Triple Threat

During day three of girls basketball camp yesterday, eight-old Stephanie sidled up to me. “Coach K, what do you think my best move is?” she asked, very seriously.

Thinking fast, I said, “Probably the triple-threat position. I’m really impressed with that part of your game.”

She nodded in agreement as she jumped immediately into her game face and stance. It would have made a great photo. “Yes,” she said. “And don't forget about my boxing out.”

“No, I didn’t forget that,” I assured her. “Do you practice in your driveway when you go home after camp?”

“Yes,” said Steph. “But I can only go outside if [older sister] Christina or my dad is with me.”

“Here’s a way for you to get some extra reps in,” I said. “Tonight, when your dad heads for the fridge, try to box him out.”

“That’s a good idea,” she said. “I’m gonna do that.”

Fast forward to this morning.

“Coach, I did what you told me last night,” Steph said.

“And?”

“After dinner my dad was opening the fridge for a piece of cheesecake when I got low on him and tried to back him away. He said, ‘What are you doing?’ I’m boxing you out. Coach K told me to do it.”

“Well, tell your coach it didn’t work,” said dad.

Father's Day Gifts

What’s everybody doing for Father’s Day? I asked the second graders. Is anyone planning something special for dad?

“I’m taking him to Florida,” said Ashley.

“I’m getting him a pet,” said Eddie.

What a surprise that will be for dad, I thought.

“Both grandmas and grandpas are coming,” said Joey. “We’re going to Long Beach Island tomorrow, and then they’re all going to sleep over.”

You guys are too much, I told them.

“That’s what my mom always says,” said Kira, who has two siblings in the same elementary school.

“We’re going swimming,” said Emma.

Do you have your own pool, I asked her.

“No, we’re going to the town pool. But guess what? I’m getting a pool next year. My dad said he is going to dig one for us.”

In the back yard?

“Yes. And you know what the best part is?”

The possibilities there were endless.

“It’s going to be right next to the trampoline.” Her excitement was palpable.

Oh, so you can bounce right into the pool then. I bet you can’t wait for next summer.

“I know.” Accompanied by an ear-to-ear smile.

Second-grader Sean told me, “If I knew you were going to be here today, I would have worn my ‘Dude’ T-shirt.”

Too bad for me, I said. I wish I could have seen that.

“I have two of them: one long sleeve and one short sleeve.”

The short-sleeved one is to show off the guns, right? 

“Oh, yeah!” he said, flexing.

But I hope you are all going to take it easy on dad on his special day, I said. You know, give him a break, do something nice, maybe bring him a cold drink when he’s in the hammock (wondering at the same time if dads anywhere ever spent time in a hammock and if any of the children even knew what a hammock is).

Part two of that was quickly answered. 

“We have a hammock,” said Eddie, “but it’s broken because we were all playing in it.” 

“Mr. K., I’m drawing a picture of you,” announced Anthony. “You can have it when I’m done.”

How flattering, I thought. And then I saw the drawing. Do I really bear such a strong resemblance to SpongeBob SquarePants, I wondered.

“I’m giving you a six-pack,” said Anthony, joyfully pointing to his illustration’s abdomen. O.K., that is about as close to six-pack abs as I’m ever going to have. And as Anthony proceeded to add details to his composition that enhanced the value of the artwork, he unremorsefully reconsidered his pledge. “Take a picture of it, Mr. K,” he said. “I’m going to give it to my father next week.”

I regret that I did not have a camera to record for posterity the finished product, which was inscribed “To Dad: Happy farthers day. From: Anthony”

My Tom Wolfe Story at New York Magazine

One of the pleasures of working at New York magazine in the 1970s (and there were many) was the annual Christmas party, held in the editorial offices on the third floor at 755 Second Avenue. That was a comfortable setup for the edit and art departments. New York published weekly, except for a double issue the last two weeks in December. That week without a press deadline was liberating, and the staff reveled in the temporary stress-free period. We could work ahead to prepare for the new year, and then willingly stay late to enjoy the party in New York’s city room layout. 

During the course of one of those annual late-night Christmas parties, one booze-fueled contributing writer had a memorable close-up encounter with the magazine’s copy machine. I wasn’t an eyewitness but I did see the evidence in the form of a stack of black-and-white reproductions that Around Town listings editor Ruth Gilbert kept in the bottom drawer of her desk. As it turned out, it wasn't all that memorable for the contributing writer, who had a hazy recollection of the party. Days later, his anxiety was not assuaged by reassurances from Ruth and her co-conspirator, Intelligencer editor Merry Clark, that nothing had happened.

I don’t recall seeing New York contributing editor Tom Wolfe at the party that night, but he would later rewrite the incident in his novel The Bonfire of the Vanities. R.I.P., Tom.

The Excitement of Learning

The third-grade teacher was out sick for the second day in a row. Having had another commitment yesterday, I was unable to fill in for her. Today I was free, and happily accepted the assignment. When I poked my head out of her classroom at the start of the morning to greet her students, lined up in the corridor outside her door, I was met with an enthusiastic response.

“I’m jealous,” said the school’s band teacher, who happened to be walking by and observed the scene.

“No, I think the students see a substitute teacher and take that as a license to goof off,” I told her. “Nobody ever cheered the arrival of a journalist in his office.”

The students filed in.

“We had a monster sub yesterday,” Andreas said.

“A monster sub?”

“She’s very strict.”

“So, when you saw her coming yesterday, did you not cheer?” I asked.

“No, we sighed,” said Andreas.

Later that morning, two gentlemen from the Park Ridge Rotary Club, at the invitation of the school and the third-grade teachers, came into the classroom to speak to the students. They explained the origin and background of the organization and its philanthropic efforts in the community. 

In appreciation for the reception given them, the representatives gave each student a children’s paperback encyclopedia. After the men left, the students eagerly examined their new books. I overhead them excitedly comparing what they were discovering in their reading about science, languages, history, and other entries. 

Soon it was time to turn back to the day’s lesson plan. After instructing the children to put away their new books, I noticed that one little girl in the rear of the room remained at the teacher’s whiteboard easel, the back of which faced me. 

“Come on, Katelyn,” I said. “We’re waiting for you. Please erase what you were drawing and come join us.” 

Rather than erase the board, Katelyn turned it around for me to see. What she had written, thanks to her newfound discovery in the encyclopedia, was in braille notation. She translated: “Mr. K is the best sub.”

Under Western Eyes

Back with the first grade for the first time since September. As a bonus, it was "Western Day," meaning that the teachers and students were encouraged to wear cowboy hats, jeans, vests, and other apparel in keeping with the day's motif. During the mid-morning "brain break," I had what I thought was an inspired idea to play sing-along videos on the classroom's SmartBoard of "Home on the Range" and "My Darling Clementine." 

As it turned out, it was not a popular decision with the students. A lot of complaints and derisive remarks unbecoming 6- and 7-year-olds. Vrishi was particularly pained, holding his hands over his ears during the songs and moaning. "A really bad day, guys, right?" he said, successfully mustering support from his classmates for his anguish. 

Playing longtime favorite "Heads, Shoulders, Knees and Toes" immediately following Gene Autry did little to appease them.