On a Monday on the third week of February, 1961 I was anxiously anticipating my 17^th birthday. I was young for my class, having entered school in 1948 at the age of 4 ½. At that time in my life, my focus was chiefly on athletics. Although I was not a very important member of the football and basketball teams, I did play some. I was better at track and field.

 

Our last basketball game of the season, against arch rival San Marino, was on the schedule for Friday. I was surprised when I was called out of class by my counselor, Mr. Harold Hartsough. I reached the front office with some trepidation, because usually being called to the office meant some kind of discipline. I knew I hadn’t done anything wrong, but what might I be getting blamed for? The conversation went like this.....

 

“Hello Jimmy.”

 

“Hello Mr. Hartsough.”

 

There followed some small talk about basketball, the possibility of beating San Marino and the upcoming track season. Finally....

 

“Jim, are you going to college next year?”

 

“Yes Mr. Hartsough.”

 

It is appropriate here to say that I was in almost total denial about “next year.” It was such a enormous unknown that I simply chose not to think about it. None of the significant adults in my family had attended college so there was no pressure from that end, and my friends seemed to have as little sense of what they might do after high school as I did. I guess we just enjoyed being teenagers. Our parents’ generation had survived both the greatest war and the greatest depression that the country had ever seen, and they seemed reluctant to put much pressure on us to make immediate decisions about the future. I assumed I was going to college, but my vague ideas about this had me deciding where I wanted to go and enrolling, perhaps sometime in July. As far as my grades went, I had studied just enough to get Bs. Occasionally I miscalculated and got an A, but unlike many, many of the students I have taught over the years, grades were not an obsession.

 

“Well have you taken the SAT?” he asked.

 

“Sure Mr. Hartsough, we took that last year.”

 

“Jim, that was the PSAT. It’s the National Merit Exam.

 

“Oh. Well how'd I do?”

 

“Very well actually, but Jim, you have to take the SAT, it’s the college entrance exam.

There’s an SAT exam this Saturday in Arcadia. I can get you a seat for the exam. You’ll have to bring a check to the testing center. Can you do that?”

 

“Yea sure. . . . OK.”

 

“Have you thought about where you might want to go?”

 

“Not really. Occidental maybe.” Occidental was a small local college. I knew about it only because my Middle League Baseball Coach had attended. And their mascot was a Tiger, just like South Pas High. It never occurred to me that I might not qualify.

 

“Have you applied?”

 

“Well.... No.”

 

“Jim, its February, we have to get you on track. You need to apply to Oxy right away. Drive over there and get an application this afternoon, don’t wait for the mail. We have a College Night in three weeks. Representatives from many colleges will be there to tell you about their schools. It will give you an idea of your other choices. In the meantime, the rest of this has to be done yesterday.”

 

“Yes Sir.”

 

And so I did. I attended College Night, and filled out a card for the University of Redlands, largely because they had been in the paper because of a track meet and I thought, Hey, I can compete there.

 

Within a week I received a call from the track coach. He said he would like to coach me and that he would be watching for my results. After that, I never considered another school, although I was accepted at Occidental in late July after being what was called waitlisted. My four years of study and varsity athletics at the University of Redlands prepared me well for a career in teaching and coaching. A modest scholarship and several campus jobs enabled my family to avoid going into debt. I graduated in four years in 1965, taught school and coached for 41 years.

 

Thanks Mr. Hartsough for getting me on track.