The Leaves of Autumn

I was an eighth grader at Lincoln Junior High School, when my parents had a talk with me. They told me they wanted to send me to a private school called the Fay School in Southborough, Massachusetts,  ten miles from my home town of Framingham. I wasn’t too keen on the idea, as I had friends and activities I liked, though somewhere in the back of my mind I knew I wasn’t doing too much in school. I was having fun, but not learning much. My parents sold me on Fay School by describing the possibilities in sports, my favorite activities at that point.

When I arrived at Fay, I was scared to death. Kids wore ties and coats and called the teachers, “Sir”. The work was too hard, and the place was more refined than my old schools. My salvation was the football field. I said I was an end, though I really had no idea where I should play. In practice someone said I was a good passer, so I had a chance to play in the backfield. After a pass play the quarterback called a running play, and my career was born, when I ran through the entire team.

The success that followed was a paradox. On one hand my self-esteem, which had always been shaky, rose as I ran for long gains, whenever I had the ball. The only problem was that these gains happened in practice! Our first game against Belmont Hill was eye opening and humbling. I realized before the coaches did that I wasn’t fast enough to be a star running back. I could bang through the line and make some yards, but I was definitely limited. My moment of fame had ended hardly before it had begun. Life lessons were already coming my way, and I had only been at the school a few weeks.

Off the field I struggled also. I hated Latin. I couldn’t do it, and it took too much time to learn. My poor father was doing his best to help me, but I firmly announced one day my intention to quit the horrible subject. Full of resolve I approached my teacher, Doug Mann, the next day and told him of my decision. I was feeling comfortable because I was convinced that my pain and suffering were about to end. But I had underestimated my teacher.

Little did I know that Mr. Mann would turn Latin into a metaphor. He told me I couldn’t quit something because it was hard. He said life would throw many challenges my way. Basically he implied I would be a wuss, if I followed through with my plan. Needless to say I didn’t quit, and I ended up getting an A in the course. I frequently tell this story to young patients I see in my psychology practice, when I see them retreat in the face of adversity.

My second and last year at Fay was fun and rewarding. I did well academically, and I played three sports. I was on the student council, and I had a lot of friends. But the lessons kept coming. I let in seven goals while playing hockey goalie against archrival Fessenden. Coach King said something about the law of averages-he was a math teacher too-but I knew I had stunk that day. I learned to move on, and it wouldn’t be the last time.

When I think back to my two years at Fay, I think of these things along with the rolling hills, green grass, and beautiful trees. Some years later I ran into Doug Mann on the slopes of Aspen Mountain, and later in the day, we talked over martinis. After he died, I knew he lived on within me, and I hoped I had done him justice by passing him along to others who needed him like I did, when, as a young, lost boy from Lincoln Junior high School, I walked into his Latin class.