Everybody Loved Him

Everybody loved him. Ever read that in an obituary? Maybe he (or she) was a gym teacher or an English teacher. Who is everybody? Did everybody include the slow, chubby kids who got picked last? Did everybody include the struggling reader? I doubt it.

I read an obituary today for my old gym teacher, Howie Helfrich, who died at age 90. I loved him. It wasn’t because I was the starting point guard on his freshman basketball team. No, I was barely over 5 feet tall, 95 pounds. I was pretty great on the playground with a deadly shot, but on the Glenbrook North basketball court I was the last player to play on the “C” team that was created to meet the demand of everybody who loved to play. And even then I didn’t get to play.

 I did get to practice 4 days a week. Drills, drills, and more drills. For every time a mistake was made in a drill we had to run one ladder at the end of practice. Ladders killed you. Howie tried. He would scream at me, “C’mon Riz!”  I was fundamentally awful at jump shots and layups. I was too short to successfully keep the ball alive on the backboard during rebounding drills much to the dismay of my teammates who had another ladder added due to my crappiness. When I was 14 that year, I was still the shortest boy in school. My 8^th grade yearbook nickname was “Shorty” and it wouldn’t be until junior year that I would shoot up to over 6 feet.

Howie was the first person to ever call me “Riz.” Seems obvious, I would think, but thanks to Howie, Shorty was forever off the list (as well as Ricky Retardo and Ritzo Cracker).  Even though he rode me, it was not with sarcasm. Sarcasm is the teacher’s deadliest weapon. It is not silent, but it is stealthy. Sarcasm hurts kids. It is also why teachers think kids love them. Kids laugh at sarcasm, at least the kids who aren’t the targets. Howie wasn’t sarcastic, but he was funny. He never made me the butt of his joking though. He was an ex-Marine high school gym teacher, but he never abused his authority.  He had a bit of humility.  When he pointed his finger at a spot on the court we all noticed he was missing his ring finger. This was the finger that got caught in the net in his college days. I think he understood what it meant to lose.

 Most of the season Howie had me at the scorer’s table keeping stats. He had tried to teach me to be a basketball player, but I was better at scoring with a pencil than a basketball. I got into one game. “Riz, you’re going in,” he barked with a grin. There was a minute and a half left in a game we were out of. Howie substituted me at center. I guess that may have been his idea of a joke, but I didn’t think it at the time. He knew I had the competitive spirit of a lion. I was tenacious on “D”.  I did make the stat sheet.  I got called for a foul trying to guard the opposing big man. I took the ball and threw it against the wall in protest. Technical foul! Howie was proud I think.

I was definitely one of Howie’s favorites in racket sports. As a sophomore you were able to select what you did for physical education. I took racket sports which meant you played tennis in the fall and spring, and badminton indoors in the cold months.  It also meant that I didn’t have to swim. Freshman year had been a nightmare, and gym coaches were part of it. Swim class was the worst. We had to swim naked. In the mandatory pre-class shower, the coach would hover over you in an effort to enforce cleanliness (even though the over-chlorinated pool that turned swimmers’ hair blonde would kill any germ). “Spread those heavenly gates gentlemen,” he would admonish with a phrase that made most giggle, but in retrospect was very odd. And I had not begun puberty which meant there was not even the fuzz of a peach on my exposed body. I was embarrassed.  In the pool was not better. One kid who I’m sure experienced 5 o’clock shadow would not leave me alone. During water polo (a great sport for a kid who could barely swim), he would dunk me and hold my head under water until I thought I would drown. I know the teacher saw this. He let it persist daily. Sadist.

So I took racket sports, and I loved it. I was really good at both tennis and badminton which helped, but Howie, who had been a state champion badminton player in his day, relieved the tension of gym class with his easy-going smile and attitude. He had been a tough, but fair basketball coach, but in gym class he was fun. Fun meant that he didn’t try to embarrass anybody like the other assholes. Fun meant not having to climb a rope to the ceiling while the teacher and the rest of the class “encouraged” you. Fun meant not getting called “Ladies.” Fun meant getting a chance to play without a fear of failure.

Howie Helfrich was the only gym teacher I had who wasn’t a dick. I know that is not a line that would make the obituary, but for someone who grew up in the school culture of the Seventies it is the highest praise I can bestow. Whether Howie was yelling at me to jump higher or run faster, I remember his smile more than anything. It was always behind whatever face he was making. The Riz will miss you Coach.