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Irregular News for 11.16.06
Witesock, a Toronto man seen here with some of his prized belongings -- which, at his request, are strategically protecting his identity -- has amassed some 800 pairs of athletic socks over the past 15 years. He says it's not a fetish -- although he isn't so comfortable that he's shared it with his friends.
Photograph by : Peter Redman, National Post
The collector does not want his identity revealed, for reasons that will become obvious. He prefers to go by his Internet handle: Witesock. He is a 41-year-old engineer. Married, no children. He lives in suburban Toronto. He's an ordinary fellow, but for his secret hobby. He collects and wears used athletic socks.
In 15 years, Witesock has acquired about 800 pairs of sports socks. Soccer, football, rugby, hockey, and so on. About half have graced the sweaty feet of professional athletes: former Toronto Maple Leaf Eric Lindros, for example, and Olindo Mare, the Miami Dolphins kicker.
Witesock's collection includes socks from the entire 1996 New York Jets lineup. And 70 game-worn pairs from the defunct Ottawa Renegades. All that's left of that miserable CFL franchise are the used socks, stuffed in a box in Witesock's basement. He digs them out from time to time.
His wife has no idea, astonishingly. His friends and colleagues? Clueless. Witesock has managed to outwit them all. He has built, on the sly, what can only be described as the world's most impressive collection of used sports socks. But how? More pressing, why? Should we worry for Witesock?
I reached him this week on his cellphone.
"Are you wearing athletic socks right now?"
"Yes, I am," chirps Witesock. Authentic New Zealand All Blacks rugby socks, with three white stripes and extra cushioning in the feet. A cotton-nylon blend. "Tremendous quality," he added. Freshly acquired. Not game worn, alas.
He prefers used, but they're difficult to source from overseas. When a pair of foreign game-worns does come available, Witesock jumps. He once paid $100 for two used, grass-stained socks worn by a member of the Australian national rugby team, the fabled Wallabies. "There's even an old piece of [athletic] tape stuck across the top of one sock," he gushes.
Witesock worked tirelessly to forge alliances with professional equipment managers here in North America. Some have supplied him with regular shipments of quality worn material, on a sort of "don't ask, don't tell" policy. Most charge him nothing for the service. The socks usually land right on his doorstep, postage paid. And always laundered.
The online auction site eBay has been another godsend. "I've bought some amazing game socks that way," said Witesock. "From English rugby players." Cash-strapped, apparently.
Witesock insists that he's simply a sports fan who became interested in athletic socks as a child. He recalls watching soccer on TV, and zeroing in on the hosiery. "Nothing else about the uniforms impressed me," he says. "Just the socks."
At age 10, he used his allowance to buy his very first pair of athletic socks. They were plain white and new. It was a start. He got really serious about collecting in the early 1990s. He now owns used socks from most major league teams in North America. He does not collect basketball socks, however; they are typically short, and therefore "suck." According to Witesock, the best sports socks approach the knee.
He is particularly fond of striped socks, which, he says mournfully, have all but vanished from contemporary sports fashion. "Everyone is going to solid socks these days," he gripes. "Borrrrring."
Witesock displays some of his collection on a modest Web site, geocities.com/witesock. Flitting around the Internet one day, looking for items about Canadian football, I eventually found myself gazing at grainy self-portraits of Witesock's feet clad in used socks. Yes, he models the apparel himself. Sometimes, to mix things up, Witesock dons extra bits of sporting gear, such as cleats.
When he models hockey socks, he wears a shin pad beneath each garment. Sometimes, one sock is rolled halfway down a hairy Witesock leg, exposing the padding.
Witesock agrees that he is a custodian of history, a curator of the covered foot. He insisted that he does not get any sexual charge from collecting and wearing socks. He believes that some of his fellow aficionados do.
Occasionally, he receives e-mail queries and requests from people whom he describes as "fetishists." He's not on their bandwidth, but Witesock treats the foot freaks with respect. They are, after all, kindred spirits. Distant cousins.
Not long ago, he received a very strange e-mail from an Australian enthusiast -- there seems to be a lot of sock action Down Under. "He had some great rugby-club socks and he offered them to me," recalls Witesock. But there was a catch. "He wanted a photo of me wearing a pair of his socks, and having a pie thrown in my face." It was, Witesock notes, "the most bizarre thing I had ever heard." He accepted the assignment.
Witesock does all his own photography, either in his basement or in his backyard, when his wife is out. For the pie trick, he had to use a mirror. He donned a pair of the Australian's socks, filled a pie crust with whipped cream, and slammed said pie into his face. He aimed his camera and squeezed the shutter button on his camera. Presto: used sock, with dessert.
The Australian, he notes, was grateful for the photo, but expressed some disappointment that the pie "was not authentic." Witesock never heard from him again.
The incident reinforced his decision to keep his sock involvement a secret. "If I had a collection of baseball caps or jerseys or even bobble-head dolls, I'd share that with the world, but sock collecting is a bit eccentric," he explains. "I'd never hear the end of it from my buddies, let alone my family, if I told them."
His wife, he said, "knows that I have an unusual number of football socks ... she does find it a little odd." Yet she still does not know about the boxes and duffel bags that are socked away in the basement, and in the garage. Thank goodness, said Witesock, that "she does not snoop around."
