In 8th grade PE class, I was relieved to find my teacher was Joe Walker. Coach Walker knew me because his son Duke was best friends with my brother Randy. I had hope for leniency and was planning to throw myself on the mercy of the court, so to speak.
Lee Buxton, my 7th grade PE coach, had been unsympathetic. He had forced me to run laps even with a painful degenerative knee disease. (What is it with coaches? Do they get kickbacks from Big Aspirin?) Doctors’ notes held no sway over Coach Buxton. I’m sure he believed I invented Osgood Schlatterer’s Disease to get out of running. If I had made it up, I would have picked something simpler and more to the point, such as My Knees Hurt Like Hell Syndrome. It was years too early for an attack of Tonya Harding Knee.
That first day of class, Coach Walker put his arm around my shoulder. He guided me into his office and sat me down in front of his desk. He fished around in a bag he pulled from his hip pocket and inserted a hefty pinch of chewing tobacco inside his cheek. I waited as he repositioned it carefully with his tongue, concentrating as though pondering subatomic physics or the ineffable nature of gym shorts on teenage girls.
“Steve,” he finally said, “I have an idea. Why don’t you lead the class this year? You just take roll every day and then do whatever exercises you want.”
Images of Rod Serling flashed before my eyes, because this could not be happening to me. A nerd before it was even remotely cool, I could not climb a rope more than 3 feet without intense vertigo. What sort of person would trust me to lead a PE class? (“A lazy person” is the answer, by the way.)
I considered the possibilities. Why, I would practically be a COACH! Under my benign direction, there would be no sweating, no panting while running laps, no embarrassment because I kicked the basketball when trying to dribble. I saw no downside to this arrangement, so I accepted. Coach Walker looked so pleased that he could just spit. Actually, he did spit.
My first job as an even-handed and totally impartial leader was to divide the class in 2 groups: the kids I knew and liked, and the remaining unlovable dregs. I then trekked back into the Coaching office to gather equipment.
I disregarded basketballs and baseballs and other implements of jock world domination. I was looking for something appropriate. Something suitable for young men that would rather be enjoying Gilligan’s Island, especially the parts with Mary Ann and Ginger.
Behind stacks of disreputable-looking tables and chairs, I spied a rickety croquet set leaning against a mound of colorful rubber horseshoes.
Croquet and horseshoes! Why, it was purest genius! I would never again break a sweat in PE, never shower with kids who had hair in bewildering places!
I designated my own group as the first croqueteers. The other group got horseshoes, the perfect game for high intoxication levels of coordination. It would be handy in high school, no doubt. My elegant plan was that the groups would trade games after returning from Christmas break.
We soon mastered croquet. To keep things interesting, we began making modifications to the game, which was inevitable for 8th grade boys. We expanded the shape and dimensions of the field to encompass the entire area at our disposal. It meant whacking the balls with extra vigor, which was as close to real exercise as we got.
A highlight of play was when an opponent’s ball got knocked off the grassy area and onto the paved driveway. If you got the angle just right, the ball would roll a hundred feet and wind up in the teacher parking area. We were so cruel as to insist the player knock the ball over the curb to get it back into play. No simply picking up the thing for us! With luck, the poor player would knock the ball too low to clear the curb, causing it to ricochet back towards the teachers’ cars. This sent us into paroxysms of laughter and jeering, also inevitable with 8th grade boys.
In our minds, an hour a day of croquet for a whole semester brought us up to Olympic competition levels. I was destined to be the most popular coach at Cloverdale Junior High School, ever. Well, in my mind.
15 months earlier, in the final days of 6th grade, there had been an assembly to promote band, which was first offered in 7th grade. I had been impressed by the performance of a flute trio, resplendent in their matching green blazers adorned with flashing medals. I decided flute was to be my destiny. I would be a flautist!
When 7th grade started up in September, 1970, I found myself the only boy in the beginning flute section. I had inadvertently selected a “girl instrument!” I was mortified! Plus, I could barely even look at girls, much less sit amidst a bevy of them every day! In another stunning display of stupidity, I dropped band rather than simply change instruments.
After forsaking band, I took up private guitar lessons. I practiced about as often as I voluntarily cleaned my room, which is to say never. I learned no music beyond “Sparkling Stella,” which was just “Twinkle, twinkle little star” renamed to sound posh. After a year of determined apathy, I acknowledged my failure and gave up guitar forever. I had less musical aptitude than a tone deaf consumptive dying in the streets of late 19th century Paris, although that might be putting too fine a point on it.
It continued to nag at me that most of my best friends were in band. Even worse, they seemed to really enjoy it, the wretches! One day while gleefully launching a croquet ball, I decided it was time to try again. I signed up for beginner band in the spring, this time learning the manly tenor saxophone. That meant I had to give up my glorious coach-hood. I could no longer lead the PE class! As a result, I never got any good at horseshoes, drunk or sober.
It was worth it.
