I went to Bondi’s famous Icebergs to have a cheeky beero on the one day in January it was under 30 degrees (28 I think). I was being introduced to a much hyped new friend, and knowing full well I had to impress, I hazarded my electric blue Adidas SST (superstar tracksuit for all you rookies).
Raging. Success.
Not just with Scasey, who turned out to be a lord, not just with the bar staff, but with a group of rich folks out for their daughter’s 21st.
We blew the froth off a couple outside and the temp was starting to drop; there was that sweet salty breeze coming off the ocean. Keeping an eye on the tables inside – and after clocking a rare sighting of NRL Roosters’ Jake Friend in his natural environment of the ‘Berg – we noticed the back end of this 21st wrapping up in the packed interior. It was decided it was I who had to go ask the New Money if we could claim their sought-after table when they bounced. I moseyed on over to the scene as they rose to their feet collecting the last of their effects and asked, “Mind if we grab this table when you guys scootch”?
“OOOOOOOOOHHHHHH WE’VE BEEN WATCHING YOU ALL AFTERNOON,” said the obvious drunk mum of the party. She then proceeded to zip my jacket down and, as soon as it was borderline inappropriate, she would swing the momentum of the zip to up and continued in this motion for five or six swings. It was pretty funny.
“Can I get a photo with you?”
Pfft. Sure thing.
“Get your phone out luv, it’s the tracksuit guy!”
So while the rest of the crew pulled up their fresh new seats, for me, the next frenzied 15 or so minutes were absorbed by posing for photos with the drunk mum, the begrudging dad, the mystery brother (I’m not sure where this guy fell into the picture), the birthday girl, the mum (again), all of them, then all of the them minus the brother (fuelling speculation he wasn’t the brother). It was all nice enough and oddly flattering.
End of the day, we got the table.
The first time I was interested in wearing a tracksuit was when I was living up the coast with a mate and he had just picked me up for a surf. On the drive we were talking about the 1974 World Cup and how the West Germans got the job done over the Dutch. I was talking about George Best being the finest footballer to grace a football field, and equally the biggest dude off it, and he angled his argument towards Beckenbauer, simply because of the Adidas tracksuit, “The Beckenbauer”. Following the conversation, he joked we should get tracksuits and wear them to get coffee when we’re living in Sydney. Now we wear tracksuits when we get coffee while living in Sydney.
The trick to wearing the tracksuit was the purchase. You couldn’t just walk into a shop and be like, “I’m getting one of these for the craic!” No, sireee. A moment had to be created or presented to me, out of dire circumstance, of course.
It happened last October. I was feeling pretty bummed about myself on my last international trip, which doesn’t happen often, so I took myself to a sports shop. Initially looking for the new Celtic kit I stumbled upon something that could sooth my ails in a way the iconic hoops couldn’t. I found my electric blue SST tracksuit. It was immediately cool and equally comical. Something you could wear to be funny or ironic but also hold the “far out” factor. My first and only taste of retail therapy. And it tasted good.
Last month Esquire published an article by Jonathan Evans called “It’s Time for You to Wear a Tracksuit. Specifically, This Tracksuit.” Evans touches on the versatility of tracksuit, such as being able to use the jacket with jeans, which is a give-away, and using the trackpants with a shirt. I would probably ning the denim jacket recommendation in that instance. The fact it’s a classic is what I like most about it and in the article, Evans concludes: “it just looks cool”. When you tear it down to its bare bones, he’s right. It’s cool as shit. I mean, it holds well enough to make Ben Stiller’s grief-stricken, father-hating, former child genius in the Royal Tenenbaums look as cool as hell while his life is falling apart. And hell, it makes Ben Stiller look cool, which is no mean feat in itself.
But it’s still too bold in some necks of the woods. The old codger at the Ulmarra pub, in regional New South Wales, certainly took this view. Returning home recently for a family event, I touched base at Dad’s to find the house dry for the first time in my 28 years. Seeking to rectify this inconvenience, I popped down the road for a carto and packet of Port Royals.
Jumping out of the car, I zipped past a well-weathered regular in the front bar resting what remained of his right leg on his prosthetic left leg. I had barely stepped on to the pool table green carpet when I made eye contact with another codger still perched up at the bar. He was in the process of drawing his schooner for what could have been his first thirst-busting jar of the arvo or his sloppy 30th, it was hard to tell. But just as he brought the amber contents of his glass to his mouth, he caught sight of me and paused.
Time seemed to slow down as he gravely looked me dead in the eye.
Then down.
Then up.
Then, in an unhurried gesture of utter disdain, placed his schooey back on the coaster. Undrunk.
Unimpressed.
Message received, I purchased my carton of beer, turned and walked past the other bloke, and it all made sense. Either you get it. Or you most definitely do not.
