Flashback: Monsoon Martin's "Change Up, Gentlemen!" Forecast
Dear readers,
I wanted to share this selection from the early days of my forecasting/writing, well before I was a "blogger"--I just sent out my ruminations and prognostications via email. This one's from October 2005, and it's all about one of my favorite teachers/coaches of all time, Joe Scott. Please to enjoy.
Monsoon Martin’s “Change Up, Gentlemen!” Forecast
Tuesday, 11 October 2005
Quite a lot of rain we got Friday and Saturday, huh? Whoo-ee! Adamstown received nine and a half inches of rain, widespread flooding in Lancaster and Berks Counties. And I’m sorry to report that we’ve got more rain on the way this week—but fortunately, not in the amounts we saw over the past weekend. It looks like we’ll be drying out toward next weekend, but stay tuned. I’ll keep you posted on the vicissitudes of the weather...
That word—vicissitudes—takes me back to a time of cracking voices, growth spurts, the discovery of acne, the emergence of the first precious wisps of hair under the arms and on the upper lip, and all holy hell breaking loose with the reproductive system. Yes, my friends, I speak of puberty. And this blossoming wonderment begins in that hormone petri dish known as middle school.
“Vicissitudes” was a favorite word Mr. Joe Scott used to embody the mutability of life, the ups and downs, the inevitable changes that characterize any of our experiences. And through these vicissitudes (I can’t stop using it, so deep is my affection for the word), Mr. Scott was our anchor, our mentor: our gym teacher.
Each day we would arrive at the gymnasium of A. D. Eisenhower Middle School in Norristown, and we would encounter a sign on the locker room door: “Change Up, Gentlemen!” This was an indication that we were to retire immediately to the locker room and don our gym uniforms of blue shorts and a white short (blue and white being the school colors; our mascot, the Eagle). After changing, we’d repair to the gymnasium, where we were greeted by large pieces of paper hung high on the walls, hand-lettered by Mr. Scott. The one that stands out in my mind’s eye is “Do Unto Others As You Would Have Them Do Unto You!” (He always capitalized, and frequently used exclamation points: such was the urgency of his message.)
[Eisenhower Middle School, where Monsoon spent his sixth, seventh, and eighth grade years.The building is shown here as Eisenhower Senior High School, from which Monsoon’s mother graduated.]
Once inside the gym we’d arrange ourselves into rows, in Squad Sitting Position, indicating that we were ready to begin class. Squad Sitting Position was a manner of seating that seemed designed to maximize the pain delivered to the buttocks. We would sit with our legs out in front of us, half-bent, knees together, as if we’d just completed a sit-up. And until Mr. Scott took attendance (“Mr. Martin?” “Present.” “Mr. White?” “Unh.” “Mr. White? Is Mr. White here?” “Present.”), we would remain in Squad Sitting Position.
What strikes me about Mr. Scott’s gym classes is the fact that he addressed us by our last names, and as a group we were “gentlemen.” We weren’t merely a bunch of kids named Kendall and Andy and Glen running around and getting sweaty in gym; we were Mr. Meade, Mr. Talone, and Mr. Martin—mature gentlemen engaging in purposeful athletic pursuits. It lent an air of gentility and respect to the proceedings.
As luck would have it, Mr. Joe Scott wore many hats in his position at Eisenhower Middle School. Not only was he the gym teacher; he was also the health teacher, the basketball coach, and the baseball coach. In Health, we twelve-year-olds swaggered in, flush with the dawning of a new physiological day, and Mr. Scott guided us in our first tentative steps toward understanding our bodies. (There was no fifth-grade assembly for boys explaining the havoc that would be wrought on every aspect of our young selves, so we were grateful for any information that came our way—legitimate or otherwise—in middle school.) In addition to the Our Changing Bodies theme of the class, Mr. Scott also injected some life lessons into the mix. Most vividly I remember him admonishing us to avoid the fate of some, who end up “sitting on the street corner, drinking wine and eating Jolly Rogers.” Uproarious laughter greeted that little gem, but I think the message sank in. To this day, I don’t know what Jolly Rogers are, and I don’t want to know. Not much of a wine connoisseur either. Street corners make me nervous, too...
