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As a child, I had simply no interest in books. I hated reading, I was very bad at it, and besides, how could you take the time to read when there were games that shrieked for playing? Basketball, baseball, marbles—I could never get enough. I wasn’t even good at them, but give me a football and an empty playground and I could invent last-second triumphs that would bring tears to your eyes.
(Stan Hack was the Cubs’ third baseman for these and many other years. I saw him play once from a bleacher seat, and even at that distance he had the sweetest smile I had ever seen and to this day I swear he smiled at me several times. I just worshipped him. He could also hit a ton.)
“I’m just not getting through to you somehow.”
“It’s not your fault, Miss Roginski.” (It wasn’t. I just worshipped her too. She was all dumpy and fat but I used to wish she’d been my mother. I could never make that really come out right, unless she had been married to my father first, and then they’d gotten divorced and my father had married my mother, which was okay, because Miss Roginski had to work, so my father got custody of me—that all made sense. Only they never seemed to know each other, my dad and Miss Roginski. Whenever they’d meet, each year during the Christmas pageant when all the parents came, I’d watch the two of them like crazy, hoping for some kind of secret glimmer or look that could only mean, “Well, how are you, how’s your life been going since our divorce?” but no soap. She wasn’t my mother, she was just my teacher, and I was her own personal and growing disaster area.)
“It’s not your fault, Miss Roginski.” (It wasn’t. I just worshipped her too. She was all dumpy and fat but I used to wish she’d been my mother. I could never make that really come out right, unless she had been married to my father first, and then they’d gotten divorced and my father had married my mother, which was okay, because Miss Roginski had to work, so my father got custody of me—that all made sense. Only they never seemed to know each other, my dad and Miss Roginski. Whenever they’d meet, each year during the Christmas pageant when all the parents came, I’d watch the two of them like crazy, hoping for some kind of secret glimmer or look that could only mean, “Well, how are you, how’s your life been going since our divorce?” but no soap. She wasn’t my mother, she was just my teacher, and I was her own personal and growing disaster area.)
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