Marbles and the Art of War

Marble and mud season is upon us, reminding me of a time in grade five when my teacher, Mr. Norman, used to confiscate marbles from unruly students and keep them in a gallon jar on his desk. At night, he locked them in his office, as he was also the principal of our small school.

We were a rowdy, uncouth bunch, and the jar grew steadily full—a festering focal point for the previous owners of the marbles. Imagine sitting in class and staring at your most prized King Cob, captured and eyeballing you back from a showcase of steelies, peewees, and colourful cat’s eyes. So close and yet so far.

The jar became a magnet for classroom hostilities and general unrest. Students would mill around the teacher’s desk before lessons, taking turns hoisting it and marveling at its contents. By the time marble season neared its end, the lid had to be jammed on to contain the collection.

Mr. Norman eventually devised a plan to divest himself of the contentious hoard: we’d hold a contest, and whoever came up with the best name for our new school newspaper would take home the bounty. I chose the name The Pupil—a play on our local paper, The Citizen—and won the contest. There was some grumbling, and the boys were especially vexed that a girl was now in possession of such a stupendous windfall.

Now came the dilemma: how to get that jar home without further incurring the wrath of my envious classmates.

I lived just across the schoolyard, so it should have been a quick home free. But the jar was heavy and cumbersome, and I knew some of my classmates well enough to suspect that the more truculent among them might attempt a coup. Luckily, I had a secret weapon: a tall, older brother in grade six who would happily serve as muscle should the need arise.

I enlisted him, and big brothers being what they are—with nothing in life being free—we made a quick negotiation for his small share of the spoils. After school, we set out warily across the yard toward our fence. All was going well until, just before we reached it, several marauders surprised us by jumping the fence from our side of the property, where they had been lying in wait.

We were outnumbered but not outgunned. My brother wrenched the lid off the jar and grabbed a King Cob, which he launched at the closest attacker, bouncing it smartly off the top of their head. The mob stalled momentarily as they considered their next move amid the cries of their wounded comrade.

In a flash of adrenaline, I grabbed a couple handfuls of marbles and chucked them as far as I could into the loose gravel of the schoolyard. The horde hesitated, then scrambled for the loot while my brother and I made our getaway.

The momentary victory didn’t seem complete, though, as my marble season was forever marred. I couldn’t play my winnings without some kid declaring that any marble with defining features was once theirs and trying to lay claim. 

In the end, in a moment of ire, I dumped the whole trove into my bedroom aquarium to bunk safely with my goldfish. At night, I’d lie in bed and stare at the bubbling, backlit tank, relishing its glistening treasure and remembering which disgruntled classmate had owned which particular marble—and how I’d satisfactorily thwarted their ill- fated attempts to regain ownership of riches fairly won.

Sometimes it’s good to be Queen.