Not anymore, I said, as straight-faced as I could manage.
“Wow! What team were you on? Can you dunk? Do you know
LeBron? Are you friends with Kobe?” These were some of the questions excitedly
fired at me by Tim and his classmates.
As a member of the working press for over three decades,
including many years as editor of several basketball magazines, I would receive
a brand-new carryall, courtesy of the league’s publicity department, at the
start of each NBA season. The league logo is prominently stitched on the
outside; inside were media guides for the league as well as for all of its
member franchises. I used to take the bag to work every day, using it to hold
my house and car keys, newspaper and books, sunglasses, notebook, pen, and
other items. As a substitute teacher, I continue to use the bag.
Tim, an ardent sports fan, had spotted the logo. Now, he
and his classmates were excited at the thought of being in the presence of a
professional athlete. After all, how many substitute teachers moonlight as NBA
players! (The answer is none.) A footnote here: I am five feet ten inches tall
and so far removed from my basketball-playing prime (as modest as it was) that
I am eligible for social security.
What I love most about working with the children is their
innocence: their wonder at and belief in the blissful serendipity that could
affect their everyday routine at any given moment. On this day, they did not see an
unathletic-looking, average-size, senior male citizen taking the place of their regular teacher. Instead, they willingly suspended their disbelief
that an NBA player would spend his day teaching in elementary school before
jetting off at night to compete against LeBron James, Kobe Bryant, Tim Duncan,
and other superstars.
Before I knew it, a queue had formed, single file, in
front of my desk. All of the children were lined up, Post-it and pen in hand,
politely waiting their turn for my autograph.
What have I done, I thought, envisioning a summons to the
principal’s office—and perhaps my first detention in more than 40 years—for discipline once my scam went public, as surely
it would. At the same time, I could not help feeling perversely curious over
what I imagined would be a topic in the children’s homes that night. “Guess
what, mom and dad? Today we had an NBA player as a sub!”
As the children approached me for my autograph, I
realized I had carried the joke too far to back down now. So, pen in hand, I
cheerfully signed all of the proferred Post-its.
“I better not see these on eBay later today,” I kiddingly
told the class. “This signature could be worth a lot of money someday.”
When a few of the children got back in line, I
announced, “That’s it. No more autographs!” Wait, did I really just say that? I
thought, cognizant of the surrealism of the statement.
Jenny didn’t move, so I reminded her that I had
already given her my autograph and that she needed to return to her seat.
“No, this one is not for me,” she explained. “It’s
for my dad.”
And while I tried to process that, she added, “His
name is Mike. Could you sign it for him?”
I obliged. “Dear Mike,” I wrote. “Best regards, Mr.
K.”
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