My niece was baptized at the very small parish church of a very small town on the coast of Rhode Island. The chapel stood on a hill overlooking Narragansett Bay, with cedar shingles and a white steeple, framed by bursts of pink flowers. When my brother asked me to be her godfather, I had instinctively reached for the closet to make sure I’d dry-cleaned my navy-blue blazer. Now, as I stepped inside, it was a comfort to know that I looked like I cared about what I was walking into. As my grandmother often reminded me, “There is a time and a place for everything.”
Conversely, the navy blazer — what some erroneously call a “sports coat” — can dress up almost any occasion that doesn’t require pants that match a jacket. Mine is cut from wool that’s dyed a dark, nautical blue and single-breasted, with a notched lapel, brass buttons and structured shoulders. The wool’s not fuzzy but slick and shimmers in the right light. In the northeast, where I’ve lived most of my life, it’s reminiscent of holiday parties, bucolic campuses and stodgy old uncles. It’s Americana in cloth. I had to learn why that matters.
“And now,” my grandmother would finish, “is neither the time nor the place.” As was often the case, we’d be heading to a school event, a funeral or a holiday, and my shirt would be untucked, my hat on backwards, with no jacket in sight. She’d tell me to go get changed, but the real message was to respect and celebrate certain moments by simply wearing the right clothes. Despite the garment’s nickname, I haven’t worn a “sports coat” to play baseball or football since I was a boy, but I’ve had one tucked into the corner of every closet since.
That old schoolboy jacket earned some extra patches and repairs, but time treats them all the same. The supple cloth gets hard and shiny under the arms; buttons sag and swing like golden cherries; collars and elbows fray. Even so, its successors have shepherded me from job interviews to life’s more serious milestones. I’ve crossed my arms in funeral parlor parking lots, standing with other men in the same blue armor, mourning the losses of grandfathers and uncles who taught me to only button the top button.
Before the baptism, I pushed my arms through the sleeves of my newest blazer, a graduation gift from my wife, who rightly thought that occasion called for a crisp look. I still savor the glide of the liner against my shirtsleeves before flipping the coat up onto my shoulders and unpopping the collar. “Looking sharp, kid,” I thought when I saw myself in a mirror, echoing the words of my lost mentors. Walking down the aisle to my niece, who wailed throughout the service, it seemed to me that I’d become that older uncle. I think that would make my grandmother smile.
This story appears in the October 2025 issue of Deseret Magazine. Learn more about how to subscribe.