I was ten years old and I had captured the silver ball with
my left flipper.
I held it firmly as I surveyed the surface of the table below
the glass. I checked to see if the “special” light was on. It was. I could let
the ball roll to just the right point near the middle of the flipper and then
tap the button hard hooking it left and down the drain that crossed the trigger
for the “special.” It meant sacrificing my last ball to get a new game and five
more balls to play. Suspended, I weighed my options. Free game or keep the ball
in play, go for the spinners, rack up some points, and go for a new high score.
I was addicted to pinball. I wasn’t a pinball wizard; I was
a pinball junkie. The owners of The Game-room were my pushers. I remember the
first marked quarters handed out like candy. I felt a rush of adrenaline the
first time I drew back the spring-loaded launcher and sent the ball rocketing
up ramps, through spinners, and bouncing off light-up bumpers. Ding-ding-ding
it danced and then shot like a bullet straight down the middle drain. Now this had my attention. The next ball in play had my complete focus. Hyper-focus.
My eyes were lasers. The machine’s cacophonous sounds and flashing lights were
some sort of magic magnet. I was mesmerized. Spellbound. Hooked.
Normally I daydreamed. My mind wandered. But now I was back at the Pinball machine. I was playing the new
Captain Fantastic machine; Crowds had gathered as I racked up a new high score.
I could hear The Who, “He’s a pinball wizard, there has to be a……LeGette!”
The game room dissolved. “LeGette!”’ Mrs. Turner, my 5th grade
teacher was barking my name. “LeGette! Are you daydreaming again?” I was
sitting at my desk surrounded by rows of classmates. They were all staring at
me. Their eyes signaled,” What is wrong with you?” I wanted to be back at that
pinball machine. I wanted to be anywhere but here with my name being barked and
a bunch of kids looking at me like I was some sort of alien.
Mrs. Turner confirmed their suspicion, “Now that you have
come back to earth, Mr. LeGette, could you please come to the board and solve
this problem?” I looked at the blackboard and saw hieroglyphics. Everyone
called it math, but it was just a jumble of numbers and meaningless symbols.
Mrs. Turner certainly knew I could not solve the problem. It was written in
secret code. The room was sweltering as Mrs. Turner stared at me. She wore a
tank top shirt that showed off her hairy armpits. The giant fan was blowing hot
air in my direction. I was feeling sick to my stomach. I could not move.
Sheila, a neighbor who talked to me at the bus stop, but
never at school, raised her hand. She spoke up, “I can solve it, Mrs. Turner.”
Phew. Pressure was off. Sheila went to the board and scrawled numbers and lines and tapped out dots with the
chalk. She finished it off by drawing a circle around her final answer. I had
no idea what she had just done, but Mrs. Turner was pleased for a moment before
turning to me and scowling, “You should pay attention instead of daydreaming if
you want to get anywhere in this world!”
As the teacher returned to droning on about dividing
fractions, I gave my undivided attention back to staring out the window and
dreaming that I was being hoisted up on the shoulders of my fans who were
chanting, “High Score! High Score!” They carried me to the game-room counter
where I was handed a large trophy and awarded free games for life.
