Gym and Jabberwocky

School is back in session and I’m remembering some of some of the teachers I had back in the day. There was Mrs. Bertagnole, the queen of the sidearm eraser throw; Miss German, who nearly set me on my way to fame and fortune on the Broadway stage; and Mr. Maher, who introduced me to Monty Python and sacrament meetings. Don’t get me started on that.

You always hear about the “teacher who made all the difference.” For me, that was Mr. Larson. I was an eighth grader at Jordan Junior High and he was my English teacher. He was also my gym coach. After a miserable year as a seventh grader, he found a way to make me feel like a real human being again.

Robert Larson was a middle-aged, barrel-chested man with whitish-blonde hair and a ruddy complexion. He had a hearty laugh and reminded me of the Skipper from “Gilligan’s Island.” 

Mr. Larson had a knack for making education fun and interesting. He’d draw cartoons of burping monsters on our assignments and read “Dracula” to us by candlelight in the darkened classroom. He often spoke of doing a production of “Ransom of Red Chief”—a play about a scrappy, foul-mouthed kid who gets kidnapped and no one wants him back. The play never happened but just the idea that Mr. Larson was thinking about me to play the title character did a world of good for my self esteem. 

But the thing that made Mr. Larson such a hero to me was his role as my gym coach. 

I was a scrawny kid who was always getting crushed in football games by my brutish classmates. Mr. Larson recognized this and went out of his way to ensure my safety. On a few occasions, he would turn the other kids loose at their gladiator games then take me aside to walk around the perimeter of the school grounds. As we strode, we’d talk about The Muppet Show, MAD Magazine and occasionally my life at home. On our walks, I got the feeling that he genuinely cared about me. He championed my creative spark, my twisted sense of humor, and made sure I got my exercise at the same time.

I ran into him a few years ago at a Riders In The Sky concert. I got the chance to update him on where time had taken me, thank him for all he did for me, then shook his hand. He died the following year.

Here’s to you, Robert Larson—Patron saint of the lost and scrawny.