Losing Is Not an Option Stories

Night Game It was the fourth home game of the season, so it'd be ten in a row for us if we could avoid getting nailed going over the fence. We'd gone six for six the year before, in fifth grade, but they'd tightened security that fall. We dressed dark so we wouldn't be seen, and we knew how to lie in the tall weeds behind the field, timing our move while other kids, less cautious, got caught sneaking in. We'd never been caught. I was psyched. I always walked the four blocks over to Gene's house before the football games, even though my house was closer to the stadium. This was late October, so the sun was down and the sky was barely visible through the maples, broad enough to meet above the street and still holding some red and amber leaves. I needed a sweatshirt under my coat, but no gloves yet. Definitely not a hat. I walked in the street, right down the middle, rarely having to shift to the sidewalk for a passing car. The traffic to the game was out on Main Street, away from our neighborhood. Most people walked to the games anyway, especially on nights like this. Gene's house was like ours. I'd walk right in the back door. His mother would be doing dishes, his father would be reading the paper with a fat cigar in the center of his mouth. "Ronny's here," Gene's mom would call, and he'd come racing down the stairs. He'd shoot me a look--No fence can stop us--and go over and kiss his mom. "Have money?" she asked. "All I need." "Pooh-Gene," his dad said, looking up from the paper, "you going to a dance?" "Huh?" "Pretty fancy shirt for a football game." "It'll be under my jacket." His father just gave him the look--amusement mostly-- and nodded as he went back to the paper. This was a little odd, this button-down pinstriped shirt Gene had on. But he grabbed his jacket and kind of pushed his chin toward the door. "Maybe we'll see you at the game," his mom said. Both sets of our parents would be there (our older brothers sat the bench; they might get in for a few kickoffs in a blowout, but mostly they played on Monday afternoons with the JV squad). If we saw our parents there, we wouldn't let on that we knew them. Foot traffic was heavy by the time we got to Main Street, and you could feel the banging of the drums six blocks away and the tinny sound of the fight song riding over it. We turned up Buchanan Street, moving into a darker zone to approach the field from the far corner. "Dickheadsaywhat?" Gene said. "What?" He started cracking up. "You suck," I said, laughing, too. He got me with that a couple of times a week. I smacked him on the arm with my fist. He stopped walking. "It's a little early yet," he said. "Give it about ten minutes." We took a seat on the curb. He took a filter-tipped cigar out of his pocket, about the size of a crayon, and stuck it in his mouth. "Where'd you get that?" I asked. "Smolinski." His neighbor, a freshman in high school. He lit the cigar and took a long puff, holding the smoke in his mouth. He handed it to me. The inhalation was surprisingly hot but had a hint of vanilla or something mild. We both took another puff, then he rubbed it out on the pavement and put it back in his pocket. "Save that for later," he said. We'd kicked butt that afternoon, touch football onWallace, Rich is the author of 'Losing Is Not an Option Stories', published 2003 under ISBN 9780375813511 and ISBN 0375813519.