Mr Rogers

While things weren’t going as good as they could in the sporting arena, I felt sure that nothing could go wrong inside the classroom. As long as I did well, worked hard and got good grades, nothing else should matter… at least in the long run. But before the year was out, I had discovered two subjects that I would never be good at.

Mr Rogers held the pencil awkwardly, yet managed to do a much better job than me. I had thought technical drawing would be a practical skill that would one day come in use. But like most 13yr old kids, I had no idea what was really good for me, although that’s easy to say in hindsight. What I can say is that I wanted to do well in every subject because in my mind, doing well at school would one day translate into a good job.

It wasn’t just Mr Rogers’ hands that looked odd, but his arms as well. His arms were strong with big thready veins, and he even had one that worked its way up the length of the bicep like the body builders do, but it was his hands that stood out most. They seemed too big for his body, but it was no surprise as he also taught woodwork and metalwork. His hands were his livelihood, his life.

‘You’re just not trying’ Mr Rogers was becoming increasingly frustrated at my efforts to draw a plan and side views of a simple house, but my mind could not picture how it should look and I told him so. ‘You don’t have to picture it, you just need to follow my instructions.’ I eventually managed to draw the views he wanted, but the drawing pad was a mess with half erased lines and smudged pencil. ‘What do you call that?’ Mr Rogers said in disgust as he unclipped my pad from the desk and held it up for the rest of the class to see. ‘This is an example of what you’re not to do’ he said. ‘Anyone whose work is like this is not trying.’

His words were evoking mixed emotions. I’d never felt angry at a teacher before; never felt they had unjustly wronged me. The other emotion was frustration that I was no good at something. But I was even worse at woodwork.

 My next class was woodwork with Mr Rogers.

I shared a workbench with a kid nicknamed Mo whose work was flawless, and it looked so much more than a simple box. His dovetail joins met perfectly, and the hinges hinged smoothly, while I was still planning individual pieces of wood trying to get a straight edge. I asked Mo for a hand, but all I got was an ‘Piss off, I’m busy.’

‘It’s not straight’ Mr Rogers was inspecting my attempt at a wooden box. ‘Did you not use the plane like I showed you?’ I told him I had. ‘Don’t be telling fibs lad. Give it another go with the plane.’

I don’t know what twist of fate had landed me with Mr Rogers for two subjects, but things were going even worse in woodwork than they had in technical drawing.

To this day I still can’t work a plane. It’s supposed to make edges flat, but they’re only as flat as the angle at which you hold it against the wood, and my hands could never get the right angle. The only good thing to come out of woodwork and metalwork classes which in those days was compulsory was discovering that I should never try and get a job working with my hands.

I began to suspect my lack of carpentry skills was hereditary as I remembered a time my father tried to make a chicken coop. Fortunately only a handful of chickens had been inside when it collapsed, and their deaths hadn’t been wasted.

 Mr Rogers came and inspected my next attempt. ‘How is it possible?’ In frustration he pushed me aside and took control. I’m sure he felt sorry for the poor piece of wood I was abusing, and I watched as he almost caressed the wood with the plane, and in a few deft strokes had a flat, level edge. He thrust the piece in my face, but I wasn’t sure if I was to take it or admire it. ‘Well?’ he asked, as I realised I was supposed to take it. I reached up too late and he put it on the table. ‘Anyone would think your hands were painted on’ he said as he walked away.

‘What a dick’ the comment came from my neighbor, Mo. ‘You’re fucking useless.’

Mo’s not usually the talkative type, but then Mo isn’t in my normal form class and I only ever see him here in woodwork. He doesn’t know me. He hasn’t been influenced by Simon or any of those other nasty pieces of work in my class. He has no reason to dislike me, let alone go on the offensive. It didn’t make sense. But I couldn’t let it go because other kids in class had heard and were paying close attention.

‘You’re so bloody cool yourself Mo. How long did it take to come up with your name? Were you born with that hairy little caterpillar on your lip, or is it from sucking so much cock?’ Nicknames are never original, but Mo was the only kid in class who had an almost fully formed black moustache, hence the handle. ‘You’ll fucking pay for that’ Mo said, but didn’t follow through.

I turned back to my dismal project, and picked up the plane again.

The plane hit the floor, and I nearly followed. The bastard had hit me from behind with the end of a broom. A hard wooden broom used for cleaning up the workshop after each class. It connected with the right side of my face.

My second fight, the second time someone had struck me, although not with their fists this time. But the effect was the same. There’s no pain straight away – the pain comes after, when you’ve calmed down and the adrenalin has left your body. Your fight or flight instinct is in charge, and there’s no time for pain. But there’s still dizziness. Mo didn’t follow through with another shot, and by the time my head had cleared Mr Rogers had his eye back on me.

