The first time I entered a classroom was at St. Patrick High School in Chicago. I’d just graduated from the University of Illinois at Chicago with a degree in Teaching of History and Political Science, sometime in May of 1987. Maybe it was June…I don’t remember. 

I didn’t have a position lined up after graduation and was still working at my father’s restaurant in Barrington, about an hour’s drive from where we lived in Melrose Park. I’d worked for my father since I was 9 years old but that didn’t give me any practical experience applying for a job, and the university was of no help despite the fact they told me they would be able to.

So, I did the only thing I could think of. I got a phone book, one of those big Yellow Pages books, sat on my bed, and made cold calls to schools…any schools I could find listed in the phone book. Not the best way to go about it but that was all I could think of. Most of the time, those on the other end of the line told me to head to the district offices and pick up an application. Eventually, I called St. Patrick High School, a Catholic school in Chicago, and the secretary answered the phone telling me to send in my resume as they were looking for summer school teachers. 

Admittedly, my resume was sparse, my only work experience being our family restaurant. I did have a glowing review of my student teaching experience by my cooperating teacher, Mr. Greg Cozzi, a man I still look up to, and the finest teacher I’ve ever come across, so at least I was armed with that. I decided to drive my resume over rather than mail it, and soon I was contacted about interviewing. I went to the school, met with the assistant principal, and found myself hired for my first job outside of the restaurant. I was charged with teaching American History twice a day for three hours in a classroom populated by 40 plus students for each class, and a wall of windows facing the sun…and no air conditioning. 

Oh, and it was required I wear dress pants, street shoes, shirt, and tie. 

The kids in the classes were those who failed American History at the surrounding public schools (and some private as well), and it was my job to teach them condensed history for 3 hours in a sweltering classroom. I could author a book on methodology used, classroom discipline, and all the rest. I could write another one on the mistakes I made too, and on what I learned during those weeks at St. Patrick, but I’ll just say it was a baptism by fire, and one I was grateful for despite being able to wring my shirt out at the end of each day.

I was forced to be creative, engaging, keep classroom discipline, and…teach. 

The only respite was the air-conditioned teachers’ lounge. There is nothing like opening that door when your room is well over 80º. The cool air hits you smack in the face, and you breathe deep, hoping your half-hour lunch never ends.

That summer school job turned into a full-time teaching job, the president of the school, Brother Konrad Diebold, offering me a position after observing one of my summer school classes. The job was as an English teacher as there were no history positions that year. Basic English in a special program…noun, verb, prepositions, that sort of stuff. I’d never taught English before but knew enough to get by. For me though, getting by was never enough so I spent the rest of the summer engaging in English textbooks, re-learning sentence structure, what the definitions were of nouns, adjectives, and all the other parts of speech. I taught 5 classes a day that first year, and for two years after in room 23…dubbed The Jordan Room as His Airness himself was all anyone in Chicago could talk about. 

I also began to realize my lifelong dream…to be a high school football coach, something I’d thought about since I was 12 years old. I wrote about my journey in detail in my book Confessions of a High School Football Coach, but I still get a little giddy when I think about the beginning of it all. I was also given charge of the Track and Field program that same year, a program that had a total of 12 kids taking part. I ran track in HS for the legendary coach Stan Reddel but had no idea how to coach the other events, and I had no assistants. There was no money in the budget, so it was all up to me. I attended event clinics, met with other coaches, and did what I could to shore up what I didn’t know. 

When I left St. Patrick in 1990, the track program was up to 53 athletes and had a good amount of success.

So, here I was in 1987, just a few months earlier without a teaching job, working at our family restaurant. Before I knew it, I was not only teaching 5 English classes, but still studying history. I was the head freshmenfootball coach along with being the head track and field coach. Eventually, I became the head cross-country coach to build up our track program, leaving football behind for two years. And I did it all for the low, low price of $16,500, supplemented by being a doorman/bouncer a few nights a week for extra cash.

To say I was happy would be an understatement. I was positively giddy. I still get a smile on my face when I think of those days, still get a little excited despite the fact I’ve been retired going on three years now. It all happened so fast, almost a blur, even though it didn’t seem so at the time. 

I was doing what I set out to do. I was a teacher and coach, making my own way in the world, with big goals and even bigger dreams.

The good news for me was that I was always surrounded by good people, people who wanted to see me grow despite the fact I could not get out of my own way sometimes. I was so concerned with impressing those around me I forgot to empty my cup and learn. I wanted so badly to be good, to be respected, to show I could do it, but I stuck my foot in my mouth more than once much to my own embarrassment. It is my Achilles heel. Sometimes I push too much.

Sister Mary Martin, a lady of kindness and grace, not to mention a wonderful soul, was the head of the history department at St. Patrick. She observed me that second year when I finally had the opportunity to teach history (1 class) and gave me some advice I took with me for the rest of my teaching career. I became friends with her after that, my cup overflowing with lessons on how to be an effective teacher.

Dr. Joe Schmidt was the principal, a man I still have deep respect for as he taught me a most important lesson on humility, along with many others, including the late Frank Bauer, and the current John Urban, one of the finest people I know. 

The kids were great at St. Patrick, and believe it or not, I’m still in touch with several of the guys I coached or taught, most of whom are quite successful and now have families of their own. I didn’t realize it at the time, but I was not much older than some of the senior and junior students in those days, all of whom are in their mid to late 50’s today. It’s another example of age and time. There is a chasm of difference between one who is 23 and one who is 18. However, over the years, that chasm dissipates allowing friendships based on mutual respect to develop. We would do well to remember that, especially the first part in relation to the second.

I look back on my three years at St. Patrick fondly. I was young, full of “can’t fail,” and even when I did, I saw it as temporary, knowing I’d be back at some point. Sometimes, not fast enough for my liking. But, if my own history has taught me anything, it’s if you keep your focus, what you set out to do will get accomplished one way or the other. 

One might say I live in the past as most of my professional life was spent there in the company of great people, empires, and civilizations as a history teacher, and much of it still is in that regard. The time I have now I spend in the company of George Washington, George Patton, Dwight Eisenhower, Marcus Aurelius, among many others. I have the time to engage the work of Dostoyevsky, Milton, and read the speeches of Caesar, the writings of Catherine the Great or Elizabeth I. I also spend too much time reading the lesser works posted on Xor the various news outlets that post, but its fun, interesting, depressing, and fascinating all at the same time. 

Sometimes I wonder how the world would be different if X existed during the American Revolution. I’m not sure General Washington would be able to be limited by characters, but I’d love to see his avatar. 

The thing about teaching and coaching, the one thing among many they don’t tell you in teacher preparation classes is this: if you do it right, really take the time to become a master at your craft, the people that you taught or coached will be appreciative for the rest of their lives. It is more than a job; it is serious business and should be treated as such. There is a magic in the classroom if done right, but that magic cannot be contrived. It must be genuine, fueled by a genuine love for your subject matter be it in the classroom or on the field. That is the key ingredient, and there is no substitute.

I received a text from one of my former quarterbacks and history students the other night. He and I shared a special bond when he played for us, one that’s carried over for both of us into his adult life. It was a picture of the football field he once played on, at the school he helped turn around and make into a winner. The picture was from the north end zone facing the south end zone, his son in the foreground, sticking out his tongue because it was blue like the school colors. It said, “Still a hell of a view.”

As I reminisce a bit, he’s right. Looking back at those days at St. Patrick, I can say, “still a hell of a view.”