Coach Wamble's Ninth Grade Health Class

PE was the high school equivalent of recess, and though there was more control than recess, it was the only refuge a freshman boy had in a long day of ciphering, spelling, reading, and learning lessons from history. It was the place we could make noise, run, jump, and even fight without getting in too much trouble. PE was the highlight of our day.

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 with his generation or Coach’s moral view of society.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. 

The Man in the Overalls

In the mid 90s, I was a patrolman in Caddo Parish. One summer I worked two vehicle crashes on opposite ends of the parish within a week of each other. Both vehicles were totaled in the crashes, but everyone involved survived without injury. Despite the property damage, the accidents were ultimately a matter of inconvenience, but people respond differently to life’s little inconveniences…

The first crash occurred on Sunday night around 9 pm. I was northbound in a curve on Highway 538 when I drove up on a geyser spewing onto the highway. An older model Ford sedan was sitting on top of a water main. The 16 year-old driver left church that evening with a friend, and he went around a curve in his mother’s car a little too fast. When his wheels went off the road into the grass on the right side, he over corrected, spun out of control, and crashed into the water main.

With water splashing all around me, I started my report. Minutes later, a car pulled up, and a nicely dressed woman stepped out. The 16 year old approached her shyly, but she ignored him, walked up as close as possible, and fixated on the car which was the center piece of a giant water fountain. The boy followed behind her and apologized in a high-pitched voice. She ignored him, staring at the car in awe. He called her name, and she turned around and attacked him with a barrage of punches.

I dropped my clip board and pulled her away from him. He hyperventilated through tears, but despite his embarrassment, he was uninjured. I told his mother I was sorry for the damage to her car, but I could not allow her to attack her son. She calmed down, apologized, and promised to control herself.

A week later, I was called to the 90 degree turn turn on Williams Road at the end of Sparks Davis Road on a major accident. When I arrived, there was a pick-up truck sitting on top of a telephone pole. The area was dark because of the downed lines. I shined my flashlight on an older model Ford truck, nicely painted with chrome Crager rims. It was totaled by the crash. A 16 year old boy sat on the bed of the truck near the driver’s door. He was uninjured and nonchalantly answered my questions. The boy was unfamiliar with the road, was going too fast, and did not expect the curve. He drove straight through and crashed into the telephone pole.

I was filling out a crash report and taking measurements when a second pick-up truck pulled up. A tall, thin man with a handlebar mustache stepped out. He wore a t-shirt with cut off sleeves, bib overalls, and a welder’s cap turned backwards. He surveyed the scene with his hands deep in his pockets. The young man continued to sit on the truck. The man in the overalls walked all the way around the truck and stopped in front of the boy sitting on the bed.

“You alright boy?”

He had his head in his hands, and his hands were shaking. His voice cracked. “I’m sorry Daddy…I didn’t meant to wreck the truck.”

The man paused and said, “You think I’m worried about this old truck? I can get another truck, but I can’t get another son.”

With that, the boy dropped to the ground and wrapped both arms around his father. The man held his son’s head tightly against his chest. His boy was alive, and he knew something the boy didn’t know. Only minutes earlier the boy was over confident, impatient, and immune to danger, but not any more. Now he knew the deadly consequences of ignoring the rules. It was a lesson that would pay dividends into adulthood.

The pick up truck was gone, but the man in the overalls wasn’t surprised. He knew the day could come when irresponsibility just might override all the lessons and warnings. That is why he gave his boy an old truck and made it look as good as possible.

The old truck died that day, but the boy lived to tell about it and take a lesson with him that he would never forget…

The Woman Who Was Left Out in the Rain

            The calls came in steady until it got dark. We skipped dinner to search a bar on the south end. I was hoping to finish up quickly, but Mike Christian and Carl Townley found a bag of marijuana and a pistol under a bush on the outside of the bar where someone ditched them to keep from getting arrested. It was 10 pm when we left. Shift change was 30 minutes away.

            I pulled into the church parking lot behind everyone else. For January, it was mild. Our K-9 handler Kevin Dunn let his dog out to stretch his legs. The Belgian Malinois ran around the lot like a shadow, silent except for claws clicking across the pavement. Christian and Townley bagged the marijuana and .38 caliber Chief’s Special. As I caught up on my log sheet, it started to drizzle.

           We were outside of our cars talking when an urgent call came over the radio, but it wasn’t dispatch, it was Obie Galey, a Reserve Deputy. Patrolmen can tell how serious a call is by the caller’s tone of voice or noise in the background, but it didn’t take a law enforcement expert to know something was wrong. Obie was talking fast, his voice was higher than normal, and a car horn was blowing in the background. Obie announced a major vehicle crash on Colquitt Road, four miles west of us. 

           I ran to my car, but no one else heard the call.

