Okay, so today's my last, second day of school. I was lazy last night, and didn't want to blog, so shoot me. But really, it's a very strange feeling that I'm going through right now.
Yesterday I purchased my school books for the last time (in the forseeable future), I went to school, and got my Main Stage callbacks from what is my final audition week at Ithaca College, I received the first of my last syllabi that I will receive from teachers. All of these days keep happening to me. The last _______, or the final _______. It's going to keep happening right up until May 20th, graduation day.
It's at this point that I'm reminded of all my previous first days. I don't remember my first day at Waynflete, back in September of 1992. I wish I remembered those cliche days where my mom sent me off to school with a bag lunch in hand, ready to take on the world. Unfortunately, I've discovered that I have a bad memory of most things prior to 6th grade. I remember faces, names, minor events, snapshots, but there are so many memories that I wish I could get back, but unfortunately I was to young to understand that they mattered.
This want of times long gone comes roaring back more and more these days. When school is over, I now head home, make myself some dinner, work on material, or do homework. No longer do I rush off to After School with Martha and Rikki. I don't run around the playground like a madman, I don't collect the largest piece of ice I can find, to proudly show my friends...only to have it break into a million pieces in the middle of the school hallway.
I've never really sat down and thought about all the blessings in my life, but as I'm feeling emotional, and introspective, I'm realizing that I have a ton of them. First and foremost, Waynflete. What that school gave me as a person, I can never repay. For 16 years, I received some of the best education available to children, had my entire life and personality sculpted by a variety of teachers, mentors, and coaches; many of whom are like second parents to me. I had a second home where I could fail and not fear repercussion. I had friends who stood by me no matter what I was doing or who I became.
It all starts with the After School Program, however. In that light, and because I have to run off to yet another class, I want to share one quick story with you all, that I was reminded of by talking about the glorious Martha Neubert. Martha and I had a game, that quickly became a favorite amongst us boys who were anxious to prove ourselves as the best athletes to ever walk the earth. It was called Blue 42. It was Martha's brilliant way of tiring us out time and time again so that we wouldn't be crazy little rebels when outside time was over.
Blue 42 started next to the gymnasium of Waynflete (whose wall created one of the boundaries of our playground), and Martha would call "Blue 42! HIKE!" While she stood by the middle gym door, and then whoever was up would take off like CRAZY sprinting around the playground and emerging on the far side of the area next to the Lower School, calling Martha's name, where she would deliver a football dead on for a catch. A stupid game really, why we had to run around the playground, I literally will never know. However we did it all day, every day, and loved every second. During one rowdy game of Blue 42, I took off. Sprinting around the corner at full speed, I looked up to see Martha had prematurely released the pass, and it was way in front of me. Not to be outdone (the person directly in front of me had caught THEIR pass) I increased my speed, going into breakneck mode, and really recklessly not looking where I was going. Do you all see where this is going to end? I put my hands up, my fingers grasped the football, and WHAM.
I hit a trash can. The can went flying over, I flipped over the top of it, rolling along it and hitting the pavement, hard. Martha sprinted over to make sure I was okay. I was fine. I hadn't caught the ball. I was crushed at that fact.
Martha was sobbing. Or I thought she was, until I realized she was laughing so hard she could barely talk, apparently this trash can was very apparent, and everyone screamed I was running straight at it, and yet I heard nothing. What the others saw was me pick up speed, and faceplant the trash can, hitting it hard enough to knock it over, and keep moving. Martha always said I should have been a Cornerback or a Linebacker after that.
Shit, I missed my calling.
Photo by Danny Bristoll
(fac·to·tum | \ fak-ˈtō-təm) noun - a person having many diverse activities or responsibilities
I find myself hilarious, and I use this blog to stroke my own ego. Thanks for indulging me.