Second hour, World History. Coach Mannaonni

 

                                      

                           

There is a certain aura about second hour History teacher Mr. Mannaoni.  He always seems to have a smile welded into his face. He has been the head coach of the Varsity football team for the last twenty years.  Every just calls him Coach Mann.  He is retiring from Coaching but will continue to teach part time. There’s a certain aura about Coach Mann. A silent dignity with which he walks down the hall, heralding a handful of Penguin classics with Greek names above the clipboard with thoroughly illustrated football plays. 

There is no assigned seating in Coach Mann’s class, although the general vicinity of the classroom where we sit on the first day is where we will be seated for the semester. 
There are a dozen shoebox-sized acropolis  featuring a project in which the students were to identify and then create  a diorama of ancient Greek.

The girl from my home room with the Metallica t-shirt and the fairy tale blond hair sits next to me.

Although I am seated in the classroom I am still shielded in the blue of my locker. I don’t want to talk. Coach Mann looks around and nods when he says that it looks like we have several Junior Varsity football players in the house.  He says each of our names and we are expected to rise.  The classroom is surfeited.  Not everyone has a seat. There is an alarming numbers of sophomores in the class.  For being a football Coach there is something demure and avuncular in the way coach M addresses the class. 

 

There are textbooks which he says will be distributed at a later date.

 

“You will note that an integral facet of human history is being secluded with your tribe and getting to know and work with them to develop the continuity of the planet.”

He look around. There seems to be some sort of glint in his eyes that is historically labeled as a twinkle.

For a football Coach whose team is expected to go far this year I can’t imagine him yelling worth shit.

"Let's convene this symposium by going around and introducing ourselves."

Coach M looks in my direction. His hand points like a conductor tapping his baton before an orchestral funeral dirge.

I am the Boy without a face. I am ensconced in my own Sarcophagus locker that will not open. I am coy. I do not wish to talk.

"You certainly look like a bright young scholar, stand up and tell us your name." 

I buckle at the knees. I try to stand up.

I don't know exactly what at all to say.