Page 88 - SpringBoard_Writing_Workshop_Grade7_Flipbook

The worst possible words out of Mr. Feely—to me, anyway—were, “Okay boys, My Notes shirts and skins.” The skins team, of course, had to take their shirts off. At least with a
shirt on, I didn’t look too much like a walking skeleton.
I would pray, Please put me on the shirt team. Please put me on the shirt team.
“Gutman!” Mr. Feely would always bellow. “You’re a skin.”
But usually, the game we played in gym was kickball. I liked kickball, mostly because nobody had to take off his shirt to play it.
There were about a dozen boys on each team, and the fielders would scatter across the big gym. Little guys like me would try to hit dribblers past the infield and scoot to first base before the ball got there. Big guys could bang the ball as far as they could and bounce it off the far wall.
There was one game I will never forget as long as I live. My team was “at bat.” We sat in a line on the side waiting our turn to kick. Edmund Fortuna was sitting next to me. He turned to me and said, “Hey, Gutman, do you realize you’re the only guy on the team who isn’t wearing Cons?”
“Cons” were Converse All-Stars, those canvas sneakers that were state-of-the-art in the sixties (this was before Nike and Adidas came along).
I looked down the line, and Edmund was right. Every single kid except for me was wearing Cons. I had cheap, no-name sneakers. Suddenly, I felt ashamed. Ashamed of my stupid sneakers.
It was my turn to kick and I was mad. I decided that instead of trying for my usual cheap single, I would just whack the ball with everything I had. That’s what I did.
The ball took off and sailed across the gym, straight as an arrow. I headed for first, keeping my eye on the ball to see where it would land. It looked like it had a chance to reach the far wall, or at least the basketball backboard that was attached to the wall. If it bounced off the backboard, that would make it doubly hard to catch.
The ball was on a downward trajectory when I reached first. Kids had positioned themselves under the backboard in case the ball didn’t reach it.
And that’s when it happened.
The ball went through the hoop!
Swish. Nothing but net. I had kicked a basket all the way across the gym!
Everybody stopped. It was like the Day the Earth Stood Still. Nobody had ever kicked a basket before. We didn’t know what to do.
“Home run!” Mr. Feely announced. “That’s a thousand runs!”
I circled the bases triumphantly. Then I sat back down next to Edmund Fortuna. “Let’s see you and your Cons do that,” I said.
When we got back to class, everybody was talking about what happened in gym class. “Gutman kicked a basket! Gutman kicked a basket!” As the girls heard the news, they were looking at me with new respect. I was working hard to act like it was no big deal.
This incident happened nearly forty years ago, but I remember it like it was five minutes ago. I’m sure that none of the other guys who were there that day remember it at all. It was only important to me.
It would be nice to say that this was the beginning of my incredible athletic career, the turning point where I went from being a skinny little geek who couldn’t play sports into a real jock. Stories are supposed to have happy endings, right?
Writing Workshop 7 • Narrative Nonfiction 3
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