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We Had Everything Except HelmetsBy BDS We had everything except helmets. The eight of us sat on the still-wet grass, tying our cleated shoes. My football pants were bought from the second-hand store, just like all my other friends. I hadn’t even noticed that my socks were not a match; but it didn’t matter, this was a rag-tag football team. Every Saturday morning we would meet here in front of my house and prepare for the big game. We debated long and hard over strategies and plays; this was no joking matter. We had to defend the honor of every fifth grader at Lincoln Elementary School. Although this rivalry had been established long before I was born, this was not our time to do the fighting. Each Saturday we would square our shoulders and march to meet the sixth graders of Lee Junior High. Just last year they were our heroes; but now, only 12 months later, they are the enemy. Each new Saturday was a brand new battle. “Let’s do this,” I said, and rose to lead the troops. Speed was not my strength nor was I very strong, but I was smart on the field. The others said I played dirty; my dad said I used my head. Being absent of raw talent like some, I was forced to make up for it in other areas. I would think of new ways to antagonize my opponent each Saturday; some worked but most did not. The week before, I walked straight to the captain of the sixth graders, looked him square in the eyes and screamed, “Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.” The whole game he watched out for me just to make sure I wasn’t going to try anything crazy. My little plan seemed to work; he was more upset about my strange behavior than he was about winning the game. We all gathered up our bags, water bottles and towels then began to walk toward the soccer field. We had to use that field because nobody would supervise us on school property if it were Saturday. We didn’t care, though; this was our stadium for at least a few hours. Marching together toward the battlefield we felt that victory was in sight and nothing could get in our way. While we walked, I grabbed a football from my bag. “Go deep Jimmy V!” I screamed, as Jimmy took off on a sprint. He could run like a deer and nobody liked to guard him. I pulled my arm back like a catapult and released the ball in the air. The ball soaring through the sky started to veer left. Jimmy chased my pass and made a diving catch in the bushes that lined Division Street. The whole team roared in pleasure as Jimmy rose triumphant, the ball in his hands. We all ran and gave him high-fives, slapping his back and chanting, “Jimmy V, Jimmy V.” He turned around and spiked the football on the ground. It bounced high then flip-flopped a few feet away toward a large bush. While my team bragged a little more on Jimmy, I went to retrieve the ball. “Dang it,” I muttered to myself, seeing that the ball had gone into the brush. I flopped down on the dirty grass and reached in for the ball. It felt like being attacked by tiny swords, the branches scratching my arm as I dug in for our lost ball. Finally reaching the ball I latched on and pulled it out gently. I sat there and brushed the wet mud from the pigskin, then spat on my fingertips to erase the dirt from my hands. While sitting there making more of a mess, I saw a brown bag not but five feet away from me. The bag was positioned under the long line of bushes, and it was absent of any markings. This was just a regular paper bag; I would have recognized a McDonald’s or Burger King bag. Curious of its content I leaned over and picked it up. It was heavier than I thought it would be and was rather clean, like it had been placed there delicately. I threw the ball back to the guys and stood up with the bag. Innocently, without caution, I opened the sack. The only feeling I remember was fear. As my eyes surveyed the content of my discovery, I was panicked. I was scared. Tossing the bag back to the ground I called for my comrades to hurry over. The one thing I hated was to be scared alone. My fellow warriors soon joined me but not a word was spoken. All of us were armed for war. Ready to fight against the slavery of injustice and the insults that all fifth graders received from upperclassmen; but nobody moved toward the battle at the soccer field; all eyes were fixed on the brown paper bag at Division Street. Division Street. It was once famous for beautiful homes, colored gardens and painted fences, but now, it was known as the street that Duke built. Duke, the notorious drug dealer who was always in and out of jail, had staked Division Street as his corporate headquarters. We all knew that to interfere with Duke, meant interfering with Duke’s wrath; nobody interfered with Duke. Nobody. We all stared at the bag and the bag stared right back. The Earth stopped moving. We were caught in time. No one said a word. No one moved. No one knew what to do. Finally Jimmy pulled on my jersey, arresting my attention. Sensing the prolonged silence was making things worse, I reached down and picked up the bag. All eyes were glued on me as I opened the bag, then flipped it upside down. Three stacks of green paper, neatly bound by rubber bands, fell to the ground. Whatever fear was present just moments ago vanished in a hurry. We all joined in a chorus of “no way” and “hallelujah!” The thought of victory against the oppressors of Lee Junior High seemed a fainted memory. “How much is there?” I heard a voice ask. I picked up the stacks in search of the answer. There were three stacks, with $2,000 dollars tightly bound in each stack. “Six thousand dollars,” I