RUGator

Just when I needed it, I received this from a parent of one of my students:

As she stood in front of her 5th grade class on the very first day of

school, she told the children an untruth. Like most teachers, she looked

at her students and said that she loved them all the same. However, that was

impossible, because there in the front row, slumped in his seat, was a

little boy named Teddy Stoddard.

Mrs. Thompson had watched Teddy the year before and noticed that he did

not play well with the other children, that his clothes were messy and that he

constantly needed a bath. In addition, Teddy could be unpleasant. It got

to the point where Mrs. Thompson would actually take delight in marking his

papers with a broad red pen, making bold X’s and then putting a big ‘F’ at

the top of his papers.

At the school where Mrs. Thompson taught, she was required to review each

child’s past records and she put Teddy’s off until last. However, when she

reviewed his file, she was in for a surprise.

Teddy’s first grade teacher wrote, ‘Teddy is a bright child with a ready

laugh. He does his work neatly and has good manners… he is a joy to be

around..’

His second grade teacher wrote, ‘Teddy is an excellent student, well liked

by his classmates, but he is troubled because his mother has a terminal

illness and life at home must be a struggle.’

His third grade teacher wrote, ‘His mother’s death has been hard on him.

He tries to do his best, but his father doesn’t show much interest, and his

home life will soon affect him if some steps aren’t taken.’

Teddy’s fourth grade teacher wrote, ‘Teddy is withdrawn and do esn’t show

much interest in school. He doesn’t have many friends and he sometimes

sleeps in class.’

By now, Mrs. Thompson realized the problem and she was ashamed of herself.

She felt even worse when her students brought her Christmas presents,

wrapped in beautiful ribbons and bright paper, except for Teddy’s. His

present was clumsily wrapped in the heavy, brown paper that he got from a

grocery bag. Mrs. Thompson took pains to open it in the middle of the

other presents. Some of the children started to laugh when she found a

rhinestone bracelet with some of the stones missing, and a bottle that was

one-quarter full of perfume.. But she stifled the children’s laughter when she

exclaimed how pretty the bracelet was, putting it on, and dabbing some of the

perfume on her wrist. Teddy Stoddard stayed after school that day just long enough

to say, ‘Mrs. Thompson, today you smelled just like my Mom used to.’

After the children left, she cried for at least an hour. On that very day,

she quit teaching reading, writing and arithmetic. Instead, she began to

teach children. Mrs. Thompson paid particular attention to Teddy. As she

worked with him, his mind seemed to come alive. The more she encouraged

him, the faster he responded. By the end of the year, Teddy had become one of

the smartest children in the class and, despite her lie that she would love

all the children the same, Teddy became one of her ‘teacher’s pets..’

A year later, she found a note under her door, from Teddy, telling her

that she was the best teacher he ever had in his whole life.

Six years went by before she got another note from Teddy. He then wrote

that he had finished high school, third in his class, and she was still

the best teacher he ever had in life.

Four years after that, she got another letter, saying that while things

had been tough at times, he’d stayed in school, had stuck w ith it, and would

soon graduate from college with the highest of honours. He assured Mrs.

Thompson that she was still the best and favorite teacher he had ever had

in his whole life.

Then four more years passed and yet another letter came. This time he

explained that after he got his bachelor’s degree, he decided to go a

little further. The letter explained that she was still the best and favorite

teacher he ever had. But now his name was a little longer…. The letter

was signed, Theodore F. Stoddard, MD.

The story does not end there. You see, there was yet another letter that

spring. Teddy said he had met this girl and was going to be married. He

explained that his father had died a couple of years ago and he was

wondering if Mrs. Thompson might agree to sit at the wedding in the place

that was usually reserved for the mother of the groom. Of course, Mrs.

Thompson did. And guess what? She wore that bracelet, the one with several

rhinestones missing. Moreover, she made sure she was wearing the perfume

that Teddy remembered his mother wearing on their last Christmas together.

