KEEP SMILING, COACH

By Charles Hammer

The writer with Mr. Johnson, his high school history teacher.

There he was, standing in the front of the class, saying something about American history. His smile told you he knew it all. He knew the secrets. Just calm down and be patient. I just didn’t understand. In hindsight, he was very much like a retired George W. Bush. He had the confidence of really knowing how it was while sounding like a fool. He would speak in jibs and jabs. “Right here now, people. In the constitution...”

His name was Aldie Johnson. He spent most of his time as our high school basketball coach, but I knew him as my American history teacher. I didn’t follow sports, so I didn’t care. All I knew was that there was something in him that compelled him to educate the youth on the real American history. The American history of Reagan. He was a conservative. I was decidedly not. I was the long-haired, tie-dyed wearing peace activist. I’d read those underground magazines. I didn’t watch TV. I knew things. I knew that he was the enemy.

But it was so hard not to like him. He had the most wonderful smile. He wore round, frameless glasses that gave him just a hint of nutty scholar. He was no college professor, but he did know American history. He listened to the students, but he didn’t put up with much. I think a lot of the kids were scared of him because he was the basketball coach.

He was born in 1926 in Buffalo County, Neb., which has the distinction of being number five in population in the state. This means it wasn’t quite in the middle of nowhere, but it was close. He was a coach for 41 years and earned his place in the state high school hall of fame.

I made a few futile attempts at the beginning of the year to question his assumptions. He wasn’t mean about it, but he wouldn’t take the bait. He would respond with some quick facts or just move on. He refused to get distracted from the task at hand.

The yearly talent show was coming up. I was hanging around after school, trying to catch the interest of a girl. She said we should write a skit together. We didn’t have a lot of time, nor did we have any talents. All I could think of was making fun of the teachers. We came up with something. We would portray all the popular teachers when they were in high school, except they would be the opposite of their adult versions. We weren’t mean.

We found some other kids to be actors and wrote the skit. We had someone play our principal and vice principal, the disciplinarian who got sent to detention in the skit. I played Johnson as a young hippy rebel, more of a James Dean mixed with Spicoli, the surfer dude from “Fast Times at Ridgemont High.” I came to class late, dribbling a basketball and railed against The Man. The girl played the teacher and made sure to call out the names as she yelled at each of us so the audience would know.

The strange thing about being on stage under the lights is that it’s very hard to tell what people think. It could have been just another skit that everyone forgot. I remember some laughs at the right time. We all went home and didn’t think about it much. No one kicked us out of school.

I was wandering around at lunch the next day. You know that feeling when something is happening but you don’t know what it is? Someone came up to me and told me I had to see something down the hall. I walked over there. There was Aldie Johnson, in a long-haired wig and tie-dyed T-shirt, holding up a protest sign, shouting about world peace. He was walking around the lunchroom, pretending to be ME. I still can’t believe it.

I was so worried. I had no idea why he was doing this. I just wanted to run away, but he wanted a picture together. We’re standing next to each other. He’s smiling like he knows something. I’m looking grumpy, with a small smile, confused.

Mr. Johnson loved his players and students, even the liberal, hippy know-it-alls who made fun of him. He knew it was flattery and he returned the favor. He stood proudly in that hallway with his mock protest sign, just as he stood proudly teaching his class. He knew I had a lot to learn. He inspires me to this day.

When I hear stories from my junior at Columbia High School of students who won’t take classes from conservative teachers, I tell her about Mr. Johnson and show her the picture.

Thank you, Mr. Johnson. Keep smiling.

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Charles Hammer's high school history teacher taught him lessons about life.