As another year of teaching comes to an end and year 20 steadily approaches, I’ve learned that a single day in the classroom can make you laugh, break your heart, bring tears to your eyes, and stir emotions you never saw coming. As a teacher, all you can really do is “Embrace It All.” I’ve spent the last several years writing and retelling some of those moments in my upcoming self-published book, Embrace It All. This is a preview of one of those stories—a chapter retelling some of the many times I had no choice but to be “Humbled” in the school building.
“Is there a teacher who can play a little basketball?”
The Harlem Wizards asked the students sitting in the gym at Eisenhower Middle School in Norristown, Pennsylvania. The Harlem Wizards are very similar to the Harlem Globetrotters, and this afternoon they were performing trick shots and basketball feats for our student body. After about an hour of amazing basketball skills, one of the Wizards asked for a teacher to participate. Almost unanimously, all of the seventh- and eighth-graders began pointing and yelling:
“Bacchus!”
“Bacchus!”
“Bacchus!”
I was standing over to the side of the bleachers and actively trying to disappear. The students, however, knew exactly where I was and pointed me out to the Harlem Wizards.
I was almost done with my student teaching at Eisenhower Middle School and had developed a good relationship with most of my students. On my first day, my cooperating teacher, Ms. Hampton, immediately informed me that my background as an African-American All-American Football Player would allow me to connect with the students easily—and she was not wrong. In this case, though, I had connected too much and they were volunteering me for something that I didn’t want to do.
I reluctantly walked onto the basketball court and received a raucous ovation. One of the Wizards had a microphone and began asking me a few questions.
“What’s your name?”
“Mr. Bacchus,” I replied.
“What do you teach?”
“History,” I answered.
“Got any game?”
“Of course,” I answered.
He handed me the basketball and said:
“Shoot.”
Now, what my students didn’t know was that I didn’t have any game. I had lied. Yes, I was a big-time football player, but not so much at basketball. I always tell people that my basketball career ended my freshman year when my team was 2–16 and I sat on the bench. But I hoped that I could at least look the part during the assembly. I dribbled the ball a couple times and shot a 3-pointer.
Clank. Clank, the rim sounded as my shot missed.
The kids laughed, and the Harlem Wizard began addressing the crowd again:
“You guys know why he didn’t make it? Because he didn’t stretch! We are going to have Mr. Bacchus stretch, and then we’re sure he’s going to make the shot.”
The Harlem Wizards began doing these Jazzercise type stretches and dances and told me to join in. For the next few seconds, we were doing off-rhythm toe touches, jumping jacks, and hip swings as the kids went wild. In my mind, this could be a perfect part of the show. If I made the next shot after all these silly stretches, it would make it seem like they really worked.
“Now shoot it,” the Wizard ordered again.
Another Wizard passed me the ball and I took another shot from 3-point land.
Clank. Clank.
The ball bounced off the rim and I missed again. Another one of the Wizards grabbed the rebound and passed the ball right back to me and I missed it again. And again. And again. The Wizard with the microphone then said:
“Maybe Mr. Bacchus needs to move a little closer.”
I was escorted to the foul line and—you guessed it—I missed again. Then again. And again. I was 0–8. I can still remember seeing Ms. Hampton, my cooperating teacher, sitting there shaking her head in embarrassment. The Wizard gave me the ball one more time and I missed.
The Harlem Wizard, seeing no hope, just said:
“Okay, Mr. Bacchus, just lay it up!”
I made the point-blank layup and the Harlem Wizard said:
“Alright, let’s give Mr. Bacchus a hand!”
However, I didn’t get a hand. The same kids that had once cheered me on were now booing. Rightfully so, if I’m honest. It was a terrible shooting display on my part. I can’t say that I’m surprised—my sister to this day still talks about the time I shot a free throw in ninth grade and only hit the backboard. But the students didn’t know that. To them, I was just a young, cool teacher who played football.
The best way to sum up how the kids felt was the remark given to me by one of the kids in our homeroom. I don’t remember his name but I do remember his words:
“Mr. Bacchus, you really let us down out there. How you going to miss all your shots. You couldn’t even make one and represent for us.”
It was my first public L as a teacher but definitely not my last.
PeaceofAB 