Read Online Byron's Lane by Wallace Rogers - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Wallace Rogers
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poses on their laminated covers.
Roan even knew all our teachers’ first names. But his greatest accomplishment was when he uncovered proof in seventh grade that we were divided into class sections based on how smart the teachers, the principal, and school administrators determined we were. Breech, Adams, and I were in 7B, a class full of kids who Roan claimed had higher IQs than the kids in 7A. Roan was in 7D. He couldn’t dribble a basketball to save his life, but his investigative abilities earned him a permanent place on our crew’s periphery.
After a thoughtful pause, Adams continued: “Those Little League tryouts were the first time I was ever in a pressure-packed situation. In Maplewood, a boy’s social standing during his entire tenure at school was likely determined during those fifteen minutes on that shopping center parking lot. I used to seek out situations like that. I was addicted to the adrenalin. Those moments build and measure your character. Character is the essential ingredient in good, effective leadership.”
I always thought character-building had more to do with how we handled the fallout from the bad decisions we made and jaw-dropping disappointment. Over the years, we’ve have several friendly arguments about that.
Adams had a good baseball tryout that Saturday morning. He became a steady, serviceable member of our Little League team, Martin’s Amoco Oil Dodgers. He moved on to Babe Ruth League and the high school baseball team. I spent two years on the Dodgers’ bench and never tried out for anything athletic again.
Without stopping to catch his breath, Adams continued: “There’s another one, Tom—the summer between sixth and seventh grade. I had an eye exam as soon as school was out that June. I flunked it and was prescribed those damn glasses.” He spoke as if the eye exam should have been as important to me as it was to him.
“I hated wearing glasses, but couldn’t see much more than twenty feet in front of me without them. Remember Pamela Drake and how the guys would walk her around to the back of Cambridge Elementary School and she’d French-kiss them?”
I nodded and smiled. Pamela Drake was such a hot topic of discussion that summer that mere mention of her name decades later caused me to recall everything about her, down to the mole on her left foot, behind her big toe.
“Well, it took me until mid-August to create the right situation to maneuver her back behind the school. She and I were sitting on the steps in front of one of the school’s back doors. After fifteen minutes, I asked if I could kiss her.” Adams paused, took a drink of beer, and continued his story. “She looked at me for a long time. Then she shook her head and said, ‘No, I don’t think so. You’re not my type.’ I was mortified. Humiliated! I figured it was the glasses. I was chewing three sticks of Dentyne, so it couldn’t have been bad breath. She had kissed all the guys on the sixth-grade basketball team except me by then. So I lost the glasses for five years.”
Adams shook his head. “It probably cost me the centerfielder’s job on the baseball team, a starting spot on the basketball team, maybe two-tenths of a point on my GPA—until I could afford contact lenses midway through our senior year. But nobody’s turned me down for a kiss since.”
I couldn’t tell if Adams was bragging, or making a joke.
“The Pamela Drake experience taught me two lessons, Tom. The ability to execute a plan with style and panache is more important than having developed a good one in the first place. And it taught me to not ask for permission, but for forgiveness.”
Adams flashed me one of his trademark smiles. I was beginning to feel better. Pamela Drake had French-kissed me behind Cambridge Elementary School twice that summer.
“How about a pizza?” Adams rose from his chair. He was already in his kitchen before I could respond.
Adams never did pass the ball back to me. I never had a chance
Roan even knew all our teachers’ first names. But his greatest accomplishment was when he uncovered proof in seventh grade that we were divided into class sections based on how smart the teachers, the principal, and school administrators determined we were. Breech, Adams, and I were in 7B, a class full of kids who Roan claimed had higher IQs than the kids in 7A. Roan was in 7D. He couldn’t dribble a basketball to save his life, but his investigative abilities earned him a permanent place on our crew’s periphery.
After a thoughtful pause, Adams continued: “Those Little League tryouts were the first time I was ever in a pressure-packed situation. In Maplewood, a boy’s social standing during his entire tenure at school was likely determined during those fifteen minutes on that shopping center parking lot. I used to seek out situations like that. I was addicted to the adrenalin. Those moments build and measure your character. Character is the essential ingredient in good, effective leadership.”
I always thought character-building had more to do with how we handled the fallout from the bad decisions we made and jaw-dropping disappointment. Over the years, we’ve have several friendly arguments about that.
Adams had a good baseball tryout that Saturday morning. He became a steady, serviceable member of our Little League team, Martin’s Amoco Oil Dodgers. He moved on to Babe Ruth League and the high school baseball team. I spent two years on the Dodgers’ bench and never tried out for anything athletic again.
Without stopping to catch his breath, Adams continued: “There’s another one, Tom—the summer between sixth and seventh grade. I had an eye exam as soon as school was out that June. I flunked it and was prescribed those damn glasses.” He spoke as if the eye exam should have been as important to me as it was to him.
“I hated wearing glasses, but couldn’t see much more than twenty feet in front of me without them. Remember Pamela Drake and how the guys would walk her around to the back of Cambridge Elementary School and she’d French-kiss them?”
I nodded and smiled. Pamela Drake was such a hot topic of discussion that summer that mere mention of her name decades later caused me to recall everything about her, down to the mole on her left foot, behind her big toe.
“Well, it took me until mid-August to create the right situation to maneuver her back behind the school. She and I were sitting on the steps in front of one of the school’s back doors. After fifteen minutes, I asked if I could kiss her.” Adams paused, took a drink of beer, and continued his story. “She looked at me for a long time. Then she shook her head and said, ‘No, I don’t think so. You’re not my type.’ I was mortified. Humiliated! I figured it was the glasses. I was chewing three sticks of Dentyne, so it couldn’t have been bad breath. She had kissed all the guys on the sixth-grade basketball team except me by then. So I lost the glasses for five years.”
Adams shook his head. “It probably cost me the centerfielder’s job on the baseball team, a starting spot on the basketball team, maybe two-tenths of a point on my GPA—until I could afford contact lenses midway through our senior year. But nobody’s turned me down for a kiss since.”
I couldn’t tell if Adams was bragging, or making a joke.
“The Pamela Drake experience taught me two lessons, Tom. The ability to execute a plan with style and panache is more important than having developed a good one in the first place. And it taught me to not ask for permission, but for forgiveness.”
Adams flashed me one of his trademark smiles. I was beginning to feel better. Pamela Drake had French-kissed me behind Cambridge Elementary School twice that summer.
“How about a pizza?” Adams rose from his chair. He was already in his kitchen before I could respond.
Adams never did pass the ball back to me. I never had a chance
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