I’ll never forget the one that got away. She was my first love, but I came to neglect her, and I’m a fool for letting her go. I’m talking, of course, about a T-shirt: light-blue, size small, with an illustration of a fleet of Thistles running toward a leeward mark before a dramatic sunset. She was a hand-me-down from my sister, purchased at the class’s 1986 national championship in Pensacola, Fla. She already bore a few spaghetti stains when I inherited her, and by the time I tossed her into my dad’s rag pile as a teenager, having long outgrown her, my favorite T-shirt was translucent and riddled with holes. She may have lived on to polish a few Ford vans, but I never saw her again.