To the Victor Goes the Spoil-Cover

Yesterday after school I had a meeting. It was actually the First Monday meeting, set back a week because on the first Monday, I was sitting at home in my dark basement lair with snow and sleet piling up outside.

Normally, I yank open the printer on the table to my left in my classroom control center under the drafty window where everything from the spooky groundskeeper to a giant praying mantis look over my shoulder with me happily unawares. Then I grab a few sheets of blank paper for note-taking at the meeting, and rush willy-nilly down the hall to pick my seat. Heh, heh. I said pick my seat. It may come as a shock to you that Val Thevictorian prints her notes in block letters that resemble typing in all caps, her lines varying neither up nor down, Val being neither an optimist nor a pessimist, the duality of her nature keeping her ship sailing on even keel as she cruises down the hall to her destination, the calm port of Libraria.

But yesterday I did not elbow the students out of my way as they charged from my room like so many rodeo broncs with burrs under their saddles being spurred out of the chute by giant-belt-buckle-seeking cowboys. I waited. Not because I wanted to be late for the meeting. Because I wanted to speak momentarily with The Pony, who always walks past me in the hall without recognition, to his locker, and back to my classroom to await my departure. Have you heard? He doesn't have his driver's license yet.

On a normal day, The Pony drops in at the beginning of his lunch shift, while I'm having my plan time, not to greet me and make small talk, but to grab his lunch bag that I have packed for him. But yesterday, The Pony was not at school, but competing with other mathletes at the local junior college in a contest. He has been successful in the past, garnering firsts and seconds. I report this not to brag, as I am so often accused when reporting good news about The Pony or Genius, here on my personal blog, it's not like I'm sending you each a newsletter at Christmas with bullet points of their achievements and copies of newspaper clippings, for cryin' out loud. But why wouldn't I, having a championship mathlete riding behind me every day? It can't be bad news all the time, with stories about Hick's transgressions. You can pick your seat, you know, but you can't pick your family. Anyhoo...I am only reporting these facts to let the record show that The Pony marches to a different drummer. In slacks.

Yesterday, however, The Pony did not wear slacks. He was pantsed, of course, but in black cargo pants, the better to stash two #2 pencils sharpened to surgical precision. He didn't have any special good-luck shirt that he wanted to wear, so I laid out a blue polo shirt with thin black stripes. Otherwise, The Pony might have chosen some odd old-man-looking shirt and buttoned it to the top.

So...I waited and waited. I wanted to know how The Pony did in his math contest. You know, so I could brag about it here let the record show The Pony's quirks. Sometimes in the past, when students returned from the contest and came back to class, they couldn't wait to tell me about how Genius or The Pony fared. This year's class does not have such a bond with me. I doubt they even associate The Pony, same last name of Thevictorian and all, as being a relative of mine. I am not certain they know that I exist, unless they want to leave the classroom. One of them can emit a tiny mouse sneeze, and three or four will say, "Bless you." I, on the other hand, could honk an eyeball across the room, and you could hear crickets chirp and tumbleweeds tumble. But that's okay. Some groups are aloof, and other groups jump up and demand a high-five when I enter like frat boys watching a mixed-martial-arts match. I did not ask them for any news of my son, because, well, we are not friends like that.

I gathered up my blank paper and my Pilot Precise V5 Rolling Ball pen, blue, and a bottle of water, because faculty meetings are thirsty work, and started out the door. Any later, and I would be walking in as the meeting was underway, and get a mixture of the stinkeye and "You lucky dog" looks from the attendees. Here came The Pony up the hall. I heard him before I saw him, me still being in the alcove of concrete blocks at the doorway. "Yeah. I like it because it covers up the chocolate shake stain on my shirt from lunch." Yes, there was my little Pony, prancing down the hall with a gold medal half the size of a rodeo belt buckle flapping on its blue ribbon and thumping his belly near the button.

"Oh, you won this year?"

"Uh huh."

"So you didn't tie and get to the medal first?" Let the record show that twice in the past at this contest, The Pony has tied with another boy in his class. The first year, the other boy got to the podium first and got the medal, while The Pony was told that a duplicate medal would be mailed to him. It was. But it was engraved wrong and sent back. It took about six weeks to get the right medal. Which kind of took the pride out of The Pony. So the next year, a tie again, his teacher called to tell me (laughing so hard that I could barely understand her) that when the names were announced, The Pony took off running down the steps to the stage, nearly falling twice in his haste, and got there first, to get the medal.

"It's usually so close. How many points did you win by?"

"One. But I got the medal."

That's my Pony. Braggers gotta brag.

Oh, and he was late coming up the hall because he had been playing chess with the second-place finisher. I did not ask who won.