replied. The triumphant shouts grew even louder. Louder than the shouts over a scored touchdown. Louder than the shouts over Jimmy’s great catch. Louder than the shouts before battle … But my thoughts drifted from our victory to our possible defeat. This bag had to be connected with Duke; nevertheless, that did nothing to stop our curiosity. I held the money tightly in my hands. The same hands that bore the fading scars from the sharp branches, a testimony of my passion for football and the game it represented. It suddenly dawned on me that we were now late for the game. “What about the game?” I asked, trying to bring our attention to the ultimate goal. “We have to get going, or else we’ll forfeit the game and lose.” My plea was answered by a unanimous voice of opposition. “So what,” they said. “It’s just a stupid game. Look how much money we have!” “That money probably belongs to Duke,” I screamed. “Are you all crazy?” Duke would not compromise his punishment if we were caught. He was like an evil grand wizard: magic spells and no mercy. I decided that I would march to our game…even if it meant marching alone. “I’m off to kill me a sixth grader, anybody with me?” My towel flung over my shoulder, the football in hand, I waited for my teammates to change their mind. I was willing to fight all by myself. It looked like that would be the case. Nobody was following me. This was a mutiny. How could they feel this way? I felt like a failed general whose troops refuse his order into battle. This was the day we looked forward to every week, the day when Lincoln faces Lee on the battlefield. The chance to tackle the arrogant. An opportunity to crush the ego of our adversary. Victory awaited us just a few blocks away but they were keeping their ground, here at Division Street. My attempt to deliver motivation failed; they were more interested in Duke’s dirty money, than fighting the good fight. There was now a decision to be made. Do I leave my comrades and fight alone or do I stay with my troops? I decided loyalty was better than victory. “Fine” I declared, “but we must decide what to do with the money.” “Let’s go buy some video games,” was a reply. “Let’s go buy some baseball cards,” was another voice. I stood there contemplating all the voices, until I heard my own voice speak up. “What we need to do is hide it for a while until we figure out what to do. The only place I can think of, that nobody will find it, is in my neighbor’s back yard.” This was the perfect place to hide a treasure. It was a big white house, with a black gate at the entrance. The only way to the back yard was to climb out my bedroom window and jump over the side fence. The man who lived there, Mr. Washington, had lost his wife to an illness a long time ago. When that occurred, Washington stopped caring about his neighbors, friends or family. It seemed all he was concerned about was himself. He never ventured out into the neighborhood anymore … he just stayed in his big white house. My teammates agreed with their restored leader. We gathered up the money then stashed it in our football bag. Crossing over Division Street we walked toward Washington’s white house. The sound of cleats on sidewalk was the only noise offered by our march. Nobody said a word. Nobody thought a thought. We just walked. After what seemed like forever we finally arrived to his house. The only way to Washington’s back yard was through my house, so I said, “I’ll take the money and bury it.” All eyes looked at my suspiciously. They all wanted to say something, but nobody did. Silence remained our uncomfortable companion. I could understand their worries … this was trust thing. After all, speed was not my strength, nor was I very strong, but I was smart on the field. The others said I played dirty; my dad said I used my head. Walking past the den where my parents read their Bible, I ran up the stairs, then turned into my bedroom. Sliding the window open I prepared to jump. Just before the leap I reached in and pulled out one stack. I was nervous. I was scared. I was greedy. I threw the stack under my bed then leaped out the window to bury the other two stacks. I tried to find the best place to dig. Somewhere soft but not obvious. Deciding on the bushes that lined Washington’s back window, I flopped down on the dirty grass to hide away our new treasure. It seemed like déjà vu. Just an hour ago I was being attacked by the branches of a bush, while trying to retrieve the football at Division Street. Now I was digging in the earth to hide what had replaced my first treasure. Lincoln and Lee should have been warring on the field; Lincoln should have been playing football right now. I brushed the wet mud from off my football pants, slowly standing over my buried treasure. I was so sure that nothing could have detoured us this morning. Nothing but greed. I turned to climb the fence and reach the safety of my room. I climbed inside, peeked at my bundle of money, and then closed my door. Walking out to meet my soldiers there were no high-fives, no shouts of victory or slapping backs. There was just silence. We marched back toward the soccer field, hoping our enemy would still be there. We marched next to each other but there was no rhythm. Our fight had been sucked out. Each of us looked at the bushes that lined Division Street; each of us looked, but no one said a word. What we discovered on Division Street, we buried in Washington’s back yard. There was only one game played that day, the game called life; the winner was greed.
ninetyandnine.com © 2002, BDS --------- |
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