I needed that like a knock in the head.
From the very genesis of my educational odyssey,
I’ve pretty much defined the term “under-achiever”.
This was explained to me as:
While standardized testing indicated that I may have, in fact,
possessed a rather impressive intelligence potential…
(a reported, quite unexpected, I.Q. of 161),
my work habits and …well, “intellectual laziness”…
resulted in some rather appallingly bad grades.
But alas, this situation was to dramatically change over the course of time.
Oh, not because of any born-again dedication to putting my nose to the grindstone
and my sudden adherence to a new-found admirable work ethic…
No, no, no…
It was because of a series of incidents based on a little known “scientific” phenomenon:
“The Knock in the Head”.
Allow me to explain…
After breezing through the less-than-rigorous challenges of kindergarten,
(See previous post “Big Green Blocks”)…
my academic performance placed me appropriately into Class 1-3.
As a point of reference…
in the 1950’s at P.S. 91 in The Bronx,
as in many NYC public schools,
there were four classes in each grade:
Class 1-1 being “the smartest”, for the most advanced pupils;
Class 1-4 being for the, shall we say…”least advanced”
So here I was,
despite my ever-so-vibrant personality and oh-so-clever classroom quips …
firmly ensconced in Class 1-3.
But, changing the course of history,
well at least MY history,
on one seemingly ordinary day,
per usual, I was playing baseball with a few friends in the backyard.
On this day, for the first (and only) time in my illustrious “baseball career”,
I decided to give the position of catcher a try.
(After all, Yogi Berra was my favorite player).
A la Yogi, I squatted down behind the batter.
He took a mighty swing,
and missed…
the ball at least.
He did however make good, solid contact…
with my head!!
Two of my buddies managed to carry me to the front door of my house,
looking like a scene from “The Little Rascals”,
where we were greeted by my rather, um, “surprised”? and …
hmmm…less-than-calm Mom.
Not to worry.
No serious damage.
Other than a large, red,
(to-be-talked-about-by-the-entire-class)
bump on the noggin.
Truth is…I rather liked the attention.
HOWEVER…
Shortly after “KNOCK #1”…
I was suspiciously moved into Class 1-1!?!
Coincidence? I think not.
Allow me to proceed with my thesis…
Fast forward several years,
now it was time to move onto Junior High,
(that’s what “Middle School” was called back in the day.)
My PS 91 report cards were littered with…
“Needs Improvement” and “Unsatisfactory”.
But…
One fateful, very rainy day, my Mom decided that she would drive my sister Ellen to her Junior High School
and then drop me off at PS 91.
As we were driving the few blocks in the now-torrential rain,
another car skidded on the wet road…and back-ended us…hard.
With seatbelts yet to be invented…
like a cannonball, I was shot forward,
my head banging violently into the front windshield*
*NOTE: Over the years, as I’ve told this story many times…
I have stated that my head “crashed through the windshield”.
This statement cannot be verified.
(See earlier post “Life Lies”)
The result was a larger, redder, less “heroic” bump on the coconut.
HOWEVER…
Shortly after “KNOCK #2”…
Despite my string of “unsatisfactory” report cards…
when moving on to Creston Jr. High,
I was placed in the “SP’s” (Special Progress) program,
where I would “skip” 8th grade entirely,
and move directly from 7th to 9th Grade!
Happily missing a whole year of homework!!!
Beginning to see a pattern?
But wait, there’s more…
I had almost completed my shortened time at Creston
and was now ready for high school,
although my educational progress (?) showed little evidence of that.
In New York City, all Jr. High graduates were given the opportunity
to take a test for admittance into the elite “high schools for the gifted”.
These included the esteemed Brooklyn Tech, Stuyvesant H.S.
and the “crème de la crème”, number one rated school IN THE COUNTRY…
The Bronx High School of Science.
Like most all NYC Jr. High students, I figured…
what the heck, I’ll take the test.
NOTE: Creston was an all-boys school.
DeWitt Clinton, where I was most likely headed, was also an all-boys high school…
Bronx Science was co-ed.
With this testosterone-fueled motivation,
I felt it was clearly worth a shot…long as it may be.
As it happened…
a few months before the start of the 9th grade and the high school test,
I was enjoying one of my many summers at my beloved summer camp, Camp Colang,
“in the heart of the Poconos”. (Pennsylvania)
As one of the camp activities,
we competed in inter-camp sports against neighboring camps.
We’d travel to the “enemy camps” in a broken-down old school bus,
driven by some local “townie”.
On one particular “away game” trip,
as I was sitting in the very last row of the bus,
raucously goofing off with friends,
the bus suddenly stalled…
ON THE TRAIN TRACKS!!!!
When the old, rickety bus wouldn’t start,
the panicked camp counselors yelled for us to exit the bus ASAP!
Being in the very back row,
with my heart beating out of my chest,
I opened up the back Emergency Door to desperately make my escape!
When I did…
there stood the toothless “townie”…
who for some idiotic reason…
slammed the super-heavily-weighted metal door shut…
right in my face!!!!
The force of the slam propelled me halfway down the bus aisle!
Like a Warner Brothers’ cartoon.
No, we were not hit by a train.
Yes, there was blood.
Yes, my counselor fought the townie.
Yes, there was an even bigger, even redder, even scarier bump on the cabasa! (and a short pass out).
No, I did not participate any inter-camp games that day.
HOWEVER…
Just a few months after “KNOCK #3”…
To the surprise…(nay, the unbelieving shock) of all…
Guess who got into Bronx Science!?
Unfortunately,
I was not the recipient of any head knocks over the next 3 years,
as my high school record clearly demonstrated.
You can form your own opinions on my theory.
I have mine.
And thus by my accounts…
I could really use a Knock in the Head right about now.
Have you had any childhood injuries that actually changed you for the better?
Would love to hear your story.
