School Sports Memories
How athletics and academics mixed in my youth
The coach is an English teacher. In English class we are told to use complete sentences and avoid slang. Curses will earn you a demerit. Out here on the field Coach is taunting each twelve-year-old hitter as he comes to the plate. “Feel the breeze, the breeze,” he says when the usuals strike out. The heavy hitters, he likes. “Outstanding” he says as they sail them out into left field. I am hiding along the line in right, safe because there are few lefthanded hitters. Then a string of lefties comes up and each one punches one in my direction. I hold my glove up against the sun, thinking about how I was praised in class for a short story I’d written. But when the balls drop onto the ground all I hear from the English teacher is “Greenberg, catch the fucking ball.”
In winter time I decide to flee the high school team and join a low-level town league for the hockey season. The coach is also a teacher of some kind though I’m not sure where he teaches. All I know is that unlike in school I’m allowed to play. I skate, I shoot, I miss. But I am enjoying the freedom of being one of the people generally called athletes. We do surprisingly well and draw a seed in the post-season tournament. The starting roster is presented. I am not on it. When it comes time for what would be my usual line to take the ice, another…
