The crowd disappointed after the brutal first half. Their team, the Lakers,  falling to the Raptors. Young star Kobe Bryant failing to bring them out of the rut of losing. Loyal fans they are, don’t give up that quick. If the game wasn’t over there was still hope. It may be a sliver of a chance, but it’s still a chance. 

Sweat streaming down his face like a faucet, the smell like a teenage boy’s room. Sitting, trying to catch his breath, analyzing what happened. Re-thinking every mistake, the rest of the locker room doing the same. No music, the coach done talking. The rising star, all eyes on him, pressure every game to come up clutch in the second half. There was doubt in the air in LA that night, the scoreboard showing disappointment as the Lakers were down 49-63. Reaching into his bag embroidered with the number 8, looking up at his locker. Seeing the name plate alongside the number, fingers searching for a specific item in his bag. The feel of the cool metal against his fingertips gave him a bit of a revival. Pulling it out, turning it back and forth, in and out of his fingers. Peering at the copper plated disc, examining it as if it had all the answers. Seeing the fresh date, 2006, Abe’s head, looking at something in the distance. Kobe looked to where Abe was, a sign that read, “Take a game like a penny, one cent at a time, over time that builds into much more than one cent.” Pondering the sign that he’d seen many times before, but never gave thought to.
Following his eyes back to Abe, fidgeting with the penny in his fingers. He reached over for his bag, seeing the number 8 and being proud of it, knowing all the pressure that comes with it. Giving Abe a quick peck on the cheek, he quickly put the penny back in his bag. Jogging out to warm-ups, the sign flashed in his head. The newly inflated basketball passed to him. Focusing on the task at hand, going up and making one shot. Glancing at the time clock, counting down from 10 minutes, looking at the crowd feeling the pressure.
The buzzer blared, the scoreboard read: LA 49 TOR 63. Kobe was fed the ball, then he looked at the scoreboard again. The fresh new 3 thrown up by the scorekeepers, half a game to play still. From that point of the roaring buzzer the momentum shifted. The game changed to favor LA, changing so much that it became a historic night for the rising star of the Lakers. The unforeseeable win, much credited to Kobe himself, scoring 51 points after a short surge by the Raptors. Scoring a total of 55 points in the second half, ending the game with 81 points. The second most points scored in an NBA game ever. He would go on to credit the win to the inspiration given by the penny. That memory of the penny never left his mind: rather he wanted to further extend the wealth of Abe, and share it. Nobody is better to share good luck with than an old friend.

The crowd riled up for the pre-game, cheering from all those wearing red. A familiar face from a different sport making an appearance. Kobe stopping by to watch the Fall Classic, wanting to help out an old friend, penny in hand.

Before the decisive game for the St. Louis Cardinals, Kobe Bryant, attending the game to watch longtime friend David Eckstein. Eckstein, shortstop for the Cardinals at the time, carrying a lot of weight on his shoulders. Kobe went down to meet him before the game, shaking his hand. Eckstein all smiles until he felt something land into his palm. Allowing Kobe his hand back, he looked down. A glimmer came from Abe’s face, then saying,     
“What is this?”
“It’s the penny I was telling you about. I want you to have it, big game tonight.” Kobe then proceeded to walk away, saying no more. Eckstein, fiddled with the penny, finding no inspiration stuffed it in his back pocket. Little did he know it would provide much more excitement than first thought. Eckstein would be named MVP of the World Series that the Cardinals won 4 games to 1 against Detroit. This was the real point when ‘ole Abe would finally get some life into those zinc lungs.

The penny, well; it was me. I  didn’t think that I was really worth much until I woke up in the pocket. Darkness all around, stifling heat threatening to melt me. The taste of dirt still evident in my mouth, suffocation imminent.  In fact it left me with Permanent Grunge Defect, or PGD. Symptoms of PGD are whole body dullness, constant odor, and being undesirable to little children. Which, depending on how you look at it, could be good: no ending up in stomachs or noses for me!
Bouncing up and down in Eckstein’s pocket, the noise of fans chanting to celebrate another championship. Me bobbing up and down, not to the music, but rather to the gluteus maximus I was attached to. Is this what getting shot gets you, getting stuffed in pockets as the most undesired currency? Good thing I wouldn’t last there long. I’m a penny, I get thrown around a lot from place to place. Nobody cares about me, what can 1 cent buy? Although, the one thing I can buy is luck, but I’m not a big believer in luck. I certainly didn’t have any for myself that night.  

