Three Strikes And You’re Out

This was fifty years ago but I still have to laugh.

Setting: religious all-male high school. Time: 1973. Me: Young whippersnapper, fifth highest class ranking out of about four hundred and fifty. I had an ornery reputation I did my best to live up to.

This concerns our English teacher who we called Errol Flynn because of his laughable hairstyle and mustachio. I did put him to the test in class, and I am sure he was glad when I graduated.

The next year my brother entered school there and showed up in Errol’s class. Errol was taking roll on the first day and got to my brother.

Errol: “[Brother’s Name].”

Brother: *Raises hand.* “Here!”

Errol: “Are you [My Name]’s brother?”

Brother: “Yeah, he’s my big brother.”

Errol audibly groaned.

Two years later, my youngest brother entered school there. Same routine; roll call.

Errol: “Are you [Middle Bro’s Name]’s brother?”

It should be mentioned here that my kid brother, in retrospect, was a hard ADHD case, so, he’s already fidgeting in his seat.

Kid Bro: “Yeah, he’s my brother.”

Errol: “And [My Name]’s brother, too?”

Kid Bro: *By this time waving his hands in the air and bouncing up and down in his seat.* “Yeah, he’s my big brother!”

Errol groaned out loud, put down the roll sheet on his desk, and rubbed his forehead for a while.

As it turns out he walked out of class about two months later and never came back.

My brothers and I, by the way, continue to thrive. 

We have plenty to laugh about.