I don’t want to brag, but there was a reason heads raised and whispers ensued when I approached the little grassy island on our cul-de-sac. I was the eight year old version of the western gunslinger entering the saloon, only my jingling spurs were a purple felt Crown Royal whisky bag of glass marbles hitched up to the belt loop of my faded Levis. With every step I took, the crashing of marbles against my thigh. I could be heard before they even saw me coming.
Marble Island was unassuming, merely a patch of grass contained in a concrete circle with one street light plunked down in the middle. All around the streetlight, we had scooped out chunks of earth to make holes that we would aim for in our lucrative game of marbles. There was a code to the marbles games that was respected. Each game set out with declarations and negotiations. Before we even determined which