CONTINUING EDUCATION? CLASS IN SESSION

Continuing eduction needs one thing: the continuing part, the part outside formal classrooms and proctored exams.

Why?

Because that’s where a good education starts working.

For example:

I dropped out of college after my freshman year.

There was nothing wrong with the school, it was the student body in 1973.

Too many older guys, guys in their mid-twenties, hung around town longer than I would have, and it made me think that’s what happens if you stay too long.

I figured it all out with my eighteen year old brain. I saw guys in my hometown who’d hung around too long.

I needed more continuing education before I started.

Old guys at local keggers liked telling the new kids about dropping out with only a year left, a quarter left, a class left,  because they didn’t want to carry the brand of being college educated.

That was their story, a sad story, and it drew attention from impressionable young women starting out on their educational journey, college girls who should have been paying more attention to geeky freshman instead of world-weary losers, according to the freshmen.

I finished spring quarter, got a mill job for the summer, then joined the Army come September.

 

College Education + Army Education = ?

As a large young man, not Reacher-sized but a solid 6’2″, 210 lbs, I got the attention of the Drill Sergeants.

They appointed me Supreme Leader for my platoon, or Platoon Guide.

After a fire-drill mishap two weeks in, I was relieved of my duties, replaced by another big guy with a ‘big guy’ buddy.

The new Guide was from St. Louis, his buddy from Chicago.

They were a fun pair who like talking about their future.

One guy was going back home to St. Louis and resume his pimping career.

He showed his style by getting as much extra gear and jewelry as soon as he could.

Jump boots and an Army ring to start.

His big buddy planned on returning to Chicago and playing for the White Sox where he spent a summer in Short A ball.

They were an impressive pair and had an audience for their continuing education.

I listened in like I was back in school, a part of the Army education you don’t hear so much about.

The G.I. Bill had nothing on those guys.

 

During my freshman year I wrestled a varsity season at 177 lbs, not that I was good, but good enough.

My plan was trying out for the Army wrestling team to find out how good I might be.

I brought it up to my in Boot Camp buddies and it became a thing. What did I think I was, special?

As the Platoon Guide I was special, a recruit with a plan; as the former Guide I was just another guy, while the new team strutted around the barracks and annoyed the Drill Sergeant.

That’s when things took a turn.

 

My New Assignment 

The Drill Sergeant didn’t like the way some of the trainees hero-worshiped the guys from St. Louis and Chicago.

He blamed me.

Drill Sergeant: If you didn’t make me fire you I wouldn’t have this mess.

Me: Yes Drill Sergeant.

DS: Now I’ve got a pimp-roller and a big mouthed baseball scrub making an impression I don’t like.

Me: Yes, Drill Sergeant.

Drill Sergeant: Tomorrow we work with pugil sticks. I’m putting you in the ring first against St. Louis, then Chicago. If you don’t take them down I’ll leave you out there for everyone to beat on.

Me: Yes, Drill Sergeant.

 

I was an agreeable trainee who didn’t want any more than I had coming from any continuing education.

Now I had to give two guys what they had coming because the Drill Sergeant gave me an order.

 

Out in a big field the platoon circled up and the Drill Sergeant called me to the center.

 

Drill Sergeant: Put them down. Do you understand me? On the ground.

Me: Yes, Drill Sergeant.

 

I crouched into a ‘ready position’ not because I knew what I was doing, it was my first pugil stick fight, but because I played enough high school football to get knocked on my can.

Not today. I was a frozen statue with cat-like reflexes waiting for the first guy.

Drill Sergeant called the new Platoon Guide, who strolled out with a limp he didn’t have before.

I heard him laugh, saw him look back at his buddy with a ‘watch this’ wave.

Then it was showtime at the starting whistle for continuing education.

I wasn’t the Muhammad Ali of the pugil stick circle, but I started dancing, moving, stepping in and out, back and fourth, changing my level up and down like a wrestling march, while my opponent watched.

I did a slow reach to gauge his reaction time, danced around some more, and again thrust toward his helmeted head with my left hand.

When he rose his stick to block it, I quickly pivoted left and landed a hard right pad to his guts.

We were close as he bent over and I chopped down on his neck with the left pad.

He went down, 1, 2, 3. The Drill Sergeant blew his whistle and called the guy from Chicago out for class.

I was a natural with the sticks. Who knew?

I took the same position I had in the center of ring.

While he left the ring, the first guy gave the second one hope.

“Get him.”

“Oh he’s got. He don’t know it, but he’s got.”

 

Me: 

#2: Don’t think you’re doing me like you did him. Not gonna happen.

Me: 

#2: What are you supposed to be, a robot.

Me: 

 

The Drill Sergeant blew his whistle and I started my dance in and out, side to side, up and down.

My opponent came at me like we were jousting, a bull rush to knock me over, but I side-stepped.

He turned like he was rounding third for home and before he squared up I lunged forward and caught him across the chest with the center of the stick and popped him in the head as he stepped back.

I was shocked when he took his helmet off and started cussing and threatening me.

I tucked into my ready position and waited.

 

Drill Sergeant: What the hell is going on out there. I didn’t blow my whistle to stop, so don’t stop.

 

My guy put his helmet back on and commenced with continuing education.

I danced and pranced, landing light blows until he loaded up and missed with a big swing.

I landed a jab to the right side of his head and delivered an underhanded cross from the same hand.

My guy took his helmet off again, cussing and angry, and swung it at me.

This time I peppered him gently about the head and shoulders, then a sweeping upper-cut, followed by lunging into him with my stick across my chest again and knocking him down.

The Drill Sergeant blew his whistle to end it, and called out one of my buddies.

I didn’t drop into a ready position, but hand on knees instead. Pugil stick fighting is exhausting.

 

Buddy: Jesus, did you have to go so hard. You even impressed the Drill Sergeant.

Me: Good. Now I’m taking a dive.

B: What?

Me: I’m tired and I’m not going to beat you up.

B: Like you could if you wanted to.

Me: That’s right, so I’m falling down on your first move.

B: You can’t do that.

 

Drill Sergeant blew his whistle, my buddy took a poke, and I dropped like I’d been struck by lightning.

After that the rest of the guys went through the drill.

Back at the barracks:

 

Buddy: Are you worried?

Me: About what?

Buddy: The guys you pounded.

Me: That’s what the Drill Sergeant wanted, that’s what he got.

Buddy: You’re not worried?

Me: Not as much as you.

 

A good education helped me decide my priorities:

Make enemies of two fellow trainees, or,

Make enemies of the Drill Sergeant.

You’ve got to make the right decision.

Besides, my bunkmate from Washington, D.C. decided I was okay after the pugil sticks and said no one was going to bother us.

 

Bunkmate: If anyone going to kick your white ass, it’s me, not some St. Louis trash, or a piece of driftwood from Chicago. They don’t know how we do things in the District, and they don’t want to find out. Now you’re in my district, you understand?

 Me: Okay, Brisco.

 

He was a smaller guy with an edge that said, ‘Don’t try me.’

That’s been my motto for continuing education ever since.