But in 1977, there was a sinister plot to deny our freedom and pursuit of manhood. The higher-ups in education decided we were having too much fun at school, and in order to curtail our enthusiasm, they decided to cut back on things like PE and Home-Ec. Their decision hit the boys hardest because we had to break up our normal week of PE for a new class called Health. The interruption of our week had a devastating effect on morale.
Coach Wamble was our PE/Health teacher. I say teacher loosely because there wasn’t much for him to do in PE. Aside from a jock strap check and pre-class warm ups, old Coach basically had a free period. When you take a group of boys in shorts and t-shirts and throw them a ball or lay down a mat, they entertain themselves.
Making an A in Coach Wamble’s class was a given as long as you did two simple things. First, you had to dress out for class. I couldn’t understand why anybody would not dress out for PE, but there were always a few goofballs sitting in the bleachers in school clothes. Greg Crippen said it was a menstrual issue, but I didn’t what he meant until I was out of school.
The other requirement for a good grade was to take a shower after class. For freshmen, taking a shower was no big deal (no pun intended). How hard could it be to dress out and take a shower before going back to class? But regardless of how easy it was, every now and then one of our classmates thought he could save time by skipping his shower and going straight to class, stinky and sweaty. The first week of school, one of the culprits was discovered in Mrs. Knight’s class. Mrs. Knight adored seniors and doted on graduates who returned to say hello, but freshmen had yet to earn her affection. Until we conformed to her rigorous demands, there was discipline to be mete without sympathy. We never knew who didn’t take a shower (there were several candidates), but I imagine there was a conversation in the Teacher’s Lounge that went like this:
"Coach Wamble, Wann Baughman came into my class today and smelled like a locker room! His arm pits were disgusting! Don’t you make those boys take showers when they get done with PE? If you can’t take care of the hygiene requirements of those boys I’ll tell Mr. Yancey, and he’ll take care of it!"
Well, you know what happens after a conversation like that. One kid came to class smelling like a turd and the rest of us had to pay. Coach Wamble had us form a single line and bend over. With his paddle, Old Faithful, in hand, he lit us up like a string of firecrackers. It was akin to Babe Ruth taking batting practice, and when we got to the showers, we had a bright red line across our butts to remind us of Coach's hygiene requirements. Gym shorts and jock straps were no protection against Old Faithful. From that day forward, nobody left PE without a shower, and everything was fine until mid-September when our days of Bombardment, Kill Ball, and Smear the Queer were cut short. A new rule from the State Board required us to take Health class on Tuesdays and Thursdays. None of us knew what to expect, but we were confident Coach thought the whole Health thing was as stupid as we did.
We rumbled in to class the first day expecting to have a subdued PE class in Coach Wamble’s room. We figured there were plenty of activities we could do on the carpet, like wrestling, Indian holds, or maybe relays. After all, what Coach ever cared about classroom stuff?
When we filed into class, Coach Wamble, a hulk of a man, sat silently behind his desk. He didn’t look left. He didn’t look right. Coach was a cross between Hoss Cartwright and Buford Pusser, but despite his size, he was quick and agile. It was September, but he wore his blue coaching jacket buttoned up to his throat and a pair of blue polyester coaching shorts that fell just above his knees. His white socks were high on his ankle, and his shoes were Spot-Bilt. In winter, Coach changed his attire only slightly with gold polyester coaching pants instead of shorts. Not once do I remember Coach wearing something other than his blue jacket, a Trojan pullover, polyester pants or shorts, and Spot-Bilt coaching shoes. He was a man of economy and fashion.
When it came to the classroom, we discovered Coach had another set of eccentricities. He was on his feet in PE or on the football field, but in the classroom, he never stood up. Some teachers had solid, oak chairs at their desk, but not Coach. His chair had wheels on it. He could scoot across the room and never get out of his chair. When he had to write something on the chalkboard, he wheeled over, leaned sideways, and scribbled the assignment from his chair.
But there was something else. In the classroom, Coach strictly observed all rules. Our PE Coach had two rules that were simple and consistent, but our Classroom Coach was a referee who objectively and subjectively enforced every rule, even the ones we didn’t know.
We walked in talking and laughing and found a place to sit down. When the bell rang, Coach watched us but didn't say a word. It looked like Health wasn’t going to be as bad as we thought. We continued talking, but we became increasingly uncomfortable under Coach’s watchful eye until the noise gradually faded, and it was completely quiet. Coach scanned the room and spoke for the first time.
“Why did it take you so long to get quiet? It’s been a full five minutes since the bell rang. You don’t come into my classroom acting like a bunch of animals. You’re old enough to have some respect. Line up by my desk and get your lick right now!”
Coach pulled Old Faithful from his right top drawer like a gunfighter draws a pistol on an outlaw. When we came into the classroom we mistook his quietness for indifference, but he wasn’t indifferent. In PE, he was easy to deal with, just dress out and wash your armpits, but the classroom business was confusing. We were seeing Coach like we had never seen him before, and we couldn’t tell if he was serious or not.
While the others were still wondering, I high-tailed it to his desk. I was no stranger to the paddle and figured the smartest thing to do was get it over with before he got warmed up. Instead lining up side by side like we did in the gym when we were in trouble, we lined up single file and leaned over his desk. I was the first one up.
I expected him to stand up to swing, but he pushed his chair back, rolled to the side of his desk with a single push of his left foot, brought the paddle back until it almost touched the floor, and snapped it up across my arse like flipping the paddle of a pinball machine. My theory that he wasn't warmed up was wrong. As the year progressed, I was amazed at Coach's consistency. Each lick he delivered was supplied with the exact measure of force necessary to alter your level of reality without rendering you unconscious. Common sense said Coach would wear down after swinging his paddle thirty times, but it didn't happen. Each stroke was measured out precisely like pistons in an engine, and each one stung like lightning. Everyone had the same experience, except one. Billy Cagle got twice the pain.
