The Strange Case of Jenko and Hyde

Coach Hyde was stale stereotype,
with coal eyes, and perpetual scowl
a buzz-cut bulldog strutting Darwinist.
With a shiny silver whistle round his neck
and a Whiffle bat grasped in his fat knuckle hand
he doled out the “shot,” a short sharp pop
that left a stinging red welt on the thigh.

Street shoes on the wax wood floor earned a shot.
Chewing gum in gym class earned a shot.
We were tested, ranked, and rowed in descending pods
called Creams, Milks, and Curds,
according to athletic ability, or the lack there of.
When the whistle blew, we ran to our place in the order,
too slow and you got a shot.

Patrolling the showers, making sure we did,
“humphing” at a slight and hairless boy,
the humiliations and comparisons never ended.

When Fat Bob, a hopeless Curd
doughboy with red marble skin,
stumbled an extinguisher during volleyball,
white foam poured on the precious floor.
Coach Hyde belittled and called him “The Blimp,”
made him mop the mess from his knees
till his face contorted just enough to call it crying
which we never let The Blimp forget.

Coach Hyde was quoted in our yearbook,
“I want to be remembered as a molder of men.”

Mr. Jenko was lantern jawed with amused eyes
untended tufts of hair, two day’s growth.
His brutal body could snap our chicken boy necks,
had he the inclination, but he treated us all as Milks.

When The Blimp strained but failed at a chin-up
Mr. Jenko clapped him on the back,
“Nice try Bob, they’re tough for us big guys.”

When a clownish Curd named
Danny dashed down field for a long one
waving arms, “I’m open, throw it!”
So focused on the ball, he crashed into the goal post,
laid out cold, his nose splatter mashed flat.

Mr. Jenko pumped his legs like pistons
till he reached Danny’s side,
carefully pushed back his hair, stroked his head
wrapped him in his jacket, despite the soaking blood
spoke in soothing tones, cradled and carried him to the nurse
and stayed until the ambulance came.

Mr. Jenko was quoted in our yearbook,
“To everyone my best.”