"Maybe one day I'll come out of the closet," he added, "but not right now. It's not like I'm hiding anything really terrible."
source
Witesock, a Toronto man seen here with some of his prized belongings -- which, at his request, are strategically protecting his identity -- has amassed some 800 pairs of athletic socks over the past 15 years. He says it's not a fetish -- although he isn't so comfortable that he's shared it with his friends.
Photograph by : Peter Redman, National Post
The collector does not want his identity revealed, for reasons that will become obvious. He prefers to go by his Internet handle: Witesock. He is a 41-year-old engineer. Married, no children. He lives in suburban Toronto. He's an ordinary fellow, but for his secret hobby. He collects and wears used athletic socks.
In 15 years, Witesock has acquired about 800 pairs of sports socks. Soccer, football, rugby, hockey, and so on. About half have graced the sweaty feet of professional athletes: former Toronto Maple Leaf Eric Lindros, for example, and Olindo Mare, the Miami Dolphins kicker.
Witesock's collection includes socks from the entire 1996 New York Jets lineup. And 70 game-worn pairs from the defunct Ottawa Renegades. All that's left of that miserable CFL franchise are the used socks, stuffed in a box in Witesock's basement. He digs them out from time to time.
His wife has no idea, astonishingly. His friends and colleagues? Clueless. Witesock has managed to outwit them all. He has built, on the sly, what can only be described as the world's most impressive collection of used sports socks. But how? More pressing, why? Should we worry for Witesock?
I reached him this week on his cellphone.
"Are you wearing athletic socks right now?"
"Yes, I am," chirps Witesock. Authentic New Zealand All Blacks rugby socks, with three white stripes and extra cushioning in the feet. A cotton-nylon blend. "Tremendous quality," he added. Freshly acquired. Not game worn, alas.
He prefers used, but they're difficult to source from overseas. When a pair of foreign game-worns does come available, Witesock jumps. He once paid $100 for two used, grass-stained socks worn by a member of the Australian national rugby team, the fabled Wallabies. "There's even an old piece of [athletic] tape stuck across the top of one sock," he gushes.
Witesock worked tirelessly to forge alliances with professional equipment managers here in North America. Some have supplied him with regular shipments of quality worn material, on a sort of "don't ask, don't tell" policy. Most charge him nothing for the service. The socks usually land right on his doorstep, postage paid. And always laundered.
The online auction site eBay has been another godsend. "I've bought some amazing game socks that way," said Witesock. "From English rugby players." Cash-strapped, apparently.
Witesock insists that he's simply a sports fan who became interested in athletic socks as a child. He recalls watching soccer on TV, and zeroing in on the hosiery. "Nothing else about the uniforms impressed me," he says. "Just the socks."
At age 10, he used his allowance to buy his very first pair of athletic socks. They were plain white and new. It was a start. He got really serious about collecting in the early 1990s. He now owns used socks from most major league teams in North America. He does not collect basketball socks, however; they are typically short, and therefore "suck." According to Witesock, the best sports socks approach the knee.
He is particularly fond of striped socks, which, he says mournfully, have all but vanished from contemporary sports fashion. "Everyone is going to solid socks these days," he gripes. "Borrrrring."
Witesock displays some of his collection on a modest Web site, geocities.com/witesock. Flitting around the Internet one day, looking for items about Canadian football, I eventually found myself gazing at grainy self-portraits of Witesock's feet clad in used socks. Yes, he models the apparel himself. Sometimes, to mix things up, Witesock dons extra bits of sporting gear, such as cleats.
When he models hockey socks, he wears a shin pad beneath each garment. Sometimes, one sock is rolled halfway down a hairy Witesock leg, exposing the padding.
Witesock agrees that he is a custodian of history, a curator of the covered foot. He insisted that he does not get any sexual charge from collecting and wearing socks. He believes that some of his fellow aficionados do.
Occasionally, he receives e-mail queries and requests from people whom he describes as "fetishists." He's not on their bandwidth, but Witesock treats the foot freaks with respect. They are, after all, kindred spirits. Distant cousins.
Not long ago, he received a very strange e-mail from an Australian enthusiast -- there seems to be a lot of sock action Down Under. "He had some great rugby-club socks and he offered them to me," recalls Witesock. But there was a catch. "He wanted a photo of me wearing a pair of his socks, and having a pie thrown in my face." It was, Witesock notes, "the most bizarre thing I had ever heard." He accepted the assignment.
Witesock does all his own photography, either in his basement or in his backyard, when his wife is out. For the pie trick, he had to use a mirror. He donned a pair of the Australian's socks, filled a pie crust with whipped cream, and slammed said pie into his face. He aimed his camera and squeezed the shutter button on his camera. Presto: used sock, with dessert.
The Australian, he notes, was grateful for the photo, but expressed some disappointment that the pie "was not authentic." Witesock never heard from him again.
The incident reinforced his decision to keep his sock involvement a secret. "If I had a collection of baseball caps or jerseys or even bobble-head dolls, I'd share that with the world, but sock collecting is a bit eccentric," he explains. "I'd never hear the end of it from my buddies, let alone my family, if I told them."
His wife, he said, "knows that I have an unusual number of football socks ... she does find it a little odd." Yet she still does not know about the boxes and duffel bags that are socked away in the basement, and in the garage. Thank goodness, said Witesock, that "she does not snoop around."
"Maybe one day I'll come out of the closet," he added, "but not right now. It's not like I'm hiding anything really terrible."
source