Saddle shoes, or “saddle oxfords,” were the prize possession of every young girl’s wardrobe in the 1940s and ‘50s. With a brown, blue, or black “saddle” stripe across the instep, these iconically popular white buck sporty shoes, synonymous with teenage life, accompanied many a gal’s Saturday night dates, school dances and daily knockaround hijinks. Like an American Express card, she never left home without them. Complimented by cuffed white “bobby sox,” poodle skirts, or rolled up jeans, these shoes could be seen in photos and films adorning Frank Sinatra’s hysterical Bobby Soxer girl army and Elvis Presley’s screaming teen queen worshippers. Nowadays, people universally identify them as traditional cheerleader shoes.
Around early fall 1950, my friends and I volunteered to be cheerleaders for the christening game of the local boys’ football team, “The Rockaway Redskins.” Sponsored by St. Rose of Lima Church, they were to play weekly contests up in Jacob Riis Park Beach in affluent Neponsit on Saturday afternoons. Making up the roster of players and cheerleading squad would be members from our weekly confraternity youth group, which met in the parish chapel on Wednesday nights. Overseen by youthful Father Brennan and Father Flynn, these chummy co-ed teen socials lasting from 7 to 9 p.m. would feature a Psalm or prayer followed by beverages, chats, laughs and occasionally some light “Lindy” dancing while popular records played low-key on a portable phonograph! It was good clean fun and bonding, even if confined only to the small chapel.
Now, we were all going to take this respectfully subdued energy out to the wide-open spaces of Riis Park and boisterously celebrate it with competitive cheer and bluster! With our young priests serving as coaches and local photographers to be on hand, this unquestionably felt like a big deal, complete with all the trimmings! In excited preparation, my pals and I assembled our cheerleading outfits with pleated oxford blue skirts, immaculate white gloves and sweaters, with an emblazoned navy felt “R” that I eagerly handcrafted for our captain, Rosemary Walpole. Nicki, my chum, taught us the latest cheers and, in order to make a dazzling presentation, we doggedly practiced spirited high jumps, kicks and cartwheels until we felt we were great. I remember jumping up so high, I thought I’d touch the sky!
On the day of the inaugural big game, I was dressed in uniform polishing up my saddle shoes after breakfast when the bright morning sunlight through the window revealed the toll the vigorous daily practices had taken on my once pristine oxfords, as they now bore a dull look with creased wrinkles and lines. Even the fresh crisp blue and white outfit couldn’t mask their “beat up” appearance and it didn’t feel right matching them together, especially for such a “bells and whistles” event. Nudged by the ticking clock, I impulsively told my mother I wanted new saddle shoes. Mama, at the kitchen sink in her usual house dress and apron, replied as if caught unaware, “I have no money. You have to wear those.” My mother to this point had always provided for my needs and this first-time refusal threw me for a loop. In the rush of the moment, I began rashly insisting that she buy me new ones, only to become incensed at her exasperated reply, “No money, no shoes, what else can I tell you!” Back and forth, we quibbled; I, irritated, she, somewhat humored.
The presence of my co-cheerleader pal, Rose Rios, standing by in polished mint saddle shoes probably didn’t help any, triggering off a desperate tantrum in me. With brattish fervor, I took to my weary, cherished saddles with a pair of small scissors from the drawer, put my foot on the kitchen radiator and hissy fitted to my mother that if I didn’t get new shoes, I was going to cut and scratch mine up. I was sure that a few well-crafted slices into their hard white leather tops would make her give in and give me money for brand new undefiled ones. Bemused by my juvenile antics, she incredulously retorted, “Go ahead, you got money to buy new ones?” Hastily (and foolishly), I called her bluff and proceeded with my comical tirade. Mama, leaning against the sink with dish towel in hand, simply sighed a resigned laugh at the newly scuffed shoes and calmly shrugged, “Now you’ll have to wear them like that!” Rose’s stifled snickering painfully told me my gambling efforts were all in vain. With swallowed pride, I reluctantly accepted my fate and polished up my battered shoes. All my drama served no purpose. My Mom stuck to her guns and I lost!
By the time we reached Riis Park’s playing fields, the tranquil panorama of the welcoming vast greenery was buzzing with excitement and gathering crowds. Watching Father Brennan huddling with the players in their spiffy red uniforms and the sight of my co-cheerleaders proudly decked in trim blue and white, stirred me with a calmly, blissful exuberance as the gentle marriage of warm sun and sea breeze gradually melted away my ire. Basking in camaraderie and team spirit, I was now enveloped with gratitude and humility as no one noticed or cared about my shoes. No longer was I the bitter adolescent I had been only an hour earlier.
The idiom, “You make your bed; you sleep in it,” had surely been my professor that morning. Though my tantrum turned out to be a tempest in a teapot, I had sorely learned (as evidenced by my shoes) the cost of acting in haste on tempered emotion. From then on, I made it a point with Mama (and one day my own children) to always try to look before I leap with words and deeds. In addition, her wise proverb, “No money, no shoes” became an ingrained mantra that would lead me to my first job at W.T. Grant’s department store in Far Rockaway the following spring.
As I took to the field with my cheerleading pals that day, there was a subtle thrill of renewal that I’d reset course for the future on the right path. The scars of insolence on my shoes turned out to be inherent blemishes of youth and liberation toward adulthood. On this young sunlit autumnal afternoon, Riis Park may as well have doubled for the Greek Elysian Fields as I stepped onto its glorious patchy weathered grass. Propelled by the carefree, untainted joy of redemption, I jumped into the fray of the game with my teammates to the jubilance of cheering spectators and snapping Brownie cameras. From our heads to our saddle shoes, we all leaped towards the Neponsit sky. This time I was sure I touched it!
