School
began again and I took the most valuable course I was to have in high school;
typing. I used to say that it was the only thing I had learned in high school
that had any value but that isn’t entirely fair. There were some good teachers who tried hard to
turn me around, but I was as difficult, or worse, than ever.
I
was sitting in speech class when Kennedy was shot. We listened over the
intercom. The next day I was watching TV with mom when Ruby shot Oswald. We
both cheered. Kennedy’s death was the first in a series of murders that
impacted my generation. Martin Luther King, Bobby Kennedy, Malcolm X, Anwar Sadat, Indira
Ghandi and John Lennon all fell, and each death hurt. Ghandi’s murder hit me harder
than it might have some other folks because I had enormous respect for her
father, Mahatma, and considered him one of the century’s great men. Still do.
Speech
was enjoyable for me because I was good at it. Speaking in front of groups has
never intimidated me; I’ve spent most of my life doing it in one situation or
another. I can’t explain why—but it has always seemed natural. I truly can’t
recall a time when I didn’t feel comfortable except perhaps when I officiated
at my second funeral. The deceased, in addition to being a terrific guy, had
two sons who were pastors, and there were also two or three District
Superintendents present. But almost as soon as I began speaking the nervousness
vanished and all was well.
Rather
than try and tell things in chronological order I’m going to jump around a bit
and take things (mostly) by subject. It will be less confusing to the reader
and will help me get past worrying if the dates are exactly right.
To
begin, I’ll go back to school—and I will begin by offering an apology.
In
my history class (Junior or Senior year) my teacher was Mr. Otto. He had lost
one of his arms at the elbow yet he drove an red Porsche 356 and he was a good
teacher. I cut school a lot and he got on me for it. I told someone (I can’t
remember who anymore) that I thought he was an asshole and it got back to him. He
called me out in class by saying that people who called others names should
have the courage to say it to their face. I replied that I was happy to do that
and called him an asshole in front of the class.
He
sent me to the office, and after taking some heat from a couple of Geneva guys
in class for kicking me out for doing what he said I should do he came down,
too.
Before
he took me back to class he sat with me and sincerely pled with me to change
how I was acting. He said he had seen my tests—he even quoted my scores (Math
99th percentile, Science 96th percentile, History 88th or
89th percentile and English 84th or 85th percentile) He told me he knew I was a bright kid and that
I had potential, etc. What’s more he wanted me to know he cared how I did.
My
response was to tell him I wasn’t as smart as he thought because otherwise I’d
listen to him. I told him he was wasting his time. I’m apologizing because he
looked more hurt than angry. He did care and I blew him off.
I’m
sorry I did that to him. He didn’t deserve it. But I was still angry at everyone.
I
had an English teacher, Mr. Blomberg, who rekindled my interest in poetry. He
had us all write poems. I still have one paper I turned in with his
comments. He only gave me a B, but he explained why in a way that was
encouraging.
Of
course even in his class my temper got the best of me. The kid behind me had
taken the spring out of his ballpoint and was flicking my ear with it. I told
him to stop. He didn’t. I stood up and punched him hard enough that the desk
tipped over with him still in it.
Our
Western Civilization class was taught by a short, fat red-headed man, Mr.
Gustafson. We weren’t buddies. Class was held in the auditorium. One day when
the bell rang I was standing talking with a couple of other guys. Mr. Gustafson
said that he wanted the idiots (meaning us) in their seats. The other two sat.
I tugged on the seat in front of me—it was fastened to the floor. He asked what
I was doing and I told him that if he wanted the idiots to sit he was going to
need a chair.
I
could cite more incidents, but you get the idea.
Sports
remained important to me. I tried and failed to make the sophomore basketball
team, partly, I believe because it was coached by the JV baseball coach I had
accused of losing my physical papers before. I compensated by playing in the
YMCA and church leagues.
Even
my unpopularity with the coach couldn’t keep me off the baseball team. I was
too good for that to happen—but I didn’t always play.
In
my junior year I didn’t even try out for basketball. We had a good varsity and
I hadn’t the talent and knew it. Again, baseball was different. My making the
team was never in question, although I played behind a Geneva guy who was nowhere
near as good as I. We were about equal as catchers but I could outhit him by a
mile. Nevertheless I played more than enough to earn a letter.
The
school offered an opportunity to juniors to go on a trip to New York and
Washington each year. How she came up with the money I’ll never know, but mom
was able to pay for the trip. I was excited. We went by train to New York and
visited the World’s Fair as well as many of the wonderful places in the city
and then took another train to Washington D.C. to see the capitol, Arlington,
Mt. Vernon and more. Later in life I lived near enough to visit New York many times and never tired of its charms. It is a unique and wonderful city.
The
chaperones were careful that no one smuggled booze into the hotels. They
checked every bag. After gathering money from all interested parties I went to
a liquor store, bought a bunch of booze and had the clerk gift wrap them as
presents. They made it past the chaperones as souvenirs and we had a ball.
The
trip took a bit more than a week, and it meant that one other fellow from the
team and I missed two games. One of those games was not completed, but suspended.
The
coach, Stan Hilgendorf was angry that we went on the trip, but he said nothing
else.
When
time game to resume the suspended game Hilgendorf told me I would be
pinch-hitting and to get ready. In the last inning he had me go to the on-deck
circle, but before I could get to the plate he called me back and let the other
catcher bat. He struck out on three pitches. Game over.
Several
on the team were shocked and told me so. But the worst came later.
At
the end of the year Hilgendorf held a team barbeque at his home and gave out
awards. I was excited. I was going to get my first letter. I couldn’t wait.
After
we had eaten Hilgendorf called those who had qualified for a letter up one by
one and presented them with their letter and a handshake. Two player’s names
with enough qualifying innings weren’t called. Mine and the other fellow who
had went on the trip. It was humiliating and it hurt like hell.
When
I asked him where my letter was he told me that next year, if I didn’t go on a
trip, he’d give me the letter.
During
school in my senior year he monitored my grades and reminded me to stay
eligible. In the interview he gave to the local paper he mentioned how
fortunate he was to have some good players returning. I was mentioned by name
as the starting catcher.
I
didn’t show for the first practice. The next day he hunted me down and asked why. I told
him I wasn’t going to play. He looked shocked, tried to convince me, but I told
him no. As far as I was concerned he could kiss my fanny.
And
so my sports career ended, not with a bang, but a whimper.
I’ll
pick up the story in the next post.