Last week, as I contemplated which teacher I would choose as the subject for this submission, my muse abandoned me. Writer’s block is a very infrequent visitor, and often these episodes later turn out to have been for the best in some way.
Yesterday, I learned of the death of Coach Bill Conley. He was a legend at The Lovett School in Atlanta, Georgia. He was also my nemesis.
For years this man stood between me and my desire to remain an intractable sloth. He made me do push-ups, chin-ups, and sit-ups until I was sure I would suffer some horrible and widely publicized death in my school’s large and well-equipped gymnasium. His invisible whip spurred me onward as I completed my annual one-mile run—four torturous laps—around the outdoor track. But the most heinous crime he ever committed was to give me a “C” in 10th grade P.E. because, are you ready for this?, I could not serve a volleyball. At barely 90 pounds, my scrawny arm simply could not make that #*$! ball go more than about ten feet.
