We must have previously met. We were colleagues after all, but it was a big school, and we never really had a chat until that spring afternoon when we sat side by side in the bleachers, there to cheer on our school’s baseball team. We shook hands, and he said, “You’re the new guy, right”? Mike had been teaching U.S. History for years, but it was my first year at the school. He had a wonderfully alliterative name, Mike Maddux, which lent itself to the moniker by which he was known around campus — Mad Dog. Or just, the Dog, as in, “Seen the Dog today”?
The Dog was a great sports fan, and soon we were regaling each other with our favorite sports trivia, laughing about baseball’s insane use of jargon. You could fill a book with all the chatter that comes from the dugout and the bleachers; and Mike and I did schtick on the best-seller we would co-author about “Hey batter batter” and “Throwing BBs out there” and “Frozen rope” and “Be a hitter” and “Pitcher’s got a rubber arm” and “Hey Blue, I have the number for Lenscrafters.”
But the best story was Mike’s take on one of the most famous clips in baseball history, “The Catch.” The Cleveland Indians and the New York Giants were all tied up 2-2 in the eighth inning in game 1 of the 1964 World Series, and Cleveland had runners on base. According to Mike’s telling, the Giants manager brought in a reliever to pitch to Cleveland’s Vic Wertz, who promptly slugged the ball so hard to deep center that it might still be rolling, if not for the most famous “catch” in baseball history, when the Giants all-world center fielder, Willy Mays, made this amazing, blind, over the shoulder catch while his cap was flying off. The manager came right back to the mound to give his reliever the hook; and the reliever said, “C’mon, Skip, don’t take me out? I got MY man.” This became a slogan and a metaphor and a password to our friendship.
“Hey Dog, how was your day?”
“I got MY man.”
Mike’s classroom was unique. Most teachers have posters and timelines and pithy quotes on the wall, and for some it is an art form; but the Dog was not into “feng shui.” The walls were bare, bulletin boards empty. There was nothing to tell you that this was a classroom, except for the white board. The white board is the contemporary version of the chalkboard. No more chalk dust! Instead, you write on these boards with a special marker, called “dry-erase,” and the markers have feet; because if you are into that sort of thing, and some kids are, the chemical in the marker is reportedly very sniff-able.
The Dog’s use of the markers was profligate, but not for sniffing, just for writing. He had two white boards on the front wall, so his writing surface was sixteen feet long and four feet high; and it was full. I would like to report neat columns and rows, clear outlines, various colors of markers and helpful arrows that led you from here to there. But no; it was chaos. He wrote small, with black marker only, and he must have been absent in 4th grade when they taught cursive.
Was it the wild musings of a brilliant but absent-minded scientist, unlocking the universe?
Was it a monochromatic example of a museum piece if Jackson Pollock had become a teacher?
Was it a mad attempt to describe the floor of my daughter’s room?
None of the above. It was the just the Dog who loved history and to lecture about it; and who would turn around mid-sentence and hurriedly jot something that was pretty much unreadable, assuming he could find a spot. Adding to the confusion was a “DO NOT ERASE” warning for the custodian, so there would be jottings from ages past.
Kids loved the Dog, but they were often bewildered by the Dog. You could see them trying to figure out the board, heads turned this way and that, the way a regular canine dog would turn its head out of confusion over a new sound, with an expression that said, “Huh”? And the Dog was loud. Students sitting in the back row of Mr. Meyer’s AP English class next door would plead with the guidance counselor to give them dual credit, because they were hearing as much about the Missouri Compromise as Beowulf.
The Dog also had some curious behaviors which contributed to his reputation as being “out there.” He would periodically bang his head against the wall, or he would go to the classroom door, throw it open, step into the empty hallway and yell, “WE’RE NOT IN KANSAS ANYMORE, TOTO.” And if a student was horsing around, not doing the work, not interested in academics; the Dog would get into his dish and say, “I can see into your future and where you will be working. Repeat after me, ‘YOU WANT FRIES WITH THAT?’ “
He was the Mad Dog, because he could be a little crazy. He was the Mad Dog, because he could be a little testy.
Some years into our friendship I got a new job description which involved student discipline; and one day the Dog came to my office to ask for help with a student who was getting under his skin. The student was summoned to office for a little chat, but I cannot remember a word he said, or what I said. What I remember was the decibel level of his mother’s voice, who threatened her son him with great bodily harm if he EVER gave any lip to a teacher. When the Dog came by, I told him that the kid had been given “…an offer he could not refuse,” quoting one of the most iconic lines in film history.
A few days later he came back, bowed deeply, and gave me a dramatic salaam, saying, “You are The Godfather. That student has been perfect. What the heck did you do?” I chose not to tell the Dog that the mom did the heavy lifting on this one, because I loved it when he called me The Godfather.
Mike’s legacy at the school is legendary and includes many more stories that are filled with humor, pathos and poignancy.
Like the time he was in a charity golf tournament. He was in a greenside bunker; and instead of burying the head of the club in the sand behind the ball for nice flop shot, he skulled the ball, which lazered across the green and zonked the school principal square in the head.
Like the time he wanted to get into the school on a Sunday, and not having a gate key, climbed the ten-foot chain link fence and fell from the top of the fence right on the sidewalk inside the fence, breaking his leg, while the keys to his classroom and his car fell outside the fence.
Like the time he sat in my office and wept over the loneliness in his personal life, telling me how much he loved the school, the kids and his colleagues — his lifeline.
I miss the Dog, taken by cancer not long after his retirement. I miss the easy comradeship and his sense of humor. I miss the wild and zany predicaments he so often fell into. I miss the child-like naivety about him. I miss the times he came by the office, and we spoke to each other in our own private language.
“Hey Godfather, I hear you were looking for some kid who went AWOL.”
“No worries, Dog, I got My man.”
Note:
There is an unsubstantiated rumor that — on the occasion of the golf tournament — someone ran to the clubhouse to report that the principal had been injured, which prompted one of Mike’s colleagues to quip, “Nothing trivial, I hope. Way to go, Dog!”
Tidings from Tim 