A Boy Named Danny
I take my book reviews aside for a moment to speak concerning someone who made a difference in my life. His name was Danny. It probably still is, unless as an adult he uses Dan or Daniel. I don't know. When I was at East Ridge Elementary, it was a rough time for me. The school was new to me, and the kids lived a different life than any kids I'd met before. When we are children, we tend to be very accepting. As much as we like to pretend that social status doesn't matter, as adults, we do care. We judge based on appearance and social status. Most kids don't.
But at East Ridge, they did. I think that is because it was a very affluent neighborhood that it served, for the most part. It had both Saybrook and Aspenwood, both of which consisted of mostly million-dollar houses. I just checked on zillow to make sure I wasn't saying anything incorrect. The cheapest of them I found was $675K. I assume because of this, social status and economic appearance mattered. It mattered that you wore Limited 2 and Gap and American Eagle and Abercrombie &Fitch. It mattered that you listened to the right artists, had your hair done the right way and wore the right color and style of braces (yes, right color and style of braces).
I didn't fit in. My family was not one of the "poor" families, but even if my parents could have afforded to shop at Limited 2 (perhaps we could have), we didn't care enough to spend that kind of money on something as frivolous as clothing, especially when that clothing was for a child who would outgrow it in a few months. I was fairly well-accepted, all the same, but looking back, I think it was because I was a tool, basically. I found out from one of the girls when we were older that I was liked well-enough, but mostly thought of as someone who you went and talked to when you had problems or to help you with your homework. Someone who you kept in your arsenal of people on good terms in case you needed a group project partner. I didn't mind too much. I once mentioned to my mother that I didn't remember having a lot of friends growing up (at least not close ones), and she said that it's true. I asked her if she worried and she said, "You didn't seem to really be bothered by it, so I didn't think it was a big deal." She was right. I've heard that there are children who do not feel a need to have friends. I think I was one of those.
Sometimes, however, it would be hard. One of the things that did embarrass me was that I had absolutely no athletic skill. At all. I never wanted to be a soccer star, or anything, but it was hard to not even have enough skill to get through PE without incident. Even though I didn't really care if people liked me, I didn't want people to hate me. And everyone was frustrated when you lost the game for them. In fifth grade, I had this PE teacher named Mr. Gold. He--as I remember--was the meanest man that God ever did breathe life into. My brother, Caleb says I'm wrong, but I have evidence. Some of which will be shared today.
One day, Mr. Gold kind of lost patience with my complete ineptness. We were playing baseball. Baseball is one of the worst sports out there, because if you lose, it is completely your fault. You are definitely the one who dropped the ball, and you are definitely the one who struck out. It is your fault without question. I figured I'd go up there, strike out as usual and then I could go back in line until I went into the outfield and hoped it never came near me. Mr. Gold had other plans. I think he thought I must be missing on purpose so that I didn't have to run or something. If Mr. Gold is reading this--which I seriously doubt--I am telling you now, this is not the case. I really couldn't hit a ball to save my life. So, once I had struck out, I started to turn, dropping the bat, ready to go back in line. He told me that I wasn't done, and I would sit there until I hit the ball. So began the horror. It seemed like four hundred throws later, and I still hadn't hit the ball. The pitcher hated my guts because he had to keep on pitching. Everyone in the line hated my guts because they wanted to bat, and everyone in the outfield hated my guts because they were tired of sitting in the outfield doing nothing.
That's when one person showed that he was more than most of the rest of that class. Danny Becker came out of the batting line and walked up behind me. Mr. Gold yelled at him to get back in line. But he just yelled back, "Well, she's never going to hit it if she doesn't know how." He showed me that, first of all, I wasn't even holding the bat correctly. Second, that I was swinging it wrong. He stood there and taught me how to hit a baseball. With the entire rest of the class sitting there and rolling their eyes at us. He didn't care. First, he held the bat over my hands until I could hit it. Then, he let go of the bat and coached me through hitting it. I hit the ball and then game went on.
I don't even remember if I said thanks to him. I am still terrible at baseball, but I can get through baseball day at Camp Little Oak each year, and can even encourage those girls who don't know how to play. Danny didn't change my social status at East Ridge Elementary. We didn't grow up and get married like we would in any novel. We didn't even become best of friends, though I always thought of him differently. We moved in different circles. I was a brainy, nerdy, loner kind. And I liked it. Danny was the elementary school equivalent of a jock. But he didn't act like one. And that's what counts.