Eckstein, already getting paid a large sum of dough, didn’t care about me much. I slipped through a hole in his pocket, landing on the musty floor of the laundry room. It was slow motion as I fell, turning end over end. The wind flowing through my beard, I felt so free and terrified in the same instance. The next thing I know is that it was completely dark. I couldn’t see anything, I could still hear the footsteps of the workers. One got a little too close, the bottom of their shoe rocketing me into the wall. It was hard enough you could hear my cry out in pain, “DING!” The worker looking around to see what the noise was. Spotting me, I was still unable to see anything going on. All of a sudden I was being picked up, light flooding my eyes. The boy turning me to examine my face, not too attractive. Keeping me as a lowly pocket ornament.
Eventually I was rescued from the pit of despair by the boy's mother to sit with the other coins heaped onto a desk. One day the boy took me from his desk, virtually a death bed for coins of all sorts. Nevertheless, I got chosen only to soon be traded. Traded for something as worthless as me, a pack of gum. Sitting in a dark cash register, only to see the light of day with each transaction. There I was, hanging out in some cash register in thrilling Kansas City, Missouri. Although, this one day would be different. I heard the voice of the cashier, and that of someone else. I overheard them talking about football, something about a big game tomorrow. The register opened again, expecting disappointment like always, I was stunned. Feeling the sweaty, oily fingers of the cashier. Wrapping his chubby fingers around my neck, handing me to a man by the name of Zac. Dropping me from his hand, I felt my life flash before my eyes. Missing the man’s hand, free falling once again. The cashier saying, “Sorry about that man, good luck at the game, nobody around here likes them Sooners.”
“Thank you sir.” Zac said while bending down to pick me up. I couldn’t tell what was happening until he picked me up, the artificial light forcing my pupils to become smaller. I had heard a myth about pennies like me. If you landed face down you were bad luck. I thought that I was different, but that would soon be proved inaccurate.
After the game, quarterback Zac Taylor, had nothing to say about the Huskers 7 to 21 loss to the Oklahoma Sooners. The Big 12 Championship game was one of the most important in his college career, and his last game besides the Cotton Bowl a month later. But that resulted to be another disappointment. Not usually superstitious, trying to think of things that could’ve gone wrong. His wrist band? No, his lucky underwear? No, then he recalled the day before, receiving me as change for his Big Texas Cinnamon Roll. He barely cared at that moment that I was face down, but that evening of the loss he certainly cared.  That night at the restaurant, leaving me as a tip; wanting to get rid of me and pass on his loss.
After that night, I started to believe that I as a penny became a failure. I couldn’t even bring a little inspiration to someone who collected pennies when he was younger like Zac. I failed as a penny. The next few years I would cycle through being in obscure cash registers, to the germ factory of some chunky kid’s hands. Real exciting, I know. Nothing even cool anymore, no drug deals, no bank robberies. I was a boring ‘ole penny, worth next to nothing. I was about to be reminded of my lack of worth.
Going to get his coffee before a career changing meeting, receiving me for change. Too busy with his meeting on his mind, gave no attention to me or my other friends. They had no expression on their faces, must have been sleeping or something. Anyway, shoved back into another pocket, face to face with a nice new iPhone. It vibrated, light screaming from the screen, I read it. It was a text from someone called “Agent”. It said, “Hey, I overheard them talking. They want to give you a pretty big extension. You gotta get here quick Kobe!” I couldn’t believe it, I was back with my boy Kobe! I never had a chance to see his face, but I’m pretty sure I’m to be credited with his $87 million 3-year extension on his contract. One of the biggest in 2010, continuing to make him the highest paid in the NBA at $24,806,250 salary. This was great news! I was lucky again, the time with Zac must have just been him not me! Sadly, this feeling would promptly fade. Kobe, now being paid a hefty sum, had no need for me. He had lunch with his agent after the deal and sidelined me. Lying next to his empty coffee cup, a dribble of the mocha flowing down to set foot in my beard. I mean really?! I just shampooed it yesterday! Thinking to myself, figured my tears would clean it out. I played such a role in his life in ways that he didn’t know, and now I’m being left to be stained by some left over coffee?
I resided in self pity until someone eventually discovered me. Rescuing me from drowning in a pool of coffee and zinc tears. Once again, stuffed in a somber pocket, choking on a jumble of lint shoved down my throat. At least it cleaned of the coffee, but the burn marks from it would be lifelong. For a little over a year, I spent all of that time in the same pocket. Traveling from LA to some place in Missouri and throughout the United States. I got a bath in a few washers, well it was more like my house was flooded. That in the past, one day I was sleeping peacefully, quieter than a mouse. My carrier, no idea who he was, sitting still in the lint coated pocket. He began to stir, moving his hand and fidgeting in his other pocket. Reaching with the other hand, squeezing it into the tight jean pocket with me in it. I saw a crack of light, it quickly faded as his fingers felt for me then proceeded to grasp me like the hooks in the claw machines at stores. Finally seeing his homely face, wrinkles threatening to run like rivers all over it. The bottom of his face draped with a beard much to the likeness of mine, slight streaks of silver creeping in. His face telling a story of fatigue and stress, there was also another man sitting across from him. I looked around as he fiddled with me. The place looking familiar to me, but the man not so much. At the tip of my tongue, about to figure out the mystery location then I began spinning as if tornado had come up and I got sucked inside. Distracting himself with me, spinning me off his fingers. Waiting till I landed either face down or up. Thankfully for me I never landed on my face, but I guess that was good for whoever this man was.
