I was able, I traded them for New Balances and didn’t think about them again for a decade.