Aggots and Eightsies

I love spring. There’s nothing quite like that first warm day in the city, when the sun liquefies all the frozen street garbage, sending that wonderfully urban fragrance into the air. As I sweat right through my shirt in the ninety-percent humidity, watching vibrant songbirds eating the remains of a thawed out squirrel, I thank God that winter is finally over. I didn’t always love spring though. For seven years of my life, spring had a seedy underbelly, because from Kindergarten through sixth grade, spring meant one thing: Marble Season.

The snow banks hadn’t even melted all the way before the kids in my elementary school started bringing sacks full (or socks full) of those alluring glass balls and engaging in their very first form of legalized gambling. The basic rules were simple. Two players, one marble each. Whoever hit their opponent’s marble with their own won both marbles. The loser drank himself under the table.

Just as in Poker, special rules, which always seemed to end in “-sies” were decided at the beginning of each game. First, you had to decide whether you were playing for Funsies or Keepsies. Numbered “-sies” (Onesies, Twosies, etc.) indicated how many shots you had per turn. In general, you were obligated to roll your marble into your opponent’s, but Picksies allowed you to pick your marble up and dead-eye your shot from above. We all generally agreed you had to make your opponent’s marble move at least an inch from the point of impact to score a win, therefore Nicksies and Ticksies didn’t count as Hitsies.

In the high-rolling hierarchy of marbles, Cats-Eyes and Aggies (not to be confused with Aggots) were the most common and least prized. Their designs were unimpressive—a few colored flecks amongst clear or white glass. Crystals and Swirls were the most sought after. Their names were self-explanatory: the former, mystically colored crystal balls, while the latter had mystical colors swirling through their middles. Also highly coveted were the solid-colored Corns, and the engine-extracted Ball Bearings. All classes increased in value when they took the form of Poppers (big marbles), or Aggots (really big marbles), but decreased in value in the form of Pee-Wees. Yes, size mattered.

All through Kindergarten, I’d only owned hordes of stupid old Cats-Eyes. I was so happy the day I came to First Grade with my very first Crystal Poppers. Two of them. When Henry Morris asked if I wanted to play them, I was wary. “Well, okay, but only for Funsies.” Turns out, I played phenomenally, beating him two games in a row! I decided to play for Keepsies, making the mistake of agreeing to a game of Fivesies. In one five-shot turn, Henry nailed my first Crystal. Determined to win it back, I played him again, and within seconds both my Crystal Poppers were now in the hands of a notorious marble hustler. I went home and cried.

I became compulsive about trying to win back some of what I had lost. But, having only Cats-Eyes I was forced to give people odds. I had to win five games in a row to score a Swirl. Three games in a row for an Aggie Aggot. As I lost more and more of my Cats-Eyes and became increasingly desperate, people started whispering about my worsening insanity. “Poor guy,” they’d says. “He’s lost his… marbles!!!”

Oh come on, you couldn’t see that one coming from like a mile away?

But as silly a game as it was, it was important to me. Even my parents could see that. And one sunny April day, my dad brought home the greatest gift a father could ever give his son: a Ball Bearing from a tractor trailer truck. It was beautiful. As big as a softball and ten times as heavy. The Ultimate Marble. The other kids started foaming at the mouth. Suddenly, they were the ones giving me odds. Ten games to one. Twenty to one. I started winning everything. Crystals, Corns, Swirls, Poppers, Aggots.

It was fun for a season. But by the following spring, my über-Marble’s reputation had spread. Everybody knew they couldn’t beat it. So they stopped trying. They forced me to start playing even odds once again. By the end of that next marble season, I lost all that I had won. I was washed up, already at the age of eight. At least I was smart enough to just hang up the marble sack for good. I began wandering the springtime playground amidst a sea of glass racketeering, seeking out even one person who just wanted to play tag.