When I was a kid, I used to go over my friend’s, Jess Corcoran’s, house.
We’d play all sorts of things outside; however, on rainy days we’d let our imaginations run wild, and tear untamed through the house utilizing the ‘hidden’ trapdoor in his closet floor, which led to his dad’s workshop in the basement. We explored the attic with all of its familiar nooks and crannies, and eventually—at his mother’s insistence—played board games: Checkers, Candyland, Chutes and Ladders, Sorry, or Monopoly.
Monopoly was one of our favorites; once the pieces had come out of the box, I’d snatch up the iron or the car—those being my favorites.
We’d play for hours; dreading landing on Boardwalk or
Park Place when they were owned by the other person—especially if there were houses or hotels situated on the property. Before long you could find yourself doling out hundreds—or even thousands—of dollars. Jess and I would play for hours. We’d laugh, we’d fret, and sometimes we’d even steal money from the bank when the other person wasn’t looking.
However, after a few hours, the game would end. The money, board, hotels, houses, and all of the other playing pieces would go back into the box. In the end it wouldn’t matter how many properties I’d owned, how many houses I’d bought, or even how much money I’d manage to accumulate during the course of the game.
When the game was over, it was over.
We walked away from the experience with nothing more than the memories of playing.
The money couldn’t be spent anywhere else.
The hotels were useless.
The property was nonexistent.
The board was just a board.
It was—after all—just a game.