I wanted to tell the teacher, but you can’t. Everyone is going around whispering ‘fight, fight, fight, fight.’ To tell a teacher now would mean even more pain for me at a later date. It may or may not be physical pain, but I’m already an outcast. ‘Don’t be a faggot and nark’ said someone. ‘You gonna let him get away with that?’ said another and ‘You can take him, easy’ said someone in a friendly tone. But no one is my friend, yet you yearn to be friends with someone, with anyone. ‘Do you really think I could take him?’ I replied to the friendly voice. ‘Sure. You’re bigger, stronger. You’d punch his lights out. Get him after class. I’ll back you up.’ This friendly voice was from some I don’t even know – why would a stranger ‘back me up?’ – and what does backing me up mean?  He’s no friend, but he sounds…. Sincere, no eager.

It doesn’t matter now. A fight is booked.

There must be a way out of this. I’m not a coward… or am I? I want to hurt Mo, but it doesn’t seem right to arrange a fight. I can understand a fight erupting in the heat of the moment, but both Mo and I seem to have calmed down. He’s working at the table across from me, head down facing his work. I owe him one, but I don’t want to have an all-out brawl. I took matters into my own hands.

I timed it just as Mr Rogers turned in my direction.

I had my back to Mo, posing no obvious threat.

Then I spun my shoulders round and swung my fist with all my weight behind me, and I felt it connect with the side of his face. He slumped sideways, and fell to one knee. Mr Rogers came running, bellowing at the top of his voice ‘Cut that out right now, or you’re in for it boy.’

My solution had worked. There would be no organised fight. I was in trouble with the teacher, while Mo was the victim. No one would tell Mr Rogers about the broom I had received to my face, yet the rest of the class had seen me strike back. What I wasn’t expecting was the punishment that was to come. 

Punishment

In hindsight, there is something unnatural about the thought of a grown man running at your ass, armed with a 4 foot piece of bamboo. Bizarre as it sounds, I was actually more reassured by the fact that the man running at my butt was armed, as otherwise it would be illegal and probably rather invasive.

I didn’t know at the time, that in most developed countries corporal punishment was banned, and New Zealand has since followed suit, but all I can say in its defense is that it’s certainly a lost art form. Who would’ve thought there was so much technique and style that goes into a proper caning.

A cane is not a paddle. It’s not a ruler, and it’s not a strap, and little did I know just how superior caning was to all the above-mentioned methods, although I was about to find out.

Mr Rogers’ cane was at least 1cm thick, although it was hard to tell exactly as he wouldn’t stop swinging it about. He had taken me outside the classroom into the corridor and was ‘warming up.’ He swung backhand, forehand, stopped to stretch, then resumed swinging. Was this part of the show? Was it a psychological punishment, followed by a moderate amount of pain? I wasn’t exactly sure what to do. How does one prepare for imminent pain?

‘Right, walk to the end of the corridor’ Mr Rogers instructed. This didn’t make sense, but I walked the dozen or so steps to the end of the corridor. ‘Now bend over and grab your ankles.’ This just didn’t seem right, but I did as instructed. ‘Brace yourself.’

Holy shit, he didn’t just say that! He was over twenty feet away. What the heck’s going on? I tried peering between my legs and caught a glimpse of his face, cheeks reddened, eyes wide and wild, breathing heavy as he ran at my ass.  Then there was a little skip. He didn’t just run, he jumped at my butt!

The pain was immense, but you can’t cry. You’re not allowed to cry. It’s an unwritten rule, but the pain is so sudden and so intense, a trickle of water seeps from your eyes involuntarily. Then he’s walking back for more.

He went through the same process – swinging backhand then forehand as he walked back. ‘Brace yourself’ then the run, skip and jump…. Crack. The pain is even worse this time. A new stripe has been branded into your backside. It absolutely has to be bleeding. Thoughts of crying no longer matter as water pours down your cheeks. You don’t sob, and you don’t beg him to stop. You don’t say ‘you can’t do this to me’ and you certainly don’t complain. It’s just the way it is.

On the third run, my knees buckled slightly, but his aim never wavered, but I got the best glimpse yet of his face as he struck – I swear there was pleasure there. Again, in hindsight, I sometimes wonder if there was some perverse sexual arousal going on. This image was reinforced by the expression of pure disappointment on Mr Rogers face as the cane broke on the third strike.  ‘You got off easy lad. You were supposed to get a good half dozen.’

He let me stay outside before facing the class. I eventually calmed my shaking body, and while the tears dried, everyone could tell my eyes had watered.

‘You cried, you wuss’ said the guy who had offered to ‘be my second’ in the punch up with Mo. ‘Get a grip mate, it’s only the cane.’

Little did I realise none of these kids had ever been caned, but it didn’t matter. Never expect sympathy. Sympathy is weakness.

As I anticipated, my fight with Mo never eventuated. Honour had been fulfilled. I had struck back at him, and kept quiet about the fact he had struck first while receiving a caning.  Yet I still wonder sometimes - was I that much of a coward that I went through a caning to avoid an uncontrolled brawl- a fight where there were no teachers to intervene, or was I just finding the best way to survive that offered the least chance of permanent physical damage.

Next Chapter: Picking a team