First came paper football, then came girls

Four seventh-grade boys. Four seventh-grade girls. Two telephones – rotary dial dinosaurs adhered to parents’ kitchen walls. Thick, twisted, dangled cords, like entangled anacondas in heat.

Four seventh-grade boys on a Friday night sleepover. Four seventh-grade girls at a slumber party barely a mile away.

Before the number is dialed, though, the boys must muster a collective courage while flicking a piece of paper that has been folded into a triangle for a sport called “paper football,” during which a kitchen tabletop becomes an imaginary gridiron. The Grand Illusion plays.

Four seventh-grade girls await the call while doing whatever it is they do at slumber parties. Maybe they play Milton Bradley’s Mystery Date board game, excited to see which date awaits them from behind the door: dancer, bowler, skier, beach boy – or the dreaded dud. Sort of like The Dating Game TV show, minus serial killer contestants. Or maybe they debate the cutest Hardy Boy. Parker Stevenson never has a prayer, not with Shaun Cassidy in the picture. Of all the Tiger Beat cover boys, Shaun Cassidy’s the Tiger Beat-iest.

Paper football was the greatest sport ever invented, the only competition I excelled at. I could’ve gone pro. It was the great equalizer of jock versus non-jock athletic competition. It didn’t require speed, nor height, nor strength. Just a magic forefinger possessing flicking finesse, working the paper triangle downfield and coaxing it to stop on the table’s edge without it dropping to the floor. Touchdown!

I’m undefeated. I’ve practiced for days. I’m not popular like my guests: M, D, and The Other Scott. But D is my cousin. That’s why the others agree to spend the night. Glory by association. I drop D’s name anytime I can, especially around girls, who seem surprised by my claim no matter how many times they’ve heard it since first-grade roll call. The echoes of their incredulity still play in my mind. “First cousins!” I remind.

Four seventh-grade boys finally tiring of Friday Night Paper Football (well, three boys … I could finger flick all night … I’m 6 and 0 … the only time in my life that I’m on top).

Our imaginations run wild about slumber parties. No boy in history has ever been privy to the slumber party inner sanctum. One tried, but he was drowned in a vat of Dippity-do.

—I wonder what they do?

—I bet they fart a lot.

—That’s it? That’s all you’re thinking about?

—Funny farts. Like Blazing Saddles.

—We don’t even do that.

—I bet their farts smell like Bubble Yum.

I spit out my Bubble Yum.

—Girls don’t fart. Mom tells me this all the time.

—I hear your mom tuba blasting a block away.

—I’ll tell you what they’re not doing. They’re not playing a lame game like paper football.

—Pillow fights.

—Goose feathers falling like winter snow.

—Jesus, Scott. Who are you? Walt Whitman?

—More like Slim Whitman.

—Someone dial the number.

—You dial.

—It’s Scott’s house. He should dial.

Earlier that day, A’s phone number had been written on a strip of paper, secured beneath a tray, and slid toward M in the cafeteria. We had to be discrete, what with the nuns patrolling the lunchroom, blood-encrusted wooden rulers ready to be drawn from holsters like Dirty Harry’s Smith & Wesson. Sister Dirty Mary Harriet.

I inhale. I dial. 5. 4. My armpits feel swampy. I hang up.

—Let’s play finger football.

M, D, and The Other Scott groan.

M takes the strip of paper from me and dials. He’s the class sports star. Mr. Popularity. Leif Garret. Correction: Leif Garret wishes he were M. M dials with the same ease he demonstrates catching touchdown passes. He rests the handset on the floor, receiver side up.

“Hello?” A girl’s voice, acting surprised. It’s A. The others say hello: K, J, and C.

We talk movies and music. Somehow, A and K got into Saturday Night Fever. We only hear the dirty parts. Bay City Rollers, Andy Gibb, Peter Frampton, and Foreigner. I roll out the sensitive guy schtick (me in mind-over-muscle mode … chicks love it) and proclaim, as if reciting an original poem, “Love hurts, love scars, love wounds.” Cousin D calls me out for plagiarizing Nazareth, making me feel shorter than I already am.

Then K says, “Earlier, we made a Top Ten list of the hottest boys at school. Want to hear it?”

“Tell us,” M says confidently.

“Number 1: M.”

M smirks at me, as if payback for me kicking his ass at paper football.

“Number 2: D.”

“We’re cousins,” I announce, hoping for third place. “First cousins.” I add.

D looks embarrassed.

“Number 3: Scott.”

I smile.

“The Other Scott,” A, C, J, and K clarify simultaneously.

I frown.

Oh, well, fourth out of 10 isn’t so bad, I think.

Five more names follow. Spots 4 through 9. None are me. You’d think I’d get pity votes for hosting the sleepover. I consider hanging myself with the phone cord.

“Number 10: Scott. The Other Scott’s Other Scott.”

Finally. I sigh with relief, like the second-to-last kid picked in kickball. Thank you, Playground Jesus. Pity placement. I’ll take i­­­t!

The sleepover officially marked the reality of where I stood with girls. I’ve been self-conscious of this ever since. Hello, dysmorphia, my old friend. I wish we’d just played paper football that night, but a new chapter had begun.

To contact Scott, or to play paper football, email scottsaalman@gmail.com.