Occasionally in gym class, we’d take to the field outside and play a friendly game of soccer. Inevitably there would be some infraction or another committed, and Mr. Joe Scott would come striding across the field—his center of gravity when running was so low as to make this activity look almost comical—blowing his whistle and declaring that a “free kick” would be attempted. Now, if you’re not familiar with soccer (soccer buffs, feel free to correct me), a free kick is when a player from the opposing team sets up the ball at the corner of a box in front of the goal area. In between this player and the other team’s goal and goalie stand several (four? six?) players from the goalie’s team, trying to make it more difficult for the opposing player to score. Putting them directly in the line of fire of a kicked soccer ball. Mr. Scott had sage advice for those unlucky fellows chosen for this free kick “wall”: “Protect the head and genitals at all times, gentlemen! Protect the head and genitals!” And he would lock one arm—fist clenched in vigilance—in place in front of his face, the other arm locked in front of his genitals. It was a ridiculous pose, but not one boy on that wall balked at conscientiously mimicking this stance.
[These soccer players are approximating Mr. Joe Scott’s strategy of protecting the head and genitals—evidently having decided that their genitals are more precious and irreplaceable than their faces.]
As I mentioned earlier, Mr. Joe Scott was the middle school baseball and basketball coach as well, so I decided to avail myself of his mentorship by participating in these interscholastic pursuits in both seventh and eighth grades. And what disparate experiences these turned out to be. In basketball, we had an excellent team and compiled a winning record in 1985-86, then went undefeated in the 1986-87 season. As the only non-African American player on that team, I recall making every effort to be accepted. Some of the efforts that come to mind: singing and dancing along to “Brass Monkey” by the Beastie Boys in the locker room; making pitiful attempts at break dancing (I could plant my hand on the ground, and perfected the final pose, but everything in between was a tragic floundering of knees and feet, lacking as it did the fluidity and grace of my peers’ performances); and having my number (20) shaved into the back of my head.
In baseball, however, our team realized somewhat less success. More specifically, we did not win a single game in either the 1986 or the 1987 season. Painfully often, the “mercy rule” was applied, which dictates that if one team is leading the other by ten runs by a certain point in the game, it was (mercifully, hence the name) stopped to stanch the suffering. We were—as we had decided all we could do was embrace our record of futility—“defeated,” since we had won no games. I remember playing a great many positions for that team, including pitcher, and given our record, it should be obvious that my basketball prowess far outpaced my abilities on the baseball diamond. (See our 1987 team photo, below.)
I also remember a teammate of mine named Dave Borzillo. Quirky kid. Used to break out in a single refrain time and again, at idle moments during practice or game, and no one knew if what he was singing was actually a song: "God damnnn this traffic jam! How I hate to be late ... hurts my motor to go so slowwwww." In my research for this forecast, I actually confirmed that the song does exist. It's a very bad song by the normally reliably good James Taylor called "Traffic Jam." So Dave wasn't crazy, he just had questionable taste.
And admirably, Mr. Joe Scott's coaching methods were not measurably different for the undefeated basketball team and the "defeated" baseball team. If we had tried our best, he taught us, we could be satisfied with the outcome. (Now that I think about it, we couldn't really say we had given it our "all" after some of the baseball games. But it's the message that matters.) And Mr. Scott's problem-solving was, like him, simple and kind. Once I was struck in the upper thigh (OK, groin) by a baseball. Mr. Scott was instantly striding toward me, low to the ground, cat-like, dispensing the same advice he offered for any injury: "Rub the area gently, Mr. Martin! Rub the area gently!"
[Eisenhower Middle School's "defeated" baseball team, Spring 1987. From top left: Joe Scott, Eddie Carr, Monsoon, David Borzillo, Tony Womack. Regrettably, Monsoon cannot recall anyone else's name.]
Protect the head and genitals!