I remember fifth grade. Catholic school. Drab, disgusting uniforms. Black shoes. Individuality? Out of the question.
But once the cold winter months rolled around, children hung outside just a little longer than normal, parading around in an absurdly ostentatious display, flaunting, for all, their most prized possession, the thing that set them apart from the homogenous masses: their Starter jackets.
They came in every color, every size and every team — I swear I knew a kid with a blue Oral Roberts jacket. Children begged unyieldingly for them; gangbangers killed for them. They embodied a simple yet indisputably attractive design, one that was stunningly timeless. They made you undeniably, unequivocally cool.
For a short time in American history, Starter jackets were the textile version of the Holy Grail, the most coveted garments on the face of the earth. They held enough power and allure to make children temporarily forget the Power Glove, the newest Super Soaker 3000 and Transformers all at the same time.
Once the height of fashion and trendiness, Starter jackets now recall a time gone by, an era of unmatched sports enthusiasm and devotion when everybody and my brother wore their team on their backs.
Today, displaying one’s sports-team loyalties is nothing more than accepted. In the Starter jacket era, it was expected.
Starter jackets made statements. No one misunderstood when I wore my Buffalo Bills jacket to school the day after they lost to 52-17 to Dallas in Super Bowl XXVIII. Some people laughed, sure, and everyone else just pitied me. But no one misunderstood: I loved my team.
I wore that same Bills jacket during a flight layover in Dallas, after the Bills’ fourth Super Bowl loss. I showed those damn Cowboy fans I wasn’t afraid of them or embarrassed by my woeful, choking team. I wore that jacket with an unnamed, unexplainable pride, strutting around with a Buffalo on my back and sweat running down my face. Sure, it was 95 degrees outside, but that was never a reason to take off your Starter jacket.
Walking down the street in our current PS (Post-Starter) era, sports-team garb is woefully absent. There is no longer a rush to the retailers to pick up the new Mighty Ducks jacket, no feeling of inadequacy among children who never got that Packers coat.
True, teamwear is peddled at every stadium in every city, but that which does exist is hideously unwearable and highly undesirable. I have yet to see an attractive Wisconsin jacket in Steve and Barry’s, and I wouldn’t be caught dead in any UW coat sold around the stadium on game day.
Sure, these jackets, uncool as they are, probably keep the wearer even warmer than their Starter counterparts used to. But no one bought a Starter jacket for protection from the elements.
They were status symbols and assertions of coolness, and, because of their popularity and prevalence, Starter jackets forced fans to be more conscious of their team loyalties. The oversized team logo plastered on the back didn’t allow for any misunderstandings. Any given walk down the street could bring with it ridicule or praise, could spawn both comradeship and combat.
These days, hats, currently the most common piece of sports-team apparel, are virtually indistinguishable from each other, at least from long distances. You could always spot that tough-guy wannabe while he was still blocks away, thanks to the telltale black and silver of his Raiders jacket. In the PS era, I’m not sure whether I should lambaste that fool with the blue and red hat across the street for supporting the Braves or praise him for giving some love to Jim Thome and the Tribe.
These troubling days of insufficient sports-team representation must end. The time for the resurrection of the Starter jacket is upon us. Let me be the first to say that I’m breaking my black, red and blue Bills jacket out of the closet and wearing it to class tomorrow.
What? It’s going to be 85 degrees, you say? Frivolity! A little thing like heat shouldn’t halt the rebirth of the Starter jacket. And it’s not like it stopped me before.
