7 Chapter 6: Dipping into High School
The end of Middle school was upon me. With another Male Athlete of the Year award in my grasp and a yearbook full of autographs from friends, I was ready for High School.
Mom grabbed my yearbook on the last day of Middle School to read what friends and acquaintances had wrote. The only one she read out loud said, "sex is like a rainbow, have a colorful summer". I was slightly embarrassed, but assured her that I wasn't sexually active and had no intentions of impregnating someone over the break, thus, dubbing the summer," Colourful". Mom was always really open about anything sexual, so these conversations weren't in any way awkward.
(Flashback) There was a time in Grade Four where my friend and I were getting a ride with Mom to Killarney Lake, to impress my friend I asked my Mom "Hey Mom, what's a dildo for?", knowing full well that she would answer my question without hesitation. Mom was so nonchalant about her response that the dude I was trying to impress just let out a sort of half laugh. Ugh; let down.
Before entering High School, my sister told me that there were certain "groups", that would quote, "beat you up" if you weren't wearing a certain outfit or if you were acting in a specific way. After a few weeks in High School I realized that the fear of God that had been put into me by my sister was a bit of a farce. As long as I stuck with my friends and did my thing on the sports field or on the court, all would be well.
On the first day everyone was seated in a large auditorium staring awkwardly at each other. There were two Middle Schools that converged into one and everybody was scoping each other out. Eventually, everyone was dispersed and social groups started forming...sound familiar?
My Grade nine homeroom teachers name was Mrs. Stairs and without hesitation my usual rambunctious behaviours were put on immediate display. I just NEVER STOPPED TALKING. There was a girl in my class who sat across the room from me, she seemed snobby and stuck up, so I just didn't engage her.
During one of our classroom discussions when perhaps I was using my voice box a little too liberally, she said curtly "Shut-up!". "Shut-up" was all she said and I responded by simply saying "NO!". A quick and hurtful exchange, however, to assert my dominance I just kept on chattering, and Mrs. Stairs just rolled with it. Letting us settle the issue for ourselves.
I wanted to mention Mrs. Stairs because she always seemed to appreciate my wild nature and over the top antics. She didn't try to dampen my personality, and I adored her for that.
Teachers have to deal with a lot, and that's an understatement. They perform multiple roles for their students and often take their work home with them. A pedagogue could literally work around the clock if they wanted to. The work is endless; add some difficult behaviors to the mix and one can reach an acute level of burn out.
Mrs. Stairs was patient. She was quiet, but her actions spoke loudly. She was a good juggler of stress and someone I looked up to. I would have Mrs. Stairs again in my Grade Eleven year. By then some of the natural happiness that fueled my personality had been repressed. She noticed the change in my reaction to the world and told me to never lose the light in my eyes. Those weren't her exact words, but it was something along those lines. She made me feel valued, and like I had something to offer.
Never did I ever measure a teacher's value on how well they could transmit knowledge, but on how they made me feel as a person. Many teachers use fear to control a classroom, the good ones use consistency, kindness and patience. It takes a beautiful soul to be a good teacher, as the good ones give all of themselves. They have the power to mold and alter a lot of lives. Cheers to the good ones.
Sports as mentioned previously always provided an outlet for my nervousness and consistently served as a way to improve self-confidence. After entering the doors of "Leo Hayes High School" there were a few athletic choices that needed to be made. No longer could I play every single sport that the school offered. Basically, I had to get rid of badminton or basketball. The decision was easy peasy. Badminton was for nerds. At least that was what I was privy to at the time. If you wanted social status and popularity, stop aggressively swinging at the shuttle cock you cock! Farewell dear Badminton, my old friend.
Soccer started in late August and was always the first activity I took part in during the academic school year. During Grade Nine I experienced a great season overall; mainly kept to myself as I was a shy first year rookie. Most of the guys were the very best, and the coach was one of the kindest men I've ever met. So definitely a win win on that front, however, there was an individual on the team named Louis who wasn't always the most benevolent individual. Louis along with some of the other guys on the team came up with a nickname for me that was a huge self-esteem booster. They started calling me "BenGay". Initially it was something that I laughed off and was able to manage quite well. I mean come on, if you haven't been called gay at least once by Grade Nine you're probably being home schooled. In Middle School if something was uncool, or distasteful or if you didn't like someone or something many people (including myself unfortunately) would say "oh, that's so gay". Although I was well acquainted with the term, my nickname started to bother me. Everyone else let it go, but Louis kept obsessively calling me BenGay. He knew I was pissed off about it. He'd yell "BenGay!" from the back of the fifteen passenger van our coach rented for us to travel to away games, and I'd glance back not hiding an ounce of irritation and he'd just look at me with a twisted grin that read "I know this is wrong, but I'm getting a strange, sadistic satisfaction out of bringing you way way down". Looking back, I can see he had self-esteem issues and was simply trying to elevate himself by bringing someone else lower.
The strange realization that many come to when assessing a bully's actions is that in order to arrest the destructive behavior, and alleviate the victims struggles, the individual doing the bullying must have their self-confidence levels raised. Only through a healthy sense of self can the antagonist be at peace with himself and stop the poisonous onslaught of pernicious harm.
