The sign on the door read, "No Admittance to the Concession Stand Unless You Are Scheduled to Help." I smiled. That was me - volunteer parent - contributing to the good of Little League baseball worldwide. I knocked. The door opened narrowly.
　　 "Yeah?"
　　 "I am a concession-stand volunteer," I said proudly.
　　 "Where‘s your wife?"
　　 "She couldn‘t make it," I said. "I‘m filling in for her."
　　 The door opened just wide enough for me to slip through. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust. As they did, three women in aprons - Rose, Juanita and Theresa - came into focus.
　　 "Hi," I said cheerily. I grabbed a French fry from the infrared warming machine and popped it into my mouth. "So this is the concession stand," I said. "It looks bigger from outside." I swung my arms in a grandiose gesture, knocking over a rack and sending bags of potato chips skidding across the linoleum floor.
　　 "You‘ve never done this before, have you?" Rose asked.
　　 "Well . . . no . . . But hey. How hard can it be?"
　　 "Can you make change?" Juanita asked.
　　 "Change? Sure."
　　 "You‘re on window duty," Rose said.
　　 "Window duty, huh?" I grabbed another French fry. "Don‘t need me to cook?"
　　 "No," they said in unison.
　　 They scurried about the small building, preparing for a big evening. Rose skillfully pushed hot dogs onto a rotating rotisserie. Juanita filled cups with soda. Theresa started the popcorn machine and poured purple and green syrup into the slushy maker. There was a knock on the window. I slid it open.
　　 "Hot dog, Coke, fries, and Reese‘s Pieces."
　　 I looked into a smiling retainer, surrounded by round rosy cheeks and the beginning of a second chin.
　　 I shut the window. "How do I know how much to charge?"
　　 "Candy‘s a buck. Popcorn‘s fifty cents. Hot dogs and drinks are seventy-five. Fries are fifty cents. Slushies are a quarter." Rose took a breath.
　　 "Chips are seventy-five and coffee is fifty. Refills on coffee are free," said Juanita. Frantically I looked for a pen.
　　 "And we do not allow any credit," said Rose.
　　 "So how much?"
　　 "Three bucks," they sang out.
　　 "Of course," I said.
　　 Faces came and French fries left. I got into a rhythm - repeating the orders loudly and waiting for the magical amount to sound out from behind me. I had several minor mishaps, including two hot dogs that now rolled about beneath my feet and an order of fries that I was sharing with a group of ambitious ants.
　　 The fat kid with the retainer returned for a third time.
　　 "More Reese‘s Pieces." He slid a couple of sticky dollar bills through the window.
　　 "I‘m out of Reese‘s Pieces."
　　 "No way. What else ya got?"
　　 I scanned the candy rack for inspiration. "Got some imitation-strawberry-flavored taffy."
　　 "Cool. Gimme two."
　　 I beamed with salesmanship. But the others did not seem pleased. I shrugged, skillfully sliding two sodas to a small girl and a hot dog to her friend. Then I served a party of three, but I slid one Coke a little too hard, right off the counter onto the ground. I rebounded, though, with two trouble-free slushies.
　　 A woman appeared.
　　 I bent down and displayed my smiling face. She grabbed me by my shirt collar and pulled me halfway through the small window.
　　 "You ever buy a retainer?"
　　 "Ahhh . . . no . . ."
　　 "I‘ve bought two of them in the last six months. They ain‘t cheap."
　　 "I‘m sure they‘re not. . . ."
　　 "You know what kills retainers?"
　　 "Ahhh . . . no . . ."
　　 "Taffy kills retainers."
　　 Suddenly I saw the resemblance. Before I could comment another mother appeared.
　　 "This the guy?" she asked a small girl with one very large cheek. I remembered her. Only had a quarter. I gave her a deal on jawbreakers.

　　 "You a dentist?" the second mother asked.
　　 "No, I . . ."
　　 "Fronting for a dentist?"
　　 "Of course not. I just. . . ."
　　 Behind me I heard a knock on the door.
　　 "We once caught a dentist giving out all-day suckers at the mall. We ran him out of town."
　　 The first mother let go of my throat.
　　 "I was only doing my duty as a concession-stand volunteer. . . ." I felt a familiar hand on my shoulder.
　　 "What are you doing here?" I asked my wife. "I thought you were sick."
　　 "They . . ." She lowered her voice. "They called me at home."
　　 "But . . ."
　　 "It‘s okay, honey. I‘m feeling much better. Besides, it turns out they need an umpire for the seven o‘clock game."
　　 I bent over and took one more look at the angry women at the window. I hugged my wife. Then I quickly made my way to the back door, released the bolt and grabbed the doorknob.
　　 "You ever umpired before?" Rose asked.
　　 I smiled. "Well, no . . . But hey. How hard can it be?"

　　Reprinted by permission of Ernie Witham (c) 2000 from Chicken Soup for the Sports Fan‘s Soul by Jack Canfield, Mark Victor Hansen, Mark & Chrissy Donnelly and Jim Tunney. In order to protect the rights of the copyright holder, no portion of this publication may be reproduced without prior written consent. All rights reserved.