When I was a kid I wore patches on my knees. All year. Every year. And not the cool hippie patches of 1969. (I always wanted to have floral patches at the bottoms of my jeans a la Jimi Hendrix.)
My Grandma O’Neill would buy me three pairs of dark blue slacks before the year started at IC. And about a week into school, I would inevitably skid out on the asphalt playground and blow out a knee. I knew what would happen.
I’d go home and my mother would get out the patches. Stiff as a board. Not quite the right color. And she’d iron them on the inside of my ripped pants and then sew around the edges. I’d be embarrassed. Very embarrassed. But I went to school with other kids who had patches on their pants. And had to bring their brown paper lunchbag home every day for a week until it was as thin as tissue paper.
This morning I noticed that I’m getting a little hole in the knee of my jeans. I’m still cheap enough. I’ll be the guy with a patch on my knee. Maybe.
