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wonderful

day!” She pulls out a list of names and starts ordering

us into line。 We get numbers; our baskets get numbers; we fill out three…by…five cards to her

insane specifications; and by the time she's got us all

organized and is sure we know what to do and what not to do; we've missed all of first and

most of second period。 “Okay; gentlemen;” she says。

“Leave your baskets where they are and go to… where are we now? Still in second?” She

looks at the clock。 “Right。 Second。”

“What about passes?” some sensible basket boy asked。

“Your teachers have a list。 But if they say anything; tell them I say your neckties are your

passes。 I'll meet you back here when everyone's

dismissed for the auction。 Got it? Don't dawdle!”

We grumbled; Yeah; yeah; and headed to class。 And I can tell you this; not one of the twenty

of us listened to a word any of our teachers said that

morning。 How can you listen with a noose around your neck; pinched toes; and a room full of

idiots thinking it's open season on basket boys?

Whoever started this stupid tradition ought to be crammed into a basket and tossed

downstream without a serving spoon。

I was basket boy number nine。 Which meant I had to stand there on the stage in the gym

while nearly half the guys got auctioned off。 Minimum bid;

ten bucks。 And if nobody bid; the secret was a teacher was assigned to bid on you。

Yes; my friend; the possibilities for mortification were infinite。

Some of the moms showed up and stood off to the side with their camcorders and zoom

lenses; fidgeting and waving and basically acting as

……… Page 76………

dweeby as their sons looked。 I should know。

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