What I Sucked at in High School

Not long ago I was laughing with my older grandson (about to commence his junior year in high school) about the classes he will be taking. He’s talented in math and science, and he’ll be in AP courses in those subjects. I told him to name his courses, and I would tell him the grade I would have gotten in high school.

He did.  I said “F” after almost every one—except English (B) and Phys Ed (A).

I can’t say we had the greatest math and science teachers in high school, but that didn’t prohibit quite a few classmates from pursuing those subjects in college and beyond.

But I just didn’t “have it.” I took calculus my freshman year in college, and I did so poorly on one test that my professor—honest to God—wrote on my paper, “Can I help you cry?”

One of our high school science teachers was Forrest “Woody” Miller, whom the school also persuaded to be our baseball coach. He knew about as much about baseball as I did about chemistry.

I was the catcher, and during the pre-game warm-ups I had discovered that Mr. Miller could not hit a grounder to the third baseman—try as he might. So I would throw grounders to him instead. That seemed to satisfy everyone.

My senior year I signed up for chemistry (I’ve told this story before), but quickly changed my mind when Mr. Miller told us to memorize the periodic table for the next day.

I laughed.

“All right, Dyer,” he said. “Write a 500-word essay about why you shouldn’t laugh in chemistry class.”

I couldn’t help it: I laughed again.

“All right,” said Mr. Miller, “a thousand words.”

I did not laugh.

That night I went home and figured out, in the process, that maybe, in college, I should be an English major.

I wrote the whole punishment essay in one 1000-word sentence, all of which was one big digression. “I, Daniel Dyer, born in Enid, Oklahoma, on November 11, 1944, while my dad was overseas for World War II, a war that would see ....” And so on. I ended with this, “... now know that I should not laugh in chemistry class.”

I handed it in the next day—and dropped chemistry.

Signed up for advanced math—and actually did pretty well, considering. (A good teacher that year.)

I wasn’t really worried, you see, because back then I was sure I’d soon be the catcher for the Cleveland Indians (uh, Guardians).

Didn’t work out.

In college, I took the minimum requirements for math and science (you heard about calculus); I also took two courses in biology (liked them) and one in chemistry, where the professor, one of my father’s best friends, gave me a break and gave me a B.

And that was it.

In grad school I had to take a course in statistics, but by then I had learned to work, and I emerged with an A.

Maybe that would have impressed my grandson—after he stopped laughing.