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
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dweeby as their sons looked。 I should know。