The gym seemed small to me. Sixty boys from two different classes standing with their toes on the red line made it seem smaller still. Mr. Romeo stood in the middle of the floor giving us the rules. You could tell he had been doing this all day and his heart was no longer in it.

It started with uniform and description of tennis shoes, what would be allowed and what wouldn't be allowed, and it deteriorated from there. By the time we got to T-shirt, color, size, and appearance of same, he'd lost me, or at least he'd lost my errant brain.

The illusion that not even I could screw up in gym class quickly passed, and the idea of a port in the storm each day passed with it. I made every effort to continue paying attention to each rule and how to apply it in the hopes I could remember enough to stay out of trouble.

How could anyone complicate gym?

Just when I had my mind on Mr. Romeo and his growing list of things I should remember, it became obvious to me that someone had come between me and the man I was trying to listen to. The harder I strained to see around the man who had closed in on where I stood, the closer he got, until I was finally totally distracted and aggravated by the interruption.

How was I supposed to remember all this stuff?

I looked at the man who had come between me and the guy with the rules that I was expected to follow. I noticed he wasn't much taller than I was but I knew by the whistle around his neck, white T-shirt with the school emblem, and his bulging arms and the way his chest filled out the shirt, he had to be a gym teacher. I wanted to ignore him but how do you ignore a teacher?

What had I done to attract his attention?

I only just got there.

"I know you," he said, lifting himself up on his toes as he stared into my confused eyes while keeping his nose about two inches from my own. How do you ignore that?

I didn't know any gym teachers at Suitland. How could he know me? I was certain there had been a mistake made, but I'd let him figure that out. It was best not to contradict adults, especially ones that might control your grades. I remained neutral under his glare.

"I know you," he said again, continuing to lift himself purposefully up and down on his toes, and then he hit me with the cold hard facts. "You're the kid that cleaned me out in that golf game over in Hillcrest Heights. Right?"

Oh no!

Of all the gyms in all the world why did I have to walk into his?

"You're a pretty good golfer, kid," he said, smiling broadly now, still going up and down up and down, and still standing way too close for comfort. "What's your name, kid?"

"Charles," I answered, knowing the faster a teacher learned your name the faster you would end up in trouble.

'Charles,' he said. "I'm Mr. Quattrocchi, but you can call me Mr. Q."

Thank heavens for small favors. If I had to remember that name, I'd fail for sure. I knew I should never have kept playing that game. Why hadn't I gone home with the one prize?

Before I knew it the bell was ringing and gym class was over and I was left wondering about all the stuff I missed. I was sure Mr. Q. was sure that I was the kid he thought I was. Why he had remembered me, I wasn't sure; but I didn't think it was a good thing. He didn't seem to be mad or the least put off. In fact, if I didn't know better, I'd say he was pleased to see me in his class, but what did I know.

We didn't dress out for gym class until everyone had time to secure the proper uniform. It was the following Monday that we stopped playing dodge in our street clothes and dressed for gym class. I did what I was told and ended up in Mr. Romeo's class for about five minutes. Then Mr. Q. came and got me and told Mr. Romeo, "I want this one. You can have one of mine if you want."

"Take them all," Mr. Romeo said, not sounding all that happy to be there.

The first order of business was grading our ability to run, jump, and climb. The running part was right up my alley because I loved to run. In all my wandering for all those years I'd sometimes start running just to feel the wind in my face, and I'd run until I fell on the ground to catch my breath and sometimes I'd get up to run some more.

I'd always had natural speed. It was one of the few things that I did as well as or better than anyone else, but it hardly seemed important to me, although it seemed important to Mr. Q.

The first day in his class we ran from one wall to the other and back. First there were thirty of us, then there were twenty, ten, and finally he raced me against the final four. One at a time I ran each of the fastest boys, always coming back to the wall first. When we were done running and I collapsed on the floor, needing a rest, Mr. Q. walked over to me.

"You're fast, Charles. You run like the wind."

I cocked my head to look up at him to see if there was going to be a punch line, but there was none. He was serious and there was no joke or anything that followed. The more I saw of this guy the more confusing it was. I'd never had anyone go out of their way to be nice to me, especially in school, and it seemed to me he had done just that several times.

He called me Charles. That's all he ever called me. He called the other boys, kid, sport, or the infamous, hey you, but I was always Charles. My suspicions of the man and his motives started to dwindle.

The following day's class was jumping. We all lined up and stood and jumped, while he watched. Richard Moe and I were hands down the furthest jumpers but Richard was a head taller. When Mr. Q gave us a break from the testing, he walked over to me as I sat leaning my back on the cool tile.

"Come here, Charles."

"Watch me," he said, after I walked over to him.

He was quite careful to use his arms in an exaggerated fashion, using them to pull him forward when he jumped. I thought it was very nice but that's what I did, I thought.

"You do it," he said.

I stood where he had stood, and I jumped as I knew how to jump.

"No," he said. "Do what I do."

He had jumped. I had jumped. What did he want? Once again he went through the same process and then jumped. When he put me on the line I did precisely what I thought he wanted me to do. I jumped.

This is when Mr. Q. separated himself from every other teacher I had ever had. He seemed to have some understanding of what was wrong with my brain, because he grabbed me by the shoulders, he shook me until I was looking into his eyes, and then he said, "Watch me. Do it exactly like I do it. You've got to pay attention."

For some reason this approach made an impression. He wasn't angry. He didn't yell at me or call me names. He got my attention and, once he was sure he had it, he demonstrated one more time, talking me through what it was he wanted me to do.

Oh! I thought. That's what he wants me to do. Why didn't he say so?

I stood on the line, used my arms to shift my weight back and then forward, just as he had done, and the third time I brought my weight forward, I leaped, using my arms to pull me forward.

"Yes! That's it. You got it. Great jump, Charles."

I was really curious about why Mr. Q. was teaching me things he didn't teach anyone else. The best I could come up with was that I had impressed him by cleaning him out in that golf game, and it created a special status for me. Now he went about seeing if he could improve everything I did in gym class, and I hadn't disappointed him. My success seemed to feed on itself, and the more I excelled the more lessons he taught me.

Mr. Q. did something routinely that no other teacher had ever done, he reached me. He knew he had to get my attention and grabbing me by the arm and sometimes giving me a shake until that vacant look left my eyes, he was able to get me to understand what he wanted.

It was something like being shot with a magic bullet. It didn't take long before Mr. Q. had my attention any time he was in my vicinity. No matter what I was doing in gym, I always waited until I knew he was watching me, and then I put forth my best effort. I knew it was only gym class but I'd never excelled in anything, so being a jock wasn't the worst thing I could be. I certainly wasn't going to excel academically.

It was a great year for me while I was in his class.

I didn't have that kind of luck in my other courses. My work was always late and even when it was on time, it was sloppy. I did a little better in Math but not so well in science, and in art class I was a lost cause. Luckily the art teacher didn't grade below a C. I suppose she understood that some students just weren't meant to be artists.

Science required a lot of reading, and even worse, it required understanding what you read. I had little luck with either, which probably explained some of my other grades. I was still waiting to fail but hoping I'd find a way to keep getting by. My prospects didn't seem too good.

By the end of the seventh grade I was resigned to the inevitable. I had discovered I was a jock and jocks weren't expected to be too bright. I did manage to pass every class, with mostly (Cs) and (Ds) with an A in gym.

It was on to the eighth grade with the hopes of continuing to get by.


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