“Good luck tonight 29, it’s a big game!”
“Yeah I know! Either we get it all or we go home as first place losers..” I overheard this short conversation as I laid resting, trying not to vomit all over myself from the nausea. Becoming a little more aware of my bearings, starting to put 2 and 2 together. I knew nothing but that he was “29”, but it didn’t sound like I wanted to bring him bad luck that night. I kinda had a history of doing that, but then again I did bring a wealth of good luck as well. As I was pondering as to whom this man was, I almost missed the revelation of it. “Good luck tonight Chris, don’t worry we got your back!”, another man walked by saying, “Hey Carpenter, lookin forward to playing with you again tonight, you got this!” So now he was 29, Chris and Carpenter. Which one was it? Then it hit me, a flashback of the line up board when I was in the locker room  about 5 years before. The name read, “#29 Chris Carpenter P”, he must have been the pitcher for the St. Louis Cardinals that I heard so much about. He was about to start game 7 of the 2011 World Series against the Texas Rangers. Both team with 3 wins, tonight decided who would get the bragging rights. Also who was going to go home and have it hang over them for the rest of their career.
“It’s just about time for warm-ups boys, better start getting dressed..” said the famous Tony La Russa. Those words echoed through the quiet locker room, everyone focused on the task at hand, a big task at that. Carpenter spun me once more, turning around and around and around. Slowing down, spinning slower with each revolution. Coming to a stop -like water circling a drain and going down- I dropped. I saw the look on his telling face, a look of a mind that was made up. Of someone who was determined to defeat whatever came his way. His face, looking like that because of my face. I hadn’t disappointed.
Sitting in the dugout 91 pitches later, donning the bright, cardinal red jacket. His arm spent after 6 innings pitched. Allowing only 6 hits, 2 earned runs, 2 walks and capturing 5 strikeouts. Not too bad of an outing, but he is never calm until it’s all over. Running every pitch that Jason Motte could throw, closing the game to earn a save, and not to mention a World Series. 2 batters down in the top of the ninth inning. Carpenter, rushed into the locker room, finding me, sitting there listening to the game. I was glad to see his face, I tried to congratulate him but he grabbed me before I could. Returning to his place at the railing next to the field he watched. Me, flying back and forth in his anxious fingers. Motte hurling what could be the last pitch, everyone in St. Louis watching. The ball, laces bearing down the throat of David Murphy who was trying his best to become a real life superhero.  Swinging, the crack of the wood bat, all eyes on the ball. Soaring out into the darkness of the night, the field lights providing the only escape from the darkness. In left field, Allen Craig, backing up, tracking the white spec in the sky. Settling in, the ball gravitating back to earth. Flashing his leather glove, the new home of that baseball. Next thing I know is chaos. Straight up chaos, players storming the field from the home side dugout. Players from the visitor side retreating to the locker room in solace, feeling dismembered.
All I remember from the night is the beginning of a new end. After the catch, Carpenter excited beyond the point of joy, flung his arms up in the crisp air. There I was, trying to hold on for my life, but the sweat from his hand releasing me into the night. Flying backwards, my fall only to be broken by some fat guy’s beer that would soon be sloshing onto the cement. Regaining my bearings, I look around me. Foaming beer threatening to intoxicate me, although when I was in human form I was no stranger to alcohol. Being the only president who was a licensed bartender. But, I also knew the effects of alcohol on people, the man obviously unable to think clearer than mud. Raising his red solo cup to his friend, also carrying a spare tire on the stomach, I was knocked around by the clashing of plastic. Next thing I saw was the pink, fleshy, reeking of beer mouth of the large man. The lights of the field no longer penetrating me, only darkness and the overwhelming smell of beer.
I would stay in the man's stomach for a while. Actually that is an understatement; It was the rest of my life. The man died that night from fatal kidney failure. No surprise considering how much beer he drank, his kidneys were probably shot by that time. I could hear everything, the funeral, the sobbing of the family. The beep of the backhoe, filing away the man forever six feet under. I would also stay six feet under with him, sitting in the rotting body of some fat dead guy. I think his name was Barry, but for now I like fat dead guy. It looks like my luck ran out. Well unless he becomes a zombie, but I doubt it. Of course, what do I know? I’m a penny.