In today's world, it seems like we can contact any childhood friend we choose on the internet. Can you believe that I cannot find this early-twenties guy on the internet? I've looked. I want to say thank-you. But I guess I'll just have to feel it and hope that he knows how thankful I was that day.
But at East Ridge, they did. I think that is because it was a very affluent neighborhood that it served, for the most part. It had both Saybrook and Aspenwood, both of which consisted of mostly million-dollar houses. I just checked on zillow to make sure I wasn't saying anything incorrect. The cheapest of them I found was $675K. I assume because of this, social status and economic appearance mattered. It mattered that you wore Limited 2 and Gap and American Eagle and Abercrombie &Fitch. It mattered that you listened to the right artists, had your hair done the right way and wore the right color and style of braces (yes, right color and style of braces).
I didn't fit in. My family was not one of the "poor" families, but even if my parents could have afforded to shop at Limited 2 (perhaps we could have), we didn't care enough to spend that kind of money on something as frivolous as clothing, especially when that clothing was for a child who would outgrow it in a few months. I was fairly well-accepted, all the same, but looking back, I think it was because I was a tool, basically. I found out from one of the girls when we were older that I was liked well-enough, but mostly thought of as someone who you went and talked to when you had problems or to help you with your homework. Someone who you kept in your arsenal of people on good terms in case you needed a group project partner. I didn't mind too much. I once mentioned to my mother that I didn't remember having a lot of friends growing up (at least not close ones), and she said that it's true. I asked her if she worried and she said, "You didn't seem to really be bothered by it, so I didn't think it was a big deal." She was right. I've heard that there are children who do not feel a need to have friends. I think I was one of those.
Sometimes, however, it would be hard. One of the things that did embarrass me was that I had absolutely no athletic skill. At all. I never wanted to be a soccer star, or anything, but it was hard to not even have enough skill to get through PE without incident. Even though I didn't really care if people liked me, I didn't want people to hate me. And everyone was frustrated when you lost the game for them. In fifth grade, I had this PE teacher named Mr. Gold. He--as I remember--was the meanest man that God ever did breathe life into. My brother, Caleb says I'm wrong, but I have evidence. Some of which will be shared today.
One day, Mr. Gold kind of lost patience with my complete ineptness. We were playing baseball. Baseball is one of the worst sports out there, because if you lose, it is completely your fault. You are definitely the one who dropped the ball, and you are definitely the one who struck out. It is your fault without question. I figured I'd go up there, strike out as usual and then I could go back in line until I went into the outfield and hoped it never came near me. Mr. Gold had other plans. I think he thought I must be missing on purpose so that I didn't have to run or something. If Mr. Gold is reading this--which I seriously doubt--I am telling you now, this is not the case. I really couldn't hit a ball to save my life. So, once I had struck out, I started to turn, dropping the bat, ready to go back in line. He told me that I wasn't done, and I would sit there until I hit the ball. So began the horror. It seemed like four hundred throws later, and I still hadn't hit the ball. The pitcher hated my guts because he had to keep on pitching. Everyone in the line hated my guts because they wanted to bat, and everyone in the outfield hated my guts because they were tired of sitting in the outfield doing nothing.
That's when one person showed that he was more than most of the rest of that class. Danny Becker came out of the batting line and walked up behind me. Mr. Gold yelled at him to get back in line. But he just yelled back, "Well, she's never going to hit it if she doesn't know how." He showed me that, first of all, I wasn't even holding the bat correctly. Second, that I was swinging it wrong. He stood there and taught me how to hit a baseball. With the entire rest of the class sitting there and rolling their eyes at us. He didn't care. First, he held the bat over my hands until I could hit it. Then, he let go of the bat and coached me through hitting it. I hit the ball and then game went on.
I don't even remember if I said thanks to him. I am still terrible at baseball, but I can get through baseball day at Camp Little Oak each year, and can even encourage those girls who don't know how to play. Danny didn't change my social status at East Ridge Elementary. We didn't grow up and get married like we would in any novel. We didn't even become best of friends, though I always thought of him differently. We moved in different circles. I was a brainy, nerdy, loner kind. And I liked it. Danny was the elementary school equivalent of a jock. But he didn't act like one. And that's what counts.
In today's world, it seems like we can contact any childhood friend we choose on the internet. Can you believe that I cannot find this early-twenties guy on the internet? I've looked. I want to say thank-you. But I guess I'll just have to feel it and hope that he knows how thankful I was that day.
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