School is where children go to watch old people get angry.

…

Back in the bodacious era known as the Solid Gold years, our family relocated from New York to South Texas. I was a freshman prepared to win over friends, forge lifelong alliances, and resume my strategic path to early retirement at a high school located much, much closer to the sun.

Making new buds would be a cakewalk with my righteous social skills. I was a gregarious lad prepared to execute my flawless, four-point, insertion plan:

1. recruit players for epic game of marbles; cleverly throw match in cinematic, Chariots of Fire climax
2. dazzle cafeteria audience with pitch-perfect, Chewbacca bellow after sampling carrot/raisin slaw
3. perform perfectly synchronized air-drums to Rush’s YYZ
4. invoke Dijön the Feisty, my elvish alter-ego, to woo clandestine, D&D club I’d find huddled in chemistry lab

Education was important. Friends were life.

I should mention it was around this time I developed a soon-to-be-requited affection for Brooke Shields. (Unbeknownst to Brooke, we would be married soon and settle comfortably in a split-level near Disney World.)

New home, new school, new friends, Brooke…I was juggling quite a bit. With a Trapper Keeper as my only time management app, something was bound to slip off my full plate.

This happened on my first day of school during Phys Ed class.

Apparently, all students were to arrive to P.E. sporting a white t-shirt, a tidbit in the student manual I'd overlooked.

I learned of my gaffe in the locker room and recovered in style by attending class sans shirt. I was, after all, a buff, little man with no qualms exhibiting my well-defined, concave pecs and Snack Pack abs.

I took to the outdoor track for some relays, ready to show everyone just how fast a semi-nude, Yankee from Yonkers could be.

Coach Stark had conflicting plans.

With a toot of his whistle, Coach ordered me off the field and told me to wait for him in his office.

Ah, geez! Busted over an apparel infraction? Seemed harsh, but I’d take my earful like a man and get back on track mañana.

Inside the warm office, I wasn’t getting a rah-rah, school spirit vibe. Apart from an economy-size bottle of salt tablets on a metal desk, the room appeared clinical and uninhabited.

There was one bit of unique décor hanging on the cinder block wall: a type of Nordic, wooden, sporting instrument. It was nicely varnished. Several drilled holes dotted its flat, blunt end.

Coach strode in forcefully.

“Where’s your t-shirt?”

“I didn’t know I was supposed to bring one, Coach. I know now. I’ll have it tomorrow.”

“That’s one.”

“One what?”

Coach removed the wood thing from the wall. He brandished it in his right hand.

It was becoming clear he intended to use whatever it was on me.

The next twenty seconds reshaped my public education experience for the rest of the year. Before I get to that, let me provide a brief profile of Coach to help better appreciate the moment.

He was big. Proportionally, he possessed a pinhead and spindly legs, but his arms, chest, and torso were obviously the result of a successful gorilla/human, gene splicing experiment.

The man had the shape of a really big dreidel.

He coached a football team that never won, had an assigned parking space located next to the bus corral, and he always looked pissed.

The man should not have bore much consequence in my academic universe, yet here he was : judge and jury raring to serve up punishment.

“Hands on the desk.”

Jesus ! This was actually happening! Maybe I could make up something quick about a wood allergy. Yeah, sure...but if Coach didn’t fall for it, it could make the situation worse.

“Don’t clench.”

Are you serious? Clenching was my sole defense preventing that massive, ventilated, Viking paddle from turning my Play-Doh cheeks into a pile of ass noodles.

“Look at the map on the wall.”

Map? What map!? There’s no -

WHAP!

The impact lifted me an inch off the ground, and for someone who’d built a career around athletics, Coach sucked at hitting his mark.

He’d swung low, tagging my upper thighs and seriously rocking my undercarriage.

“Go wait out class in the bleachers.”

I turned to exit but stopped short.  I looked back at him.

“Go on.”

I stood, staring a moment longer before leaving.

I’d never look directly at him again.

In fact, I avoided eye contact with all teachers. I kept my eyes pointed to the floor, to the side, or past their shoulder.

I feared them.

Socially, I took a hiatus from my friend search. Isolation during lunch became my norm. I abandoned pursuit of Brooke (quite easy after being dealt a misplaced, trauma-inducing contusion to my nether region).

I’d gone from extrovert to introvert because I forgot a shirt.

This was my social-emotional learning.

…

Time heals wounds. Laughter kills the germs.

…

Returning for my sophomore year, I slowly regained my sense of humor.  It helped me find some confidence, self-esteem, and good friends.

I also began learning from some exceptional, caring teachers who earned my trust.

School improved and kept improving. I didn’t hate it anymore.

I hadn’t forgotten what happened in Coach’s office. It would be my one and only encounter with corporal punishment as a student. I'd long recovered from the physical effect, but I'd find myself replaying the event, the assault, almost daily, searching for a logical reason as to why it happened.

Why?

Why was it necessary?

Did Coach have any other recourse?

Did he know what was going through my mind?

Did he care?

That's where I'd get stuck navigating the psyche of this person handed the privilege of teaching kids to be better, smarter, human beings.

And then, one day, it came to me.

Coach was a sadistic idiot. With an inability to grasp and apply any sound, pedagogical acumen, he had no other choice but to inflict intimidation and pain to "educate" his students.

It took several months, but I learned Coach's lesson: Don't ever be like Coach.

I graduated, grew up, and moved on.

In time, I even found forgiveness.

It was, after all, just a piece of wood.

Forgive Coach?

Never.