            “What’s going on?”

            “Signal 53, Colquitt and Timber Ridge!”   

            I dropped my shifter into drive and switched on my lights and siren. It was a wet, winter night and most of Keithville was in bed. On the way to the crash, Dispatch told us a car ran off the road and hit a tree, and the driver was pinned inside. When I pulled up, the drizzle turned into rain.

            The fire department was half a mile down the road, but I beat them to the crash. I blocked the eastbound lane and grabbed my raincoat and campaign hat from the trunk. The hat was useless in dry weather, but during rain, it acted as an umbrella. With my clipboard and flashlight, I ran to the source of the noise: a white car bent around an oak tree. The piercing sound of the car horn got louder and louder until it was almost unbearable when I reached the driver’s door.

            Colquitt Road has a hard curve at its intersection with Timber Ridge, and the white car ran off the road, went through the ditch, and never slowed down until it was stopped dead in its tracks by an oak tree that was no more than 14 inches in diameter. If the pavement had been dry, the car could have made the curve, but it was going too fast on this night.

            The spot lights from our patrol cars lit up the scene like the mall parking lot. The passenger's side of the car took the brunt of the blow as it hit the tree and lifted the rear end, spinning it to the left.  Motorists stopped to see what was going on and residents who lived nearby came out of their homes and gathered at the corner to find out what the terrific noise was all about.

             I yelled in vain to the driver through the shattered window of his door. He groaned with pain, but I considered it a good sign that he was alive. I put my clip board and flashlight on the trunk and put my fingers in my ears. Carl approached the driver while I went to the front of the car. The hood was pilled  back exposing the engine which was hissing and steaming from a crushed radiator. I found the wires to the horn and ripped them away from the car. The deafening blare became a soft ring that gave way to the sound of falling rain.

            The driver was 15 years older than me and complained of pain in his legs and hip. It wasn’t surprising since were the steering wheel, dashboard, and right front end of his car were shoved up against him. I smelled alcohol and considered the irony that the thing which caused him to crash also kept him alive. His door was welded shut by the impact. Thankfully there were no passengers.

            

            Carl called the driver by name. George (not his real name) had been a maintenance man at Caddo Detention Center where we all once worked. Carl asked him what happened, but all he ignored him.

            “Get me outta here!”

            Carl asked him if anyone else was in the car. He said he was alone. I didn’t see anyone, but I tried the passenger’s door to be sure. It would not open. The dashboard and motor were shoved all the way into the front seat. I opened the back door. There were clothes and fried chicken scattered across the back seat. I threw out the clothes and frisked the seat and floor board. I was relieved to find no one there.

            When the fire department arrived, Firefighter Sherry Bowers spoke to George. When she yelled, “Who is that in the car with you,” I knew something was wrong. I put my clipboard and flashlight down and tried the passenger door again, but it wouldn’t budge. I lifted the latch, and pulled the door while pushing against the car with my foot. The metal bent, opening the door enough where I could get between it and the car and force it completely open.

The clothes were stacked in the backseat, but when the car hit the tree they were thrown everywhere. I pulled away two hand fulls from the floor board and saw a pair of legs snapped in two at the ankle. I moved the laundry out of the seat and found a woman lying on her side. The top of her body was covered by the crushed engine compartment. George was not alone.

That night, George and his wife went to town to do laundry and pick up dinner. While waiting for her to wash the clothes, he drank a six pack, or two, and bought a bucket of fried chicken. On the way home, he was going too fast in the curve and ran off the road. His wife saw what was happening and leaned over in the seat with her head in his lap. When the car hit the tree, her feet were between the seat and the door and the impact broke her ankles.

             She was pinned in the car along with George. A firefighter climbed on the hood with the Jaws of Life and cut the top of the car away from the posts. The firemen peeled the roof back like a can of sardines, cut the back of the front seat off, and lifted her out of the car from the back seat. There was no sign of life.

            George was oblivious to the rescue beside him. He screamed in pain and demanded help. The firemen struggled to get him out of the car, having to cut the door off to get him out. While I took measurements of the crash, they strapped his wife to a back board and put her in an open spot forty feet away and left her alone to wait for transportation. I walked over and stood beside her. Her feet were turned out abnormally, and the rain fell on both of us. I prayed for and wondered about her soul. She was a person made in God’s image, and for all the horror she had been through moments earlier, she was at peace.

            The roar of the helicopter reminded me of why I was there. It was the only time in my career I saw a helicopter fly in the rain. It took George and his wife to the hospital. I followed and found him in the Emergency Room where I read him his rights. He fought against the medical staff, but the nurse drew his blood. He was well above the legal limit for intoxication.

            Kevin knew the woman who was in the crash. She was a committed Christian who led a quiet life and worked with her hands. I am thankful that I was there to see her home.