When I was twelve I thought that when the New Orleans Times-Picayune ran a headline about the "struggle for control of the West Bank" it meant the other side of the Mississippi River. I thought that my shiny gold velour pants actually looked good. I kept a giant sack of Nabisco Chocolate Chip cookies under my bed so that they might be available in an emergency - a flood, say, or a hurricane - that made it harder to get to the grocery store. From the safe distance of forty-three, "twelve" looks less an age than a disease, and, for the most part, I've been able to forget all about it - not the events and the people, but the feelings that gave them meaning. But there are exceptions. A few people, and a few experiences, simply refuse to be trivialized by time. There are teachers with a rare ability to enter a child's mind; it's as if their ability to get there at all gives them the right to stay forever. I'd once had such a teacher. His name was Billy Fitzgerald, but everybody just called him Coach Fitz,
- From Coach: Lessons on the Game of Life: Lessons on Baseball and Life by Michael Lewis
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