Soccer season went by in a blink and I soon found myself at Basketball Tryouts that started in early November.
After school I headed to the gym, threw on my shirt and tank top, walked out to the squeaky-clean court with my head held high. I then looked to my right.... smiled, looked to my left.... frowned....jaw hit the floor; head lowered. Can you believe it? Standing on the hardwood floor was Mr. Fred himself, who was designated as an Assistant coach for the JV basketball team. Now, I didn't run away. I bounced, I shot the ball, and played well. Fred said I'd be the teams point guard. Ah; yeah... nope. No way I was playing for him again. No way on God's green earth (most of it's blue).
Then it hit me. Too much free time, what is a restless man to do? After talking to my Dad, I decided to play Varsity Reds Volleyball to fill the void. Confidence seethed through my very bones on the volleyball court, so it was an easy choice.
When the Varsity Reds Volleyball season concluded it was straight into the Leo Hayes volleyball season, which I enjoyed much more. My teammates were great on the Reds team and I made some close friends, but the school team was filled with my best buds. I always connected flawlessly with the volleyball crowd, it seemed to attract the dudes whom I vibed with the most.
A small detail I left out was the fact that my Dad had now been coaching every volleyball team I had played on since Grade Six. So, not only was volleyball a sport I carried the most natural confidence in, but my Dad whom is one of the kindest men who has ever roamed on this random round ball of rock was the coach!
Grade Nine volleyball was an odd lackluster year of growth and odd happenings. Now, I wouldn't say this unless it was true, but my volleyball skills were the best on the team. Even though my Dad was the coach, he didn't simply play me because he felt obligated. We were a lot better when I was on the floor. Plain and simple.
Up until the Grade Nine volleyball season, Dad didn't experience any drama from any of the players parents concerning issues with the treatment of their child. His first and only "odd" issue was with a parent during a match in mid-season play.
Our team had home-court- advantage and was up against Edmonston; a small French city in Northern New Brunswick, and we weren't playing particularly well to put in gently. We were a little confused at points because Dad had just introduced a new rotation pattern that would make us a more competitive opponent. Everyone on the team except one player knew the rotation reasonably well. The one player named "Harold" had no clue how the rotation worked, because he had chosen to attend hockey practice instead of volleyball. So, naturally that meant he wouldn't be able to play. But, wait, Dad was a lot more kind than that. He inserted Harold into the rotation as a libero. If you're not familiar with volleyball terminology a libero is a back-row player, generally known for their passing and volleying prowess.
Transitioning from one position to the next was straight forward in the back court, so Harold would be fine, and he was fine, and I believed Dad was being generous to offer him the position to begin with, because it was explicitly stated that if you missed the previous practice you wouldn't be allowed to play, not because you were a moral butthole, just because you'd look like a deer in the headlights on the court. With that being said it soon came to my attention as I was playing on the floor that some buffoon from the onlooking balcony was yelling out "why don't you take your son off the floor!" repeatedly, in a bizarre, almost drunken manor; and I know drunk. My vision panned up to the balcony where Harold's Dad was spewing some serious wet greasy drooling diarrhea out of his chatter box. At the time it was so beyond anything I'd seen before (I never played Hockey, Hockey parents can be ludicrous) that truthfully, I thought it was a joke or something. It wasn't till the next day that it was brought to my attention that in no way was he kidding around, because my Dad told me that the previous evening after the game Harold's Dad called him on the phone. When Dad went to answer he said "Hello" (typical response to a ringing phone) to which he heard "it's all about Ben isn't it?". What ensued was a compilation of condescending and demeaning comments meant to justify Harold's Dads distorted, anger fueled internal webbing of dialogue. The discourse was pointless, and the way it was conveyed; cowardly. Dad took it to heart. Like me, he's a sensitive and empathetic man who unfortunately sometimes allows things like this to haunt his waking hours. He talked to the school's Athletic Director and asked that the man apologize for his actions. The athletic director relayed my Dad's wishes to Harold's Dad (Harold had now left the team and would not return). Nothing came of it. No written apology, nor a face to face apology. People are baffling to me at times. There's a genuine belief that to apologize shows weakness. In reality, it shows humility, understanding, intelligence and strength. It highlights one's ability to circumvent the ego and see a situation for what it is. Dad undoubtedly questioned himself, but from the outside looking in, and taking the bias out of the equation from being his son, he handled the situation like a boss. There should be some sort of trophy or award for people who carry themselves in a certain way in the face of ignorance and hatred. Perhaps self-respect is the award. Harold's Dad is undoubtedly human....seriously.....he is, I've seen the aging process. We cross paths from time to time and he always says hello to which I respond in kind. To be fair to the man, I can feel his remorse for his previous actions just through the way he treats me. Guess, fear wins out in this situation. The fear of coming clean and admitting wrongs done. Dad never let this debacle galvanize him into playing me less though. And we went on our way, not really winning too too much, but enjoying the ride.