They hugged each other, and Dr. Stoddard whispered in Mrs. Thompson’s ear,

‘Thank you Mrs. Thompson for believing in me. Thank you so much for making

me feel important and showing me that I could make a difference.’

Mrs. Thompson, with tears in her eyes, whispered back.. She said, ‘Teddy,

you have it all wrong. You were the one who taught me that I could make a

difference. I didn’t know how to teach until I met you.’

(For you that don’t know, Teddy Stoddard is the Dr at Iowa Methodist in

Des Moines that has the Stoddard Cancer Wing.)

Warm someone’s heart today. . . pass this along. I love this story so very

much, I cry every time I read it. Just try to make a difference in

someone’s life today? tomorrow? just ‘do it’.

Random acts of kindness, I think they call it!

‘Believe in Angels, then return the favor

Nebraska football vs. Nebraska basketball

Duke basketball vs. Duke football

Penn State football vs. Penn State basketball

I Slept, and Dreamed that Life was Beauty

I slept, and dreamed that life was Beauty;
I woke, and found that life was Duty.
Was thy dream then a shadowy lie?
Toil on, sad heart, courageously,
And thou shalt find thy dream to be
A noonday light and truth to thee.

Ellen Sturgis Hooper

The Dial (July 1840) p. 123

I had hoped to do better.

But that’s the best I could do. For them. I wanted to say something pithy. But I had nothing. And as they looked to me, for answers, I felt inadequate.

“Recognition is the greatest motivator.”

Gerard C. Eakdale

Reading about Penn State’s iconic coach, Joe Paterno, I learned of the “experiment” he put into place early on in his career.

That high academic standards and athletic achievement were not mutually exclusive.

Paterno himself played football as an undergraduate at Brown. His parents wanted him to go to law school. He had other plans.

And so I borrowed an idea from him.

Perhaps I could demand high achievement from my students. But how would I do this? I didn’t have the athletic fields to reinforce any classroom ideas I might try out on them.

So I stumbled upon something else.

As a first year classroom survival technique, I got to know my kids. What made them tick? Where were they from? Who were their parents? What if I put them (the kids) first and not the “material?” It’s all I had. I didn’t know any better.

Show them that you love and respect them and they’ll run through walls for you. That popped into my head. I was on the look out for ways to recognize them.

Nicknames, likes, friends, aptitudes, eye-contact, accountability, one on one conversations, listening more than speaking.

In short: THEM.

Simple.

Not easy.

But, it works.

Can you do that?

Put others first. Listen more than you speak. Build others up. Hard work. Persistence. A positive attitude.

It never ends. Isn’t easy. Preaching to myself. Constant reminding.

It keeps me up at night.

And gets me up in the morning.

Another time ago, I sat at a desk.

I was a substitute teacher. In for a middle school science teacher who’d gone off for a week or two to find himself. As I sat there, I wrote down on a piece of paper how much I dearly wanted to have license to sit there. Without the word “substitute” attached.

It seemed so far off.

I was in another job. One I hated. It paid the bills. But at what cost? My soul?

So I tried to plan. With all the obstacles in the way, it seemed a daunting task.

Now I sit at another “desk.” My own kitchen table. With the reality of another school year staring me down tomorrow.

That other time was 15 years ago.

When I began my teaching career, I hoped for a time when I could call one of my students “colleague.” Hoping to inspire a young person to follow the path I had fought so hard to go after.

And just last week (during an in-service staff meeting), I heard my name called out from across the room.

Turning toward the voice, I found that student.

She had gone off to high school and college, and now she had become a teacher. And she told me of something I had mentioned to her another time ago.

“You’d make an excellent teacher.”

And with those forgotten words uttered by me, she had set forth too.

I don’t have horns.

Yet that’s the sort of look I get when I tell people I teach middle school.

“But how do you deal with those attitudes?” they’ll inevitably ask.

My experience has shown me that “the kids of today” are not a whole lot different than they’ve always been. I ought to know. I was once one of “them.”

One of my guiding principles is that if you show them you care, they’ll “run through walls for you.”

And it’s true too.

Simple? Yes. Easy? No.

