Finally, after three months of working at the KFC down the street, I had the money to see the Celtics play in Boston. The late afternoon had turned cold already, or maybe that was just the chills of standing face to face with the castle-like stadium for the first time, everyone drawn like moths to the pleasing aroma of old popcorn and the comforting thoughts of uniting themselves with their seats. My hand was still playing with the money in my soft, silk pocket that couldn’t wait to be emptied and vacant. I wiped my face with both hands, nervously sweating, and then dropped them to my sides.

I was drawn with a hasty crowd pushing and bumping toward the arching, shimmering glass windows where the tickets were bought and where fans finally were able to be devoured by the coliseum doors. One man knocked into me so hard I almost lost my balance as he brushed my side with a surprising quickness.

Voices arose and I heard a man talking, about who was going to win, in a deep and commanding voice, as if the game had already been played out. As I listened to the many conversations around me, the smell of melted cheese invaded my nostrils and I could taste the hot steam of pizza in my mouth. The cold waterfall of Root Beer, cascading down my throat, and the brain freeze of a cherry-fruit punch slush after the game. All of my senses were almost heightened by the fact that I was almost in. I could feel my fingertips freezing up as I was next for the ticket holder. I wasn’t going to miss anything during the game, I thought, then my hand reached into the soft silk pocket to retrieve my money, but all I found was the same silk bottom of my shorts, and the man who bumped me on the way in, was nowhere in sight.


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