By Clint Martin
Through the double set of drafty aluminum windows in my classroom, out of the corner of my eye, I notice Mrs. Logan’s Pre-K 4 class has emerged for P.E. time. Effortlessly, I recognize curly-haired Sullivan and top-tooth-missing Hope. And of course I pinpoint Jack, my youngest son who doesn’t just walk but more kind-of skips while in line, one hand behind his back and the other twirling out to his side. Instinctively, my body turns from my sixth-grade students toward the window, and I watch Mrs. Sandefur, the classroom aide, divide the tangle of twitchy tots into pairs and then arrange them so partner faces partner.
Between the two rows of squirmy preschoolers, under his everyday bucket hat and dark sunglasses, burly Mr. Matthews walks down one of the lines handing each four-year-old a plastic frisbee. Then Mr. Matthews gives a quick demonstration to remind these rambunctious rascals how a frisbee should be thrown—back-handed, like this, not forehanded, backhanded. And certainly not like this he must be saying as he pretends to fire a red frisbee tomahawk style.
Mr. Matthews exits the line and blows his whistle. Green, yellow, blue, red discs spew like rampant fireworks as a yellow frisbee flies straight up, a green one rolls down the hill, a blue disc skids along the asphalt, and another red one flies splendidly but at Mr. Matthew’s head. Sullivan’s throw sails toward Jack, but alas, it’s too high. It easily cruises over Jack’s head. As my boy turns in chase, Sullivan bends at the knees and clasps his hands together as if asking for a mile of forgiveness.
Jack grabs the frisbee and skip-trots back to his place. He holds the frisbee in front of him and makes two tiny twists at the waist along with two little pretend throws. I’ve seen this little routine many times in our driveway, in our backyard, at the park. Then, in a burst of all-out motion, Jack uncoils and flings. It’s immediately obvious he’s held onto the disc a tad too long, for the frisbee veers right. It is, however, somewhat level and an appropriate height above the ground. It zips by Hope’s head and careens into the side of the clapboard building housing the preschoolers, kindergarteners, and first graders in this small school where I, in the brick building on the other side of the playground, teach sixth, seventh, and eighth grade English.
Sullivan is amused by Jack’s throw. I can tell because he’s smiling as he yells back at Jack during his sprint to the over-flung frisbee. Jack makes the most of waiting by pirouetting in his spot on the asphalt. He grins, and the sun shines too.
Watching my boy spin again on his right foot—just like he does in the kitchen, at the grocery store, in the parking lot—makes me smile. Smile wide. So big in fact the corners of my mouth pull my eyes, or maybe my mind, back into my occupied classroom. My head turns from the window, and I’m sheepishly stunned by the realization there’s rows of sixth graders staring at me. They look confused. They look lost. Too young to understand the parental pride, to appreciate the simple splendor of watching one’s own offspring do, well, anything. So they sit there, staring at me, their puzzled faces wondering why, for several seconds, in mid-lesson, mid-sentence even, why Mr. Martin suddenly turned so stone silent.
Clint Martin lives in Kentucky with his wife, yellow dog, and a backyard full of birds. Though his two children are young adults making their own way in the world, Clint still gets distracted by them whenever they’re around.
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