Heavy and bold, it sits in stony silence until it is called upon to announce in its’ loud, ringing voice. And when it does, all can hear, echoing off the surrounding mountains in a victorious bang, bang, bang. Proudly, it calls to all of us. It is the sound of sweat and painted white lines and winning smiles at the end of a well-fought game.

The paint is peeling on its cold black arms, absorbing the chill of the day, and patches of red rust stick out like sores. Water droplets cling to its curves, resting delicately on the edge of falling. A heavy sphere hangs in dead center, the strength behind it’s resounding voice.

It rests on a platform of cold grey stone, different chunks piled upon each other and holding it in place. It’s black arms, straight and linear, overlap with the circles, looking like an angle problem in geometry.

It doesn’t only mean victory, however, it is also the sound of the departing seniors. On a certain warm night in the spring we can hear it clang as well, marking the end of the year. It comes with screams and laughs and the screeching sound of Mr. Clinton’s golf cart.