5 Cent Licorice

Under the Bleachers
The wooden slats above my head let long lines into the dusty darkness. I hold on to the metal beams as I peer at the ground for loose change. The ground vibrates beneath me when the players run back and forth. I constantly watch things fall and slip between the cracks. Pop corn piles on itself, pop splashes, hot dog wrappers crinkle, skittles bounce and role, keys clink against each other as they crash violently to the ground. Once they hit me on the head.

The Gym
Built in 1931 old brick structure has a curved roof and from the quad you can see the line of double doors, three in total, peaking from their brick archways. The large window at the top of the gym glows when the lights are on.

The Court
Long lines of old growth forest run parallel to each other. Sometime in the future the school will talk about remodeling the gym, but will decide against it. Old growth forest courts are prized possessions and the possibility of losing such an asset will upset the alums and they will threaten to withhold their donations.

The boards shine in the overhead lights. Laying on the baseline before the game I can see the traces of reflections in the wood from the balls at the other end. They are distorted circles and lines wiggle as I pinch my eyes to slits.

The Top of the Bleachers
At the top of the bleachers I sit beside my mother and father. My mother’s hair is pulled back in a clip and my father grips his cane. We sit in a small section, which has been pushed out a little to allow for the only seating, long rows of wooden bleachers. 400 fans and the gym is at full capacity, fans sit and lean pressed against the walls of the gym, raising the temperature with their body heat. The ceiling over the bleachers hangs low and the gyms side baskets fold up in our recessed alcove. I often wonder if I jump from the top row if I could grab onto the rim.

The Concession Stand
Placed in the dark foyer it glows with sugar. A tub of licorice sits on the counter next to the displays of M&M’s, peanut M&M’s, Skittles, Twix, Snickers, Milky Ways and Reese’s. The popcorn machine pops at the back of the small room. The smell of its fake butter wafts into the foyer and slips into the gym as the door to the court opens and closes.

When I am older and my sister is in college I will steal licorice from the tub as my mother works in the concession stand to earn money for my brothers baseball team. She will sever “Taco Stuffed Baked Potatoes.” A staple in our house and new to the public, she will make more money then anyone before or after her.

The Women’s Locker Room
The large square room smells of stale sweat and mold. I imagine the rows of lockers with pealing paint to be mountains I climb. I hang precariously from the edges and drop down into hiding when people come to pee.

Years later when grandmother has died and I wear the Lakeside maroon and gold they will remodel this locker room and name it in her honor. I will cry as they hang her picture by the entrance, and touch its glass with my fingertips.

The Walls of the Gym
The walls of the gym are coated with banners. Squares of gold with maroon writing and maroon trim hang neatly against dulling white paint. The lower squares colors are more vibrant. There is one for Lacrosse. I don’t even know what Lacrosse is. The “Womens’ Basketball State Championship” squares hang in a long line. The boys do not have one.

Sandy
I watch my sister’s eyes as they pin on the back of her tucked in polo, half the collar turned up and the other half smartly folded down. Tucker expertly pulls the white board marker from Sandy’s hand before Sandy lets it fly onto the court in anger. The veins below her flushed face strain as she yells. When Tucker puts her hand on her shoulder she quiets herself and walks the length of the bench. My sister from the far end watches her come and then casts her eyes down to the floor at her feet, twisting the front of her warm up jersey in her hands.

Here is the start of who I am to become and I don’t even know it. All I know is I will wear a Lions jersey, I will hang a banner on the wall and I will play for Sandy. This I tell myself every night. The difference is, my sister will bring home more wins and I will bring home more minutes.

The Camera
My mother’s free eye is squeezed shut, her right eye open into the camera. She moves the black contraption back and forth with the players. Occasionally she cheers with the other parents and then quickly quiets herself and announces the score, “42-29. Two minutes left in the third quarter.”

In the years to come there will only be one game she will watch without the camera and multiple doctors appointments she will attend to deal with the pain in her right eye. Every college recruiter however will comment on the excellent quality of film they receive of my play.

The Players
Tall girls smile in secret at their boyfriends who sit opposite the team’s benches. They drip in their sweat soaked uniforms as they squirt water into their mouths. Their ponytails are pulled tight and when they fall to the floor they slide. Once a girl slid toward the bleachers and as she came the fans lifted their feet. She crashed in a crumpled heap and the gym was silent.

There will come a time when I will throw girls into these bleachers when no one is looking and the fans will not move their feet. The girls will crumple and eventually the play will stop until they are carried to their bench. When they return however, they will no longer throw elbows at my face.