Hooper's Revolution. Dennie Wendt

said, “Where we all play. Between the buildings. After school.”

      Lev’s parents had looked at each other then, across the table, concerned. Now Lev understood the look. “It is a team game, is it not?” said Lev’s father. “A collective game. How many footballs do you need? You need one. Now, thanks to you, you have two. And one is his. What good is that? To you, to him?”

      Lev’s mother said, “This will be strange for him. Now he is not normal. He has a ball now, Lev. Not you. Or any of the other boys.”

      Still, Lev gave the boy his ball. The boy kept it as his own, and for a time, Lev never saw it. The old ball grew slicker and browner with time, until one day it bounced on a piece of broken glass and popped. The boys stared at its shriveling carcass for a few moments, wondering if and when they’d ever play again, until Lev’s friend sauntered over to his school bag and produced his ball, a nearly new beauty, which he rolled out amongst the group, and the game began again, and the ball was no longer, and never would again be, Lev’s friend’s ball. He didn’t even take it home with him that day. He just set it next to the building with the ugly little misshapen goals, and that was that.