Robert Frost once said, “and that has made all the difference.”

I read somewhere that when a plane is in flight, it’s basically off course most of time. But its radar system, knowing its destination, continually makes the proper adjustments to get it back on track and ultimately to where it’s going.

And with us too?

In December of 1994, I was that plane.

In a bookstore, I happened upon “Coaching Football” by Tom Flores and Bob O’Connor. I was going somewhere yet nowhere. In chapter 2, entitled “Why We Play the Game,” there’s a section devoted to an overview of how Homer C. Rice (former Georgia Tech athletic director and college and professional coach) talks about how he went from dirt poverty to those lofty postions. I was intrigued. He discussed the role that football played in his success, how the game taught him to overcome adversity, and how to set goals. I was motivated to reach out to him, so I wrote him a letter.

He responded by sending me a very personal letter and a book that he had written called “The Attitude Technique.” This book became my “radar system” as I, with blind faith, implemented the practices that he used to successfully transform his life. He also mentioned another book which his father had given to him when he was a young boy. That book was called “I Dare You,” by William Danforth (the founder of The Ralston Purina Company). “I Dare You” is about how to live the “Four Square Life” (and if you ever buy any product made by Purina, you’ll notice that the company’s logo is the “four square checkerboard.”) That checkerboard is based on Danforth’s “four square” philosophy for living. After more letter writing to other coaches, I was astonished to discover that many of these same coaches had used Rice’s “Attitude Technique” as part of their team’s overall football program.

Both books and the subsequent correspondence I had with Homer Rice, literally changed my life. Since then, I have purchased multiple copies of “I Dare You” which I give to my students to read on a rotating basis. Every student gets one week to read the book, sign and date it upon completion, and return it to me to pass along to the next pair of students to read.

So “I Dare You.” If not now, when. Remember this: all can, some will, but most won’t. Which group are you in?

Can ya hit a lick, Yankee?

The second time I heard those words, we were on the practice field. Football practice in my 9th grade year.

He had asked me the same question earlier in the day. In school. Wearing jeans and sneakers, I certainly didn’t think I was prepared to act the part. But I’d practice anyway.

And I’d be covered with sand spurs afterward. We all were. Rolling around in Florida’s sandy soil, we couldn’t help but be.

I wasn’t alone in my ill-equipment. Eddie had actually shown up barefoot. His feet, more like paws, would resemble bloody stumps when practice was finished.

And the man was a Gator.

A Florida Gator. But he seemed more like a prematurely old Alabaman from another era. He called us things like “hairy dogs” and told us “we made him sick to his stomach” when we messed up. Gators don’t talk like that. He sounded more like a Bear. The Bear.

And, while I didn’t know it at the time, this was his first teaching and coaching job. And he was only in his twenties.

We (they) called him “Coach,” which was new to me. I had always called my “gym” teachers (now “P.E.” teachers) “Mr.”

He wore “slaps” and “tennis shoes,” drank “tea,” pulled his car off into the “breakdown lane,” sneaked a peak at a “high steppin’ filly,” “tore it up” on the dance floor, and “cut off” the lights before going to bed at night.

It was another world.

In another time.

“When you’re a Gator and a Scarlet Knight, you just keep choppin.’ You just keep choppin.’”

After thirty years, those were the new first words out of his mouth. And nothing else had to be said.

Now we were both Gators. And me too, a Rutgers man.

My first coach.

And I didn’t know what to do. Still not sure, what, if anything, I’m supposed to do. With the time, that is. The time. Time gone by. Time today.

How do you explain one year out of the past thirty standing out? How can one year of my life be so etched in my heart?

I don’t know what to do about it.

Middle school and junior high are big years for students. I know because I teach them today. It’s the end of an era for them. For me too. They go on to high school upon graduation. The same awaited me. But then we moved. To Florida. From New Jersey. Leaving behind my dear friends, it wasn’t something I was looking forward to.

