Sixth grade, I had always heard, was the last fun year a kid ever had, so I labored to enjoy it. I tried to do as little as I could, enough to pass without any trouble and enough to avoid the wrath of the Sith Warrior--my dad. He endured my B average mainly because my mom insisted that I tried as hard as I could. This really worried Dad.
I wiled away my days as the class clown. Most people, with the exception of the dragon lady, Ms. Klinklin, appreciated my efforts even if those efforts didn't make people love me. My peers did appreciate my labors on the ball field--any ball field. Baseball, whiffleball, football, kickball, and especially softball.
Every spring the kids in the town joined co-ed softball teams and played in the town league. Sixth grade loomed as my chance to participate in the championship game. I had the team together--well, almost. I didn't really count Wendy, who only played because of her boyfriend. I just needed three more players and a coach. You would think that all kinds of men in the community would flock to the softball fields to become mentors to the young players who had so much potential.
If not for this constant distraction, I would have actually enjoyed life. We still had recess and holiday parties--like Christmas and Valentine's Day. Speaking of love--I noticed the girls were growing up. Even though I knew "it", meaning puberty, was happening to them, I still couldn't quite figure "it" out. I just knew they looked and acted, well, older than us guys.
One day at recess when we were playing the obligatory softball game, I stood at second base when I decided to talk to Andy, one of my friends, about the subject.
"Andy, you notice how old the girls look?"
At that precise moment, Lisa Marie decided to hit a ground smash at me. I have to confess I was paying more attention to the way Lisa looked in her gym shorts rather than the way she hit the ball. I dropped the ball and shamefully picked it up, just knowing I was going to go straight to hell for committing lust in my heart.
Another--sort of friend--Tim played third base. He always wore the latest styles. The P.E. Coach, Mr. Flowers stood behind the catcher.
Tim screamed at me, "Pull your head out of--"
Mr. Flowers caught Tim before he could say something to get himself in trouble. "Watch it, Tim."
"--the clouds." Tim also stared at Lisa.
Lisa took a lead off first base and smirked at me. "If you hadn't been staring at me, you would have caught the ball."
"I didn't stare," I lied.
"So, you don't think I'm pretty enough to stare at. Tim wouldn't like it if I told him you thought I was ugly."
"You're not ugly," I said quickly.
I knew Lisa very well. Since he was so cool, Tim could get just about any girl he wanted. He dated Lisa for months until he saw the new girl Sandy. For a split second in the sands of eternity, Sandy liked me. Then, she saw Tim and I wasn't cool enough for her anymore. Of course, Tim didn't feel too cool after his girlfriend, Lisa Marie, got hold of Sandy.
I'll never forget that moment, the first time I ever saw two girls fight. When it was all over, Sandy did not look so pretty. I gained a whole new respect—no, fear would be a better word--of Lisa Marie that day. As for Tim--it took two days for the slap mark to leave his face.
Anyway, I learned that it was healthy to fear girls like Lisa a little. I was about to make a comment I hoped would save my neck when the next batter hit a line drive that drilled me in the stomach. As I dropped to the ground and lay gasping for breath, Lisa ran past me laughing all the way. Andy retrieved the ball, but not before the batter--Chad--was safe.
Chad. What a jerk. Enough said about him.
He smirked at me too. "What a weenie."
Fortunately, something else caught his attention: Wendy.
"Wendy." He literally groaned. "Third out."
Wendy hit a ground ball that bounced over the stone fence that marked our foul territory and then rolled out onto the road. Tim started to run for it but stopped suddenly. Just as I started to tell him to get his head out of his--well, you know--I saw the problem. Crazy Cooter held his bicycle with one hand and our softball with another.
"You get it," Tim said. "He gives me the creeps."
I wondered what Tim would have thought if he had seen Cooter in his camo standing at the creek and shooting his pistol.
"You geek," I said as I started after it. Then, I saw a dog--a big dog with big teeth and a menacing growl--standing alongside Cooter. My heart stopped. The old man wound up and fired the ball so that it smacked like a gunshot into my glove. I thought of the creek.
"Ouch! You've got a great arm," I said.
"Shut up, kid." As Cooter climbed back on his bike and pedaled away with killer canine trotting alongside him, I ran back to my position and returned the ball to the pitcher.
"He is creepy," I told Andy.
"I heard people say he killed kids in the war."
"He's got a good arm." I said and then looked at Wendy. Suddenly, it dawned on me how pretty she was. "And Wendy's got a good--" I paused after realizing what I nearly said. "--personality. Even she doesn't look like a girl."
Another one of my friends, good old average at everything except baseball like me, Brian, pitched the ball underhanded to Wendy who swung and missed by a mile.
"She's pretty, but her swing ain't."
Chad led off first base enough to hear us. "You guys wouldn't know what to do with a girl if you had her tied down and naked."
Wendy swung at another pitch and hit a feeble foul tip.
"Besides, these ain't real girls. You should see what's in Chicks Galore."
I didn't know anyone who had copies of Chicks Galore.
Wendy swung and missed. Strike three.
Tim and I sat on the bench with Brian and Andy.
Brian, who desperately needed some kind of life, said, "You need to concentrate now. Nothing should distract you from the game."
Tim smashed the first pitch into the outfield. When the outfielder finally got the ball into the infield, Tim was on third base.
Andy stated the obvious. "Lisa is not exactly nothing."
Brian glowered at us. "Is that all you guys think about?"
Actually, lately, it was. One girl in particular. I offered my bits of wisdom, something I had heard during recess. "Chad says girls are good for only one thing."
"And what's that?" Brian asked.
I bluffed. "You know."
Andy peered into Brian's eyes. "Hasn't your dad ever given you the talk?"
Brian peered back. "Just what talk do you mean?"
Andy bent down and plucked a piece of grass that he chomped on. "You know the one," he said.
Walt Michaels sits in the biology class of Happy Days Reform School for Wayward Boys. Mrs. Chastity Prudence Jones stands at the front of the class, her yardstick in hand, a snarl on her face.
Walt Michaels raises his hand.
"What?" Mrs. Jones's eyes narrow into slits.
"Are we going to talk about sex?" Walt asks.
His friends snicker.
"Silence!" Mrs. Jones strides to Walt's desk. "Let me tell you about sex. Don't do it!"
She smacks his desk with the yardstick. The noise is heard twenty miles away.
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