February 12th, 2010
Dear Dad,
I didn’t mean to sound like a total jerk in my last letter. You’ve been through some pretty serious crap. I get that. Thanks for telling me a few more details. And please let me know what happened next. You’re still leaving me hanging.
Down here, I want you to know that not all my days are crummy. I mean, I think junior high school pretty much blows, but I don’t want you to think I hate every minute of my life.
That said, today pretty much sucked. I showed up for school, thinking I’d have a basketball game afterwards. It was an away game, so I figured we’d all be piling into the bus and driving there together. After science, I walked to the locker room to change into my uniform. Everyone else on the team was already there, getting dressed, snapping towels, making rude jokes. So I started getting dressed, too. I was stripped down to my boxers when Mr. Schick came in and said, “Brian and Trevor, can you come here a minute?”
As Brian Haase and I walked over to Mr. Schick, the locker room grew quiet. The jokes stopped. The towels stopped snapping. The eighth graders pretended to keep getting dressed, but they were all looking our direction. The kind and gentle Mr. Schick said, “Fellas, we’ve got an away game today, as you know. Unfortunately, we don’t have access to the bus for basketball, because the high school is using it. That means we’re taking the Ford Econoline.”
For some reason, Mr. Schick thought I cared about the brand of our school van. Brian and I stared dumbly at Mr. Schick. He finally said, “The Econoline only has seating for 14.”
We stared some more, but I heard a few painful “oohs” from the kids behind me.
“We’ve got 15 players on our team, plus me. That means two of us will have to take one for the team and stay home.”
It was starting to make sense right about then.
“But don’t think I don’t value your contribution to the team. And next week’s a home game, so we’ll get you right back in there. OK, fellas?”
I’m pretty sure I heard Donnie Joad say, “Holy crap.” Brian Haase and I walked back to our lockers and changed into our street clothes. I borrowed Donnie Joad’s cell phone and called my mom to come and get me, but she was stuck at work. She said she’d leave a message for Rhett. Brian and I sat on the sidewalk in front of the school. We watched that damn Ford Econoline drive away, then sat there waiting for our rides.
“That Mr. Schick is a real dillrod,” said Brian. I agreed. I was glad Brian was there. I mean, it totally sucked at an unbelievable level, but it would have sucked a million times worse if it had been just me.
Anyway, I hope you figure out all your afterlife crap. By the way, this coming Sunday is Valentine’s Day. Thought you might want to know.
Your son,
Tom
Dear Dad,
I didn’t mean to sound like a total jerk in my last letter. You’ve been through some pretty serious crap. I get that. Thanks for telling me a few more details. And please let me know what happened next. You’re still leaving me hanging.
Down here, I want you to know that not all my days are crummy. I mean, I think junior high school pretty much blows, but I don’t want you to think I hate every minute of my life.
That said, today pretty much sucked. I showed up for school, thinking I’d have a basketball game afterwards. It was an away game, so I figured we’d all be piling into the bus and driving there together. After science, I walked to the locker room to change into my uniform. Everyone else on the team was already there, getting dressed, snapping towels, making rude jokes. So I started getting dressed, too. I was stripped down to my boxers when Mr. Schick came said, “Brian and Trevor, can you come here a minute?”
As Brian Haase and I walked over to Mr. Schick, the locker room grew quiet. The jokes stopped. The towels stopped snapping. The eighth graders pretended to keep getting dressed, but they were all looking our direction. The kind and gentle Mr. Schick said, “Fellas, we’ve got an away game today, as you know. Unfortunately, we don’t have access to the bus for basketball, because the high school is using it. That means we’re taking the Ford Econoline.”
For some reason, Mr. Schick thought I cared about the brand of our school van. Brian and I stared dumbly at Mr. Schick. He finally said, “The Econoline only has seating for 14.”
We stared some more, but I heard a few painful “oohs” from the kids behind me.
“We’ve got 15 players on our team, plus me. That means two of us will have to take one for the team and stay home.”
It was starting to make sense right about then.
“But don’t think I don’t value your contribution to the team. And next week’s a home game, so we’ll get you right back in there. OK, fellas?”
I’m pretty sure I heard Donnie Joad say, “Holy crap.” Brian Haase and I walked back to our lockers and changed into our street clothes. I borrowed Donnie Joad’s cell phone and called my mom to come and get me, but she was stuck at work. She said she’d leave a message for Rhett. Brian and I sat on the sidewalk in front of the school. We watched the Schickhead Express drive away, then sat there waiting for our rides.
“That Mr. Schick is a real dillrod,” said Brian. I agreed. I was glad Brian was there. I mean, it totally sucked at an unbelievable level, but it would have sucked a million times worse if it had been just me.
Anyway, I hope you figure out all your afterlife crap. By the way, this coming Sunday is Valentine’s Day. Thought you might want to know.
Your son,
Tom
Filed under Letters from Son | Tags: adolescence, afterlife, basketball, fatherhood, Ford Econoline, junior high school, letter, middle school, purgatory, writing | Comment (0)