My local sports store is where dreams take flight

One thing that nobody told me about parenting is how often I would find myself at a sporting goods store. As kids age, the number of items they need for their athletic extracurriculars increases exponentially. And for some reason — usually my failure to read emails from coaches carefully enough — I usually learn they need a pair of soccer cleats or a softball mitt or dance shorts within the next hour.

This means I’m at sporting goods stores a lot. If I’m not there under duress on the hunt for kids’ sports gear, I’m there because I am stumped once again as to what to give the fathers in my life for Father’s Day or their birthday or Christmas. And I have resorted to giving them a box of golf balls. For the thousandth time. Regardless of their affinity for the sport.

So it’s not unusual that I often arrive at Scheels, the sporting goods store nearest to me, in a less than enthusiastic mood.

But that foul demeanor is impossible to sustain once I enter the giant, two-story warehouse that smells of warm cinnamon nuts, tennis balls and fresh running shoe rubber. Into the place where dreams for the whole family take flight.

Before one enters my local Scheels, they are greeted by a number of bronze statues. One of a mountaineer, one of a woman golfing, one of George Washington, one of Abraham Lincoln, and one of Ronald Reagan. Because why not?

Inside the store, cylindrical tanks full of tropical fish line the walls. These fish are of immense interest to my five-year-old. We were at Scheels recently to get a new pair of Crocs, his preferred shoe brand, and his jaw literally dropped at the sight of the fluorescent finned swimmers zipping through the tubes.

There’s some magnetic force that draws children to fish in tanks, and I find this to be one of life’s great mysteries. Once, while my kids and I were in the pediatrician’s waiting room, we saw the aquarium maintenance guy switching out the water and adding the appropriate chemicals, and my kids still talk about it like they witnessed a rocket launch or met Brad Pitt.

The only thing that motivated my son to move on from the fish was the Ferris wheel in the center of the store. The Ferris wheel costs $1 per rider, and we’ve spent many a cold Saturday afternoon killing an hour by waiting in line and then riding the wheel, taking in panoramic views of the entire sports warehouse, from the replica mountain of taxidermized wildlife to the wall of drivers and irons in the golf section.

One year, we were at Scheels on Valentine’s Day, because why not, and witnessed a man proposing to his girlfriend on that very Ferris wheel, right as they crested over the hunting department. Their families, who were watching from the store’s top level, cheered when she accepted. I think about them often, and I hope they return to Scheels every year on Valentine’s Day and take a celebratory ride.

While my kids are inspired by tubes of fish, the thrill of a very gentle rotation around a giant wheel, and the wall of Crocs, I find myself inspired by the athletic dreams that await on every shelf and rack of the store.

Every department offers the promise of a new and exciting hobby. Or maybe even a new career. Scheels dares to ask, “Do you maybe have a bright future in fly fishing?” and in response, I deeply consider purchasing a pair of waders and a rod to get started. Also, maybe I’m really great at long-jumping. I’ve never tried it, so how could I possibly know I’m not the world’s greatest at it? I’d better get some spikes and find out.

The crowded racks of Spandex and Lycra promise athletic excellence. If I spend enough time browsing I start to truly believe that with the right gear, I can run faster, jump higher and throw further. I also start to believe that it’s never too late to start a new sport. Even though it absolutely is too late to start a new sport. For reference, LeBron James is one year older than I am, and people talk about him like he’s headed for a retirement home the moment the NBA season ends. My time to start a new sport was three decades ago. And yet. The tennis rackets. They beckon. They whisper, “Move over, Serena. This mom of three in her late 30s is destined for greatness.”

It takes all of my willpower to only walk out of Scheels with the softball pants or golf balls or Crocs that I came for and not a new archery set and custom wakeboard. I pull my child away from the fish he’s returned to, and we regretfully exit, passing the statues of presidents, whose presence I always understand better after spending time inside.

What does America represent, after all, if not a place where any dream is possible? Even if that dream is a midlife career in target shooting or riding a Ferris wheel inside a building in a Salt Lake City suburb. Because, why not?