My father and I went first. My mom, sister, and brother would stay behind and sell the house. Settling in a “mobile home” (until we built the house that would never be built), it was quite a change. Plus, it was summer. No school. No chance to meet (even by coercion) new friends. So I’d go (every day) to the school’s outside basketball courts and shoot baskets. Hoping that someone would show up. But no one ever did. I played alone. Alone with the sand sprinkled on the cement surface. It was Ponte Vedra/Palm Valley before there was “the Island Green” of the 17th at Sawgrass. And it was foreign to me.

I would dream about all the games my winning shots would claim for the team (and school) I’d star for. I’ve got no left hand. I’ve got to get a left hand. Otherwise, I won’t be good enough. Does anyone see me? Will anyone know me? Will I make the team? Who’s the coach? The players?

Can ya hit a lick, Yankee?

He’s still with me.

When she was in seventh grade, Noel told me she wanted to be a teacher. It was an exercise we did each year. Writing down your goals, that is.

Someone had taught me, so I blindly followed his advice. What did I have to lose? Already I was broke. No degree in hand, I had practically flunked out of college.

Now (then), I sat alone with a piece of yellow legal paper. I did what I thought I was supposed to do. Putting my head down, I ran hard and scared. For two years.

He was right.

I have the letter he sent in my binder. If he could know how he continues to inspire others. My students now. While he goes on, so do I. He walks with me though. He’s a coach and a teacher. He taught me with one condition: treat others as you wish to be treated. It’s written on my desk. For my kids to see. More importantly, it’s written in my heart.

And so they’d write down their hopes and dreams. And they’d do it just like I was taught to do. And they’d doubt too. But I could speak now with a passion burned in from experience. From failure. And heartache. And continued self-doubt. But I had something to hold on to. And that would change things.

Then in eighth grade, she’d tell me again how she wanted to teach. Again, she’d write it down. On a piece of paper. Dated and signed. So many years ago.

Coming back to see me years later, now a junior in high school, she’d tell me that it would be “early decision” she’d seek. All her eggs in one basket. “If not you, than who?” (and a good thing she couldn’t see me crossing my fingers too).

You know the rest?…

“Mr. C., I got in! Can you believe it? I actually got in. I am going to be a teacher!”

(I couldn’t help but go back to that day in ‘98 when I’d be asked, “Why would anyone want to be a teacher?” Would she know the answer now? Could she ever know?)

So today, coming into school, I’d stop to get my mail in my box. I’d see Gabby, the little first grader who was dropped off each day for “morning care.” She’d look at me like I had all the answers. With a smile on her face that could (and would) remind me of the answers that I continue to look for (maybe she wants to be a teacher?) Getting down on one knee, I’d give her the “high five” that the two of us tacitly agreed to give each other every time we meet. I’d tell her that she had a gift. And give her a wink.

Then putting down the mail, a letter of reference fell to the floor. It was for Noel.

She’s applying for a teaching position. At my school. Our school. And she wanted her teacher to vouch for her.

Brushing the tears aside and all alone, I filled it out.

Welcome home, Noel. Thank you.

Just staying afloat has been difficult enough. Making it to the other shore?

That’s another matter.

Mrs. Polovina was handing back our anatomy tests. She made a point of telling the class that most of us had done a lousy job.

“Most of you failed,” she said. “I’m very disappointed in these scores.”

Making my way up the long aisle to get mine, I readied myself for a red “F.” Instead, a “C” brought a bit of a relieved grin to my face.

Turning around to walk back to my seat, my steps were halted by her call of, “Just a minute, Michael.”

“What’s the matter,” I asked.

“Your grade?” she questioned.

“I got a C. Most of the class failed, you said.”

“Yes,” she quietly affirmed, “but I expect more from you.”

And almost thirty years later, I would find my role reversed.

Sitting down next to me, Alyssa had her head down. One of my most reliable students, she had just finished her test. “I know I didn’t do very well, Mr. C,” she announced with a tear streaming down her cheek.

An 86.

“Not your best effort?”

And so I recounted my 11th grade anatomy test story knowing too, that that same message Mrs. Polovina had relayed to me so many years ago, would have a similar effect on this future teacher.