the end of innocence

In 7th grade our “GT” English class (which is the Latin abbreviation for "socially inept" or "destined for U of C") had to do individual presentations in front of the entire class. Everyone was nervous—it was our first year of Junior High, none of us really knew each other, and all of us were kind of dorky.

We all agonized over our oral report, desperately wanting to make the best impression on our peers and teacher. On the day of presentations we all sat trembling in our seats, waiting to be called on. Our teacher asked for volunteers and after a long moment of cowering silence a shy boy named Ryan raised his hand and waved it in a cavalier manner as if to say, "what the hell, let's get this over with!" He stood at the front of the class, looked down at his paper, and began to read. Things began well. He didn't stutter or lose his place on the page and everyone seemed to be listening attentively. Then, halfway through the second paragraph, the teacher interrupted him.

"I'm sorry," she said, "but I just have to ask you something." Our eyes shifted away from Ryan's slightly sweaty brow and locked on Mrs. B. "Why in the world would you wear that shirt to school?"

Our heads whipped back to Ryan, who gazed down at his T-shirt, the White Sox team logo featured prominently on its front. He frowned, concentrating. Was this a joke to break the nervous tension in the room? Would a teasing story about her Cubs-fan status follow shortly?

"I mean, it's just so inappropriate," she continued. We could all see genuine disgust on her face, and no one knew what to think, least of all Ryan. We all gave her a puzzled look and she screeched at us like we were a hoard of degenerates: "SEX! His shirt says "sex"! It's completely inappropriate for school!!"

No one laughed. Or blinked. Or made a sound. Instead, we all stared at Ryan, silently compelling him to answer her quickly, before her head exploded.

"Um," he stuttered, turning bright red, "it's a baseball team."

Our teacher now appeared completely repulsed. "Oh my GOD!" she exclaimed, unable to believe the level to which the sports marketing machine would stoop in order to recruit adolescent fans.

At this outburst everyone jumped in to back up Ryan's story. We explained about the logo and the Sox, but having only heard of the Red variety our teacher remained skeptical despite our lively protestations. To this day I don't believe we succeeded in convincing her. She was entrenched in her jaded view of the world and we couldn't dig her out, no matter how hard we tried. To her we were nothing but a bunch of depraved hormonal beasts with slightly evolved IQs—above average, but still no better than horny apes. More than anything, it was her display of skepticism in the face of pop culture logic that was our baptism into adulthood. That day we all realized just how far from elementary school we’d really come.

As for Ryan, he struggled through the rest of his presentation, mumbling painfully and completely mortified. He disappeared shortly thereafter, having transferred to another school in the county. He was sighted every so often, but like Bigfoot he was shy and uncommunicative. Although none of us ever really got to know him, we never forgot him or the unjust accusation that crushed his fledgling social career in its first hour of life. It’s been over ten years since that disastrous day and the most I know is that he eventually graduated from high school and went to college somewhere far away.

Poor guy. I hope that wherever he is he's still a White Sox fan, because if anyone deserves to enjoy their success, it's him.