Let’s be honest: we were one stretch away from disaster.
There was a time when shorts weren’t just short—they were downright daring. Track stars, basketball players, gym teachers… they all marched confidently into public wearing garments that offered the same coverage as a generous belt.
These weren’t shorts—they were statements. Usually nylon. Occasionally polyester. Always clinging to your thigh like a koala holding on for dear life. The waistband could strangle a Buick, and the inseam? Measured in molecules.
Whether you were sprinting the 400 meters or coaching third base with a chaw the size of a racquetball, your upper legs were on full display. And we didn’t blink. We didn’t ask questions. We just accepted it: this is what athletic excellence looks like—all quads, no shame.
Some came with piping. Some with slits so high they could legally be considered windows. And the colors? Loud. Louder than your uncle yelling at the ref through a mouthful of bratwurst.
Today’s athletes wear compression sleeves and long shorts that sway in the breeze. Back then, you ran like your life—and your dignity—depended on keeping everything in place.
And somehow, we pulled it off. Mostly.
Sure, they chafed. Sure, you could barely sit down without violating local ordinances. But there was freedom in those tiny trunks. Wind in your stride. Sun on your thighs. And the quiet understanding that you were, for those brief glorious moments, exactly 6 square inches of fabric away from immortality.
