Fleet Farm Shoes and the Fool Who Found Freedom

Plymouth, 1977, and a Porch Where Truth Took Root

Basketball ruled our little corner of Plymouth. Coach Frank Schade had us dreaming we could slam-dunk our way to glory if we boxed out hard enough.

Tim Halstead didn’t need dreams—he was living it. Quiet guard. St. John’s kid. Student council type. My sister Deb’s friend. Deb led with fire; Tim just showed up, faithful as the squeak of sneakers on hardwood. He broke records without breaking a sweat, his strength so steady it didn’t need a spotlight.

I was the kid brother, orbiting their world, a moth buzzing around the gym’s fluorescent glow. I didn’t even play ball. But Tim saw me. A nod. A kind word. Small, but solid. Like a pebble you keep in your pocket for years.

Everyone else wanted Nike swooshes or Adidas flash. Maybe a pair of Asics if your folks had room in the budget and you’d been good at dinner.

But Tim?

Tim wore Fleet Farm shoes. Scuffed. Plain. $9.99, tops. I asked why he didn’t wear the “real ones.” He grinned, like he’d been waiting for me to ask.

“It’s not the shoes, Dean,” he said. “It’s what you bring to the game.”

I didn’t know you could preach without a pulpit.

That line stuck. Years later, I’d hear Larry Bird stroll into a three-point contest, warm-ups still on, and ask, “So, who’s coming in second?” No flash. Just truth. Jesus said it better: “Clean the inside of the cup, and the outside will be clean also.”

It’s not the gear. Not the brand.
It’s the soul you carry when the crowd’s gone quiet.

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Some Lessons Come Loud

The Trimbergers’ porch wasn’t much—wooden, slanted, paint peeling like dry leaves. But it became sacred ground the day my father collapsed there, vomiting blood.

Shock doesn’t cover it.

He survived, thank God. But that moment cracked my foundation. GTE was moving us to Door County soon, a quieter life. In hindsight, it was like God whispered: You’re not in control. I am.

That crack stayed quiet for years. It wasn’t until college that another shock shook me loose.

I heard Norm Sorensen—our neighbor, the cop who taught me to drive in my parents’ car—had been promoted to sergeant. Then came the news: an affair. Norm, with his big laugh and kind wife. Their twins, just kids trying to grow up straight. It blindsided me. Not with judgment, but a warning, sharp as a flare in the night:

You are not immune. Everything comes to light.

Norm’s fall shook me because I saw my own cracks—small lies, easy exaggerations, stories polished to make me shine.

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The Church, the Lie, and the Way Out

So I walked into church, tired of hiding.

Jim Rodrian was there. Elder. Insurance man. Honest in a way that drew you in. The kind of man whose handshake didn’t need a follow-up email.

I told him I lied too easily.
He didn’t flinch.

“If you really want help,” he said, “come back next month.”

So I did.
And the month after that.
And the month after that.

Each time, he greeted me the same way—calm, steady, no rush.

On the third visit, he nodded slowly.
“Now I see you’re serious.”

Then he told me what to do:

“Next time you lie—and you will—stop right there. Tell the person, ‘I just lied to you.’
Then apologize.
Then tell the truth.”

I nodded like I understood.
I didn’t.

Then the lie came.
Small. Slippery. Like a fish I didn’t even know I caught.

But Jim’s words followed it in like thunder.

The lie came—but it didn’t come alone.

I stopped mid-sentence.
Confessed.
Apologized.
Told the truth.

I wanted the floor to swallow me whole.

But it worked.

That sting branded me.
Lies faded—first from my mouth, then my mind. Eventually, they stopped showing up. Not because I got holy, but because I practiced truth like bread:

Daily.
Awkward.
Necessary.

I didn’t need to be the hero anymore. I became something braver:

A fool.
A forgiven, truth-telling fool with a lighter soul.

And you know what?

It felt like freedom.

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A Map to Freedom

Tim’s Fleet Farm shoes taught me what to carry.
That porch, and the lie I confessed, taught me what to release.

Together, they’re a map:
From borrowed strength to owned vulnerability.
From shiny logos to scarred truth.

So here’s a question for you:

If you had to wear your tagline on a T-shirt at the grocery store—no airbrushing, no branding, just the raw, gravelly truth—what would it say?

Mine might be:
“Forgiven fool, still learning how to drive.”

Yours?

Drop it below or whisper it to your mirror.
Just make sure your soul hears it.

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