Timeline: Monday April 9, 2018 08:48h
Fifth grade. Pivotal year, school-wise, life-wise. Well before we all got together in high school, but far enough along that personalities were forming-up, childhood friendships were established. We were getting to know each other fairly well at that point….
Mr. Cosgrove. My fifth grade teacher, George Washington Elementary School. In the main, I liked him. I was also a little terrified of him. My dad adored him, for the same reason that I was afraid of him: a no-nonsense disciplinarian, Mr. Cosgrove stated from day one that he was going to prepare us for college. In fifth grade.
I know he was good at what he did, because shortly after we left G.W., he became the Principal of the whole place.
He did a few things that were a bit avant-garde for the day.
He taught us how to play chess—as a part of the class curriculum, and set up a school-wide tournament. I lost to Erika Schwartz in the semi-final match. She was beautiful and smart.
He had us read Shakespeare, and taught us Aristotelian Logic.
The New York Mets, who truly were Amazing that year (1969), made it to the World Series. One beautiful day in September, to our utter surprise and delight he wheeled in a TV (rabbit ears only back then) and let us watch an entire game. This was way before there was any audio-visual/electronic media of any kind in a grade-school. I’m pretty sure he unplugged his own TV and brought it from home.
He set up a full-on intramural program—very unusual for an elementary school.
There was a touch-football league in the fall, a basketball league in the winter, and softball in the spring, class vs. class. The teachers were the quarterbacks and pitchers, and refereed the b-ball games. Brilliant idea, and SO much fun. Tony Maresco’s class won the football league (no surprise there). Paul DePaoli won the basketball tournament for us with a buzzer beater. Paul was an unsung hero in all sports, right through high school. I knew how good he was because we played our neighborhood ball together (along with Eddie Clark). I hear Paul is still proving his prowess by beating everyone out of their wallets in the grown-up game of golf….
Back to Cosgrove.
He gave us creative writing assignments, and had us find and read poetry aloud to the class. Jeff Cuffee and I brought in the same Mad Magazine ditty. (I remember being surprised that someone else knew about Mssrs. Kurtzman, Gaines and Feldstein’s infamous rag—remember Spy vs. Spy?)
I found myself completely stuck one time for the creative writing assignment. Eleven years old and full-on writer’s block. Despairing at 11:00 p.m. that Sunday night, I completely plagiarized a comic book story, word-for-word. It was about these 16th century Spanish conquistadores who actually find Eldorado and the Fountain of Youth, and all of the trouble that ensues when death is stayed for thousands of years. You know, mauled by a panther and squashed by a boa and ravaged by the plague, but unable to find release from suffering via the mercy of death—forever.
Anyway, I didn’t sleep that night because I was sure he was going to see right through my thievery and call my dad and kick me off the intramural teams and put me in detention and block me from entering college forever.
To my utter amazement (to this day), he gave me an A+.
I couldn’t believe it!! I counted myself fortunate beyond compare, and swore off any such thievery henceforward. Wasn’t worth the angst.
The next week I was stuck again. I was thumbing through a National Geographic magazine that Sunday night, saw an article about the Cheetah, fleetest animal on earth, no natural predators, yet facing extinction, etcetera. The creative clouds parted and I came up with this whole thing of what it feels like to be as fast as the wind, king of the jungle, but unable to outrun the hunter’s bullet. Not understanding what was decimating my friends and family, not even able to see it, despairing, all through the eyes of the animal itself…. In my eleven year old mind it was utterly brilliant, a creative epiphany. This time I stayed up all night writing just because it was fun. I couldn’t wait to hand it in and wow Mr. Cosgrove. I had visions of college early entry dancing in my peanut-sized brain.
He accused me of plagiarizing this story(!); said no 11-year old kid could come up with that concept, and gave me an F.
On the one hand it was the ultimate compliment. On the other, instant karma.
Not everyone liked Mr. Cosgrove as much as my dad: speaking of Pauly D., my good Friend "Dr. No", he had a very rough go in 5th grade. He and Mr. C did not jive, at all. Paul was always in trouble in that classroom, deserved or not. One time Mr. Cosgrove actually made him sit in the trash can by the teacher’s desk. I kid you not. Can you imagine?!? They would have put him in jail and water-boarded him for that move today. Mrs. DePaoli heard about it and came storming into the school. Whatever she said or did in that closed-door brouhaha changed things abruptly and forever between Cosgrove and Paul. She must have thrown our fifth grade teacher a serious beat-down…. Nobody messed with Betty D. |
