Sporting Goods Stores Are No Fun Zones

Illustration by Zohar Lazar

I think I know my kids. Some days more than others. I’m not sure about their favorite books or what goes on during lunch block. But they’ll never turn down a French fry, and, as of this writing, I’m solid on the fact that they love watching professional wrestling as much as they hate doing math, and I don’t believe that’ll be flipping anytime in the next decade. I also don’t think either will be a star athlete. They’re only 13 and 10 years old; I’m not trying to peg them, but they’re not blessed with natural talent, and they don’t have nonstop motors. They’ll make some quality plays, enjoy themselves, but once the game is over, they’re on to the snack bar.

It could change, and I wouldn’t mind, because sports are fun, but that’s coming from someone who always thought sports were fun. For kids who don’t look forward to getting hit by another kid or a ball, there’s nothing that will make standing in a Little League outfield at 8 p.m. a hoot.

If it doesn’t change, I’m okay with that as well. Truth is, I’d be thrilled if they never loooooved playing sports, because I wouldn’t have to buy them new equipment every season, and that would mean the best thing of all: I’d never again have to walk into a Dick’s Sporting Goods.

That said, so far, I’ve been fortunate. My kids haven’t been particular about their gear. They’ve never felt the need for sliding mitts, since, well, no kid needs sliding mitts. They’ve never cared about owning a $400 bat; you know—the one that comes with the hits already in it. But if they ever did, I’d suppose I’d have to change my buying patterns.

I’m not saying that Dick’s is the worst store ever. It’s not. It’s good for some things, like getting in your steps, learning how to ride an escalator, and never hearing, “Can I help you find something?” from any of the nonexistent workers. If Best Of awards were given out in those categories, they’d crush.

For most items, I can handle the place. I know nothing about camping chairs, but I needed one, and so I walked myself into the store and found the right section. It was on the second floor. I tested some out, and then I picked one, all by myself. And I don’t mean this to sound like bragging, but I do more than outdoor furniture. Basketballs? I can dribble. Sweatpants? They don’t scare me. I know how to put them on over shoes, always my test—and it’s totally cool if you don’t use a changing room, right?

Yet one product always makes me wince.

It’s the shoes, which is borderline sad, because of all the things that fit into that store, I have the most practice buying them. But Dick’s doesn’t create a smooth experience. At one time, not so long ago, the hope was that you could flag down an associate. (I’ve hit the same number of royal flushes in my lifetime.) Now, you have to walk over to a tablet, punch in what you want, along with your name and shirt color—not kidding—and wait for someone to bring it out. After that, it’s a DIY project I didn’t necessarily choose.

I’m left trying to figure out my own feet, and, well, I don’t always figure them out. When I’m trying to fit shoes for my kids, I might as well just try cleaning a beach if I want to feel more successful. Everyday pairs are iffy fits but not impossible. It’s the prospect of basketball sneakers and cleats that brings on the night terrors. The material is thick and hard, creating a protective shell against both injury and being able to tell where their toes are. I ask for their feedback, and they offer helpful things like, “They’re fine,” as they kick them off.

They might be fine. They might not, and if it’s the latter and I’m home, I’m kind of screwed because I still haven’t adopted the buy-five-different-sizes method for each kid, because I don’t have a stoop big enough for 10 boxes. But at Dick’s, if one pair doesn’t work—too tight, too pointy, not orange enough—you know what’s on the other side of that door? Hope. All I have to do is go back to the tablet, select a new pair, and, oh, the system is frozen up. I guess we’ll have to…hey, no one’s on the escalator. Let’s take a ride, guys. Yeah, you can do it in socks.

I’m not a big business guy, which I know I’ve hidden well, but I have a couple thoughts, Dick’s, which I don’t mind sharing. Maybe invest in one of those scanners. You know, the ones that already exist—New Balance Factory Store (little hint)—and can amazingly tell someone their foot size that’s not a guess created against a printed-out chart with pencil marks.

This only wins half the battle. The other part is the box. I still need the box. Would I love in-store help that falls somewhere between indifference and the all-out assault of the not-missed Tannery in Harvard Square? Sure. Would I love someone to get me the box and tell me if they fit? Oh my, yes. But this is a dream, not a delusion.

So here’s an easy fix: Let me go into the back. I would be good at this, since I can both identify a box and read numbers. It seems like a good way to increase sales, along with the squishy footballs and buckets of gum I’m gonna end up buying as I wind my way to the cashier.

Still, I understand the potential liability issues, so instead, just bring all the merchandise out onto the floor and let us have at it. It would mean an initial outlay of cash for the reorg, but I’m sure you could take a few bucks out of the blimp budget.

Look, I get Dick’s is a big-box store. I go into Home Depot and Target, and always with reasonable expectations. If I need help, I treat it like a scavenger hunt and find someone. But Dick’s? I expect more. A lot more. Am I being totally fair? Not at all. But it’s also not fair to put bikes on the ceiling and have no one working in the department.

I’ll be honest. Pain is involved with this. I’m harder on Dick’s because it’s a sporting-goods store, and sporting-goods stores should be the most wonderous and joyful places in the world. When I was young, I wasn’t popular, and I was a little too loud. But in the Newton Sports Center, I could walk in about every day and charmingly annoy the staff. The store was filled with racks of T-shirts, a basketball hoop low enough that I could dunk, and the coolest George Gervin Nike promotional poster that eventually hung in my bedroom.

I realize that this is my memory, and while I’d love to have a sports shop that didn’t require a 30-minute ride to get to, the past isn’t coming back. Granted, I might not love Dick’s because, like TV shows and music, it just reminds me that the world isn’t about me anymore. (Hasn’t been for a while.) My life isn’t about playing sports all the time, and now I’m paying for the stuff. That kind of takes the wonderland shine off things.

For my kids, Dick’s is what a sporting-goods store is, and they find it big and fine. My older son likes the poster of the Rock on the wall (which will never be handed to him by a staffer). My young son calls the place dull, another word for impersonal—here’s your shoes, see ya—because he’s been to the New Balance Factory Store with the sensors, actual staff on the floor, and boxes within reach. One is better, but neither is the epicenter, and they feel no need to visit there every week. I guess that’s a win for me, so all I ask of you, Dick’s, is to not eff that up and start selling Pokémon cards.

Maybe I’m being too hard on the place. So there’s minimal floor staff. What help do I actually need? Yes, if you’re gonna put stuff on shelves 30 feet from the ground, it’s on you, Dick’s, to have a way to get it down in less than 20 minutes. But it comes back to the shoes, and really, they’re just shoes, and really, after 57 years of living, I should be able to tell that they fit without a second opinion. If I haven’t mastered this skill yet, maybe I don’t deserve them and should just get flip-flops.

Perhaps Dick’s is giving me the kick in the tuches that I’ve so been needing. Forget everything I’ve said. It’s been the ramblings of a hurt little boy who misses wearing heavy cotton in the summer, wants high tube socks to return, and balks at making independent decisions. Enough already. It’s time to grow up and make the Rock proud. Dick’s, you’ve been doing your job with the unspoken message you’ve been sending. “You got this, pal. Yes, there’s an inordinate amount of golf equipment, but guys are delusional about their ability and wear those stupid clothes, so that section isn’t getting smaller. The tennis stuff is somewhere in here. Not sure where, so probably your best move is to keep wandering. But don’t give up. It’s all you.”

My bad for missing it. Maybe it’s time to put that on the blimp, edited for tightness, of course. But not the daily email blast. I’ll just delete that immediately.