Free Still Pitching by Michael Steinberg Page B

Sanders’s office.
    I too respected his tough, fair-minded ethic. It was like my father’s belief that you have to earn what you get. But Mr. Aaron wasn’t just a disciplinarian. During tests or grammar quizzes he’d walk around the room and put his hand on your shoulder. It was a disarming gesture. I also suspected that it was his way of checking to see that no one was cheating.
    Tom Sawyer and The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn were the first two books we read in seventh grade. I’d read both a few years earlier at home. But I was only nine then. This time I saw them in quite a different light—especially Huckleberry Finn .
    I identified with Huck’s struggles to be more like Tom Sawyer and his gang. It was like wanting to be part of Manny’s group. And I understood Huck’s ambivalence about trying to please his Aunt Polly and the Widow Watson while also wanting to be part of Tom’s mischievous gang. Though I didn’t fully grasp Huck’s moral dilemma, I still cheered his decision to help Jim escape from slavery. I was glad he’d subverted his guilty conscence, even if it meant that Huck would probably go to hell.
    Like me, Huck was a lonely outsider. And so I tried to emulate him. While we were reading the book, I had a daydream fantasy where Otis Smith, one of the poorest black kids in class, became my best friend, and I became his protector. I’d take him home for dinner, and we’d pal around at school. It was like having an imaginary companion who relied on me to be his advocate and ally.
    Mr. Aaron saw me as a model student. He was always praising my book reports and papers, which only made me want to work harder to please him. When he gave my Huck Finn paper back, he handed me a hardcover novel, The Catcher in the Rye . He suggested I read it and then write a personal response for extra credit.
    â€œIf you liked Huck,” he told me, “You’ll really get with this Holden Caulfield character.”
    His gesture caught me off guard, the same way Mrs. Carlin’s had the year before, when she chose me to write the sports column. Both teachers had obviously seen something in me that each wanted to encourage. I’d disappointed Mrs. Carlin the year before. This time, I promised myself I’d follow through.
    Holden quickly became my new role model. He seemed to embody my own deepest yearnings. I understood his angst and self-imposed isolation, identified with his compassion for all the losers and outcasts, and shared his disdain for the “phonies.” For weeks, I went around imitating the hip, witty way he talked. I even wrote an unmailed fan letter to J. D. Salinger.
    Back then I idolized certain writers the same way I worshipped professional baseball players. They were Olympian gods whose powers sprang from some magical source that would always remain elusive to me. But it didn’t stop me from wanting to write. For my project, I did a series of Holden Caulfield knockoffs—short sketches that plumbed my deepest fears and secret prejudices. I wrote about dark thoughts and harsh, judgmental attitudes I harbored toward classmates, teachers, friends, my family, and myself. These were things I’d never fully acknowledged before.
    I felt strangely elated, even liberated by what I’d discovered. Yet when it came time to turn the paper in, I hesitated. Maybe, I’d revealed too much of myself. But Mr. Aaron, bless his heart, praised my candor. He even urged me to show the sketches to the school yearbook editors. I was flattered, but I wasn’t sure I could show anything this personal to strangers. Suppose they hated it? What if they wanted to publish it? Then everyone would know what I was thinking.
    I’d always been somewhat intrigued by Rita Caselli and Sarah Broomfield, the yearbook editors. I’d observed them in the halls and in the cafeteria talking to their Bohemian friends. Both were eighth graders who looked