Billy was a smart aleck kid with long hair which was not poplar in the south in those days. Billy was of the opinion that Coach’s foray into corporal punishment was unjust, and he was unable to hide his disdain. He gave Coach a dirty look when he bent over the desk. Coach brought back his paddle and snapped it like he was hitting a ball across the court. When he connected, Billy’s hair flew forward,and before he could recoup, Wamble caught him a second time with perfect one-two rhythm.
“Don’t you look at me sideways boy!”
Years of sports made old Wamble adept with any device that could be swung, thrown, or hit, but his tool of choice was Old Faithful, and he swung her the way a tennis pro swings his favorite racket...with skill and efficiency. We were tough in those days, but there was not a man among us who didn’t have a tear in his eye after a single stroke of Old Faithful.
The second day of Health class we filed in meek as doves. We learned our lesson the first day, and we weren’t about to take any chances by upsetting the big guy. Wamble sat at his desk, watching us like a cat watching a flock of birds. We were quiet and orderly and thought all was well, but when the bell rang, Coach ordered us to step forward. We looked at each other in confusion. Coach explained, “I know you are going to do something in class today that I won’t catch, so come on up here and get your punishment now.” I didn’t like it, but I wasn’t going to be a sissy.
Coach gave each of us a lick, and from that day forward, he started class the same way. Every day we got at least one lick, and sometimes more.
In one short week, freshmen Health class became the best behaved group in school. Say what you want about corporate punishment, but there is no doubt about it's behavior restraining abilities. Coach transformed a bunch of rowdy boys into compliant students, eager to behave. Perhaps even more amazing than that, our coach, a man who loved sports and the outdoors, was serious about our health. Most of the time we read a chapter in the book and did the questions at the end, but sometimes he gave a lecture or demonstration. He taught us all kinds of useful stuff like: how to avoid drinking water with feces in it, the necessity of wearing mosquito repellant when visiting Africa, and how to keep your ears clean. Coach was big on clean ears, and to reinforce his lesson, he had a daily ritual of taking a Q-Tip and alcohol bottle from his desk drawer and dipping the tip in alcohol. He swabbed the top part of his ear in an ‘S’ motion, and when he reached his ear canal, he plunged it in like Johnny Reb preparing to fire a canon. The freshman boys had the cleanest ears in the entire school that year.
Our daily routine involved quietly answering chapter questions in our book. Coach strictly forbade cheating and made it clear that anyone caught cheating would be punished. One day Cagle was looking over the shoulder of the guy in front of him and getting an answer to an important health question.
“Cagle…bring your paper up here and stand beside the desk!”
Old Billy Boy was caught red handed. I looked away not wanting to see him suffer, but I heard the smack of Old Faithful doing her work of deterrence. Before Billy returned to his seat, Coach took his paper and graded it, and Billy got an an A. Though cheating was a corporal offense, it did not effect our grade. From that day on, we had A averages, but it was painful.
That spring, we had an assignment on the World Health Organization. We studied in silence. Coach, as always, was seated behind his desk. Occasionally I looked up from my book to find him watching me like a Warden watching the yard during Rec, so I held my head in my hand while I read my book. A minute later, I spread my fingers and peeked through to see him glaring at me. I didn’t look up until Spencer Nix unwittingly made a public announcement.
Spencer and I had been friends since the second grade. He was the funniest guy at school, but Old Faithful had a way of restraining his creative abilities in Health class, at least until that day. Perhaps it was photic sneeze reflex, dust, or some other irritant, but in the quietness of a classroom full of young, expanding minds, Spencer sneezed. Fortunately for my old friend, sneezing alone was not enough to incur Coach’s wrath, but Spence did not stop there. With perfect timing, he topped off his sneeze with a bi-lateral fricative. To this day it is debated rather Spencer snarted, feezed, or merely snooted, but the result was all the same. The tranquility of our fair classroom was compromised.
The sneeze startled us, but a public gastric release always elicits hearty laughter from adolescent boys. Anticipating our reaction, Spencer burst out laughing, but the class remained silent due to the somber affect of Old Faithful hovering over us like the Sword of Damocles. Spencer’s laugh was an obvious attempt to garner our support and distract Coach, but it did neither. Coach had him dead in his sights.
“Nix come on up here and get your licks for disrupting my class.”
Wamble did not find Spencer’s faux pas amusing. Spence pleaded his case, claiming lack of control and no specific intent, but Coach did not waver. Spence pleaded for mercy, but to no avail, and his groveling was only making matters worse.
The rest of us were sorry for our buddy, but not enough to join him at the gallows. When Spencer leaned over the desk, Coach nailed him with a grand-slam that echoed in the room like a gunshot and followed it up with a second one before he had time to recover. Nix got the old "one-two" and stood red cheeked and speechless. It was like watching a track star trip over a hurdle and fall face down in the cinders, it was funny but tragic at the same time. Spence suppressed his tears while the rest of us avoided eye contact. We kept a straight face until the bell rang, and then hurried out. Once we were out of harm's way, we roared.
Freshman Health left a lasting impression on us. It taught us the value of corporal punishment, how to be efficient, the importance of having clean ears, and the necessity of controlling ourselves when sneezing. It is unfortunate that modern education has overlooked these essential elements. It is also unfortunate that there are not more men like Sam Wamble who took great interest in growing little boys into men.
