Clash of the Gym Class Titans

Journal entry: April 21, 1986 (age 16)

Great leaders of men are created in the horrific chaos of battlefields, the cutting edge of industry, and the noble arena of public service. Comedians are created in gym class.

One brisk morning in the spring of 1986 brought together two opposing forces on a muddy field at Seton Catholic Central High School. These forces were not the two teams of disinterested high schoolers assembled for a game of softball. They were two men. Well, one man, actually—the gym teacher. For the purposes of anonymity, and the continued sanctity of my “permanent record” at the school, we will refer to the teacher here as “Mr. Jockman.”

The second man was actually a boy, who only weeks before had hit puberty with the tragic force of a train hitting a wall. We will refer to him as me.

Softball was a staple activity in gym class. But this day’s game was different. The mysterious, wonderful creatures known as “junior class girls” were joining us for a rare co-ed class. With prom coming up, and the recent release of Lionel Richie’s romantic anthem “Say You, Say Me,” the stakes were high.

The gym teacher made the unprecedented and rather hotdoggish decision to serve as the pitcher for both teams. Meanwhile, I made the precedented and rather cowardly decision to play right field. Deep right field. In fact, I was so deep that I was able to simultaneously work for tips as a valet in the adjoining parking lot.

As the game progressed, Mr. Jockman laughed and mocked his way through a series of strikeouts by a parade of awkward and embarrassed youths. His relentless offensive was repeatedly interrupted, however, by the sound of laughter coming from the outfield. In the absence of any actual balls to the field, I had taken it upon myself to entertain my fellow outfielders (including the hot girl from my biology class) with a commentary on the game that was both deeply satirical and radically incendiary. It centered on the way Mr. Jockman looked when he threw the ball.

After the umpteenth burst of laughter from the outfield, Mr. Jockman stopped the game. He dropped the ball, threw down his glove, and turned a vengeful eye toward a tiny, pale figure in the far distance. The entire class tensed up, anticipating the monstrous clash that was about to unfold. Mr. Jockman’s face opened like a great cavern of vitriol, his voice swelling with rage. “MOLLEN! Quit laughing out there!!”

Everyone turned with a mixture of hope and dread to see what would be the response from the freckled and gangly cipher in right field. Sensing that the drama was peaking, I cupped my hands to my mouth and yelled back, “But Mr. Jockman, it’s SPRINGTIME!!!”

Then I began to skip and frolic around the outfield. As I did so, I hummed the theme from The Smurfs, interspersed with snatches of Vivaldi. As my fellow nonathletes erupted in laughter, and the hot girl from my biology lab looked at her Hello Kitty watch and wondered how long it was till lunch, Mr. Jockman was heard to say, “I hate that kid.”

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Tim Mollen is a syndicated humor columnist. He is also fond of jam. You can contact him or read more of his work at www.timmollen.com.