Twisted Tweens: The Concession Stand

Baseball season has begun for my younger brother, Noah. He's thirteen, and he loves baseball. This is the first year that he's playing in a competitive league, though; he's always played in a recreational league before. A few things (besides the obvious) are different about a competitive league: the coaches are louder, and they throw their caps more often; the fans are louder, calling out magic baseball phrases that I've never heard before; and (to top off this cacophony) the game is more exciting – just not exciting enough.

I must confess that I had my nose buried into a book for a few batters. And, occasionally, I found it more interesting to watch the people in the crowd. The parents dutifully sat on the uncomfortable wooden bleachers, and I knew that they wouldn't miss watching their miniature, green Athletics for the world or a soft recliner. Some of the siblings, on the other hand, found the abstract possibilities of a little league sports complex much more fascinating. Bleachers, they saw, and climbed through them with the graceless swinging of just-too-short limbs. Dust puddles, they saw, and scooped up handfuls of the mystic powder to cast into the air like the ghosts of an Independence Day celebration. A concession stand, they saw, and asked their mothers for any number of one dollarses.

An hour and forty-five minutes. Only an hour and forty-five minutes, and these kids made several trips to the concession stand. Nachos, hot dogs, assorted candies, and the biggest pickles I had ever laid eyes on came back from that stand. When I got a closer look at the place, it looked more like a special prison cell than a place to buy food. Lots of tough looking metal probably protected the teenagers inside from angry fans, really desperate robbers, and greedy little kids. My youngest brother was one of the siblings that continued returning to the concession stand. I wasn't listening closely enough to know whether he had planned this out and brought his own money, or whether he was asking my soft-hearted mom to provide for raising the dental bill.

“Isaiah, you do the strangest things,” I told him, seeing that he had bought some of the most unappetizing gum I had ever seen.

His ten-year-old face grinned, almost mischievously. He shrugged his shoulders, and soon slipped away to buy a Snickers bar.

Tonight, before he falls asleep, I should go and ask him – just for the sake of curiosity -- “Hey, what do you enjoy more: the game, or the snacks?”

Thanks for reading.

Zachary W.