Green Socks

                                                                             By

                                                                     Alan L. Bryant

     They lined us up, single file, in front of the main gate to the coliseum.  The cement facade stretched high above into the sky.  A short pudgy man, with a salt and pepper flat top, and bushy dark eye brows, came up to the first scout and scanned him from head to toe.  His military bearing betrayed his former profession.  His demeanor was serious, and his posture straight.  I was the last in line, but I watched him from the corner of my eye as the man in-charge moved swiftly down the queue.  The time ticked away quickly, and before I knew it he was directly in front of me, starring me down.  I could feel the moist warmth of his breath on my face.  The close distance between us made me feel uncomfortable.  Standing at attention, I followed his eyes as he scanned my body.  Pausing at my shoes, he shook his head in disgust and said, “This will not do!”  I thought “What?  What have I done wrong this time?”  The man in-charge called over several other middle-aged underlings and pointed at my feet.  As all of us looked down, he yelled “Look!  Look! He is wearing white socks!  Where are his official green socks?”  The other men in the group appeared dumbfounded as he continued to rant and rave.