One writer's modest, panicked beginnings
"The Atlantic Charter" gave me the idea - right or wrong - that I COULD write
Editor’s Note: Since only 12 people saw this original post on May 8, the first day I posted this and started up this Substack, it seemed to me this post might help EXPLAIN what’s been going on inside the dome of this ex-pitcher turned writer you kind folks have been reading over the previous 108 posts. Or maybe not. You tell me! (Wink)
Fifty-four years ago. On a day exactly like this.
Here I was, a high school student, staring out the window at the warm and sunny afternoon and projecting the drama and excitement of the soon-to-happen baseball game out on that green diamond. Just a few hours – and classes away.
The author, then a right-handed pitcher who won a game with a single pitch!
So… the very last thing I wanted to hear as I walked into my 5th period U.S. History class was this: “Test today.”
If that news wasn’t disheartening enough, the blue mimeographed sheet on the corner of each of our desks contained a single question. One.
It read: “Discuss in detail, the historic importance and world-wide significance of The Atlantic Charter.”
No multiple-choice. No mix-and-match. No working out of the book. Just you, your pen and a sheet of paper.
The teacher, John Wright, a young, dark-haired enthusiastic teacher with thick and bully sideburns, seemed to be nodding as we walked in. He uttered a single sentence as he watched his shocked and wounded class silently settle into their seats.
“You have the whole period,” he said with a sort of smirk, implying that he already knew what we instantly knew – we were screwed.
He had given us multiple pages to read the night before. Too many for my tastes. Especially when I had to think about the upcoming baseball game with Portsmouth, our arch-rival. And I’m supposed to read about some treaty. Right.
I glanced at the horrified faces across the classroom. Then at Mr. Wright, who seemed to be enjoying this way too much. And I could see the red pen in his hand, he was tapping it on his desk, almost as if to warm it up for extensive use.
The Atlantic Charter. Hmmm. The only thing I remembered was a photograph of Winston Churchill, Franklin Roosevelt and Joseph Stalin sitting on the deck of ship somewhere in Yalta, wherever the hell Yalta was. I figured World War II wasn’t over yet – since Roosevelt was still alive – and if all three countries were sitting together on some friggin’ ship somewhere, probably in the Atlantic (Gee, where did I get that idea?) it had to be about Germany. But that was all I knew.
Looking around Room 216, I figured I was better off than most of my classmates. I remembered that photo, at least. I looked up at the clock, just two minutes had passed. My test sheet was as blank as the faces around me. What was I going to write?
So I made a decision, a momentous one, now that I think about it. If I wrote as if I was begging for a passing grade – which I most certainly was – he’d know in a minute. If I turned in a blank sheet, like I’d bet many of my classmates would, it’s an “F.” If I wrote just a lame-ass paragraph or two, that wouldn’t do, either.
So…I summoned my fake courage, figured I was stuck there for the remaining 48 minutes anyhow and what the hell, I might as well make something up. And I began to write.
“As we all know, the Atlantic Charter has long been one of the essential treaties between superpowers across the globe.” Or something like that. I’d give anything to read that paper now, just for the BS quotient, which had to be record-setting.
And I was off, writing my fool head off filling both sides of the paper, the last person to turn their test in. Also, I noted as we dropped the test off on Wright’s desk, one of the few who did more than a paragraph or two.
We won the game. Back in class the next day, Mr. Wright had a stack of papers in his hand when he greeted us at the door. And there seemed to be a lot of red on the ones we could see.
It was as silent as a tomb as we heard the bell ring, the door shut and he turned our way. “These are embarrassing,” he said. “High school juniors and you can’t do better than this on an essay test? You do know college is just around the corner. Those of you who MAY plan on going, that is. Just awful.”
He made us sit there in silence as, one by one, he called us up to his desk, gestured quietly as he went over each paper, his disgust as evident as the red marks you could see on each sheet.
I started watching the clock. Could I get to the bell before he called on me? Two ticks away, he’d handed back every test but one. Mine. I pretended to look upset as I saw my classmates staring at their papers marked in red like a Civil War battlefield.
“Mr. Nogowski?” I looked up and he was beckoning me with a long, slim finger. Then the bell rang.
I bolted for the door. “See you tomorrow,” I said. He shook his head and pointed to the desk in front of him. “Sit” he said.
When everyone had left the class, he handed me my paper. Except for my sloppy handwriting, it was clean as a whistle. No red. NONE. I quickly flipped the paper over and on the back, down in the lower right corner, was a letter and a symbol. “B+” No other comment.
Despite the miraculous grade, this presented unforeseen problems. I would have to talk about it. What if he asked me MORE Atlantic Charter details? What then?
He sat on the desk next to me. “What did you think of your grade?”
This also posed a problem. Should I throw myself on the mercy of the court, “Thankyousiritwonthappenagain” Or, something a teenage boy might well do. Bluff.
I cleared my throat. It was a heavy moment. I sort of shrugged with my shoulder and somehow found a way to say, “Wasn’t an “A.”
His laugh echoed across the room. “An ‘A’? Let me tell you something, young man. I’ve been teaching for 12 years and that paper was the biggest pile of (bleep) I’ve ever read in my life. You said almost nothing about The Atlantic Charter.
“But,” he continued, his face breaking into the kind of smile teachers rarely show, “it was so damn funny and well-written, I read it out loud to my wife and we laughed for half an hour. That was an above-average achievement so that’s why you got a B+. But don’t pull that (bleep) on me again.”
I laughed, we shook hands and as I walked down the hall to baseball practice, I wondered if maybe I couldn’t make the majors - which seemed pretty likely - maybe I could find a way to, you know write about it or something.
You couldn’t make a living doing something like that, write books and stuff, could you?
What a great story, so well told.