By JOSEPH TINTLE
Every year I get a new batch of students and every class wants to know how I got into writing and eventually sports writing before I became a teacher. I tell them to sit back. This will take a while.
It all began in May 1962. I was in fourth grade and writing an essay for my teacher, Mrs. Coleman, at the kitchen table. That’s when my dad looked over my shoulder and said, “You’re going to be a writer, son.”
“How do you know, Dad?” I replied. “I’ve only written a few sentences.”
“Because I’m a writer; I can just tell.”
While I have always remembered what he had said that evening, I fought off his suggestion for years. I hated writing. Writing was a drag. Too much thinking. Too much organizing. Leave me alone.
High school wasn’t much better. The assignments were awful. Perhaps if someone had taken the time to show me a way to tap my creativity and assign me topics of interest, I might have flourished.
College. Well, at least the books we read were of value and our class discussions are still etched in my memory. But writing, for me, was pure labor. I had better things to do.
Then came college graduation one Saturday in June 1974. Monday followed and my parents told me to get a job.
Get a job? I’m no good at anything. Can’t do math. Forget science.
“Remember when you were in fourth grade,” my father said. “That time when I told you there was a writer in you. Why don’t you pursue that line of work?
“Because I hate it, Dad.”
“But you’ve got to do something. And look, you’re a pretty good storyteller. If you can tell stories, you can write stories.”
He had a point. So I gave it some thought, sent out scores of resumes, and eventually was hired by a newspaper as a copyboy. The first month of employment was uneventful. I proved I was a capable headline and caption writer and pretty good at filing stories and photos. But when the editor told me to write a feature on a 16-year-old pitcher from North Arlington, New Jersey, I almost choked. A feature story! What’s that? How do you write it? I played baseball, but I never tracked a game and wrote about it. I was plenty scared, but I’ve always had a good poker face and I just said, “Yes, sir,” and headed off to do as I was told.
Because my assignment was a feature, I could hand it in the next day.
I was a nervous wreck during the interview with the kid and not much better when charting the game.
Afterward, I headed home and spent the night and part of the next day trying to “craft” a story that the editor would accept. I’ve got to admit I did my best and I thought it was pretty good too.
I dropped the story in the editor’s basket and a few minutes later I saw him reach for it. He read the two-and-a-half-page piece and called me over. Then he walked me to a five-foot high cabinet where he began editing my story with, what was called in the newsroom, a Chinese grease pencil. I watched as he dragged its red, waxy point through line after line of my prose. He crossed out everything I wrote until he got three-quarters of the way down the page and left a sentence untouched.
“Why didn’t you cross that out?” I asked.
“Because it’s a simple declarative sentence. Not like this other horse shit you wrote.”
The editor crossed out the rest of the page, almost all of the entire next page, and when he came to the final half page of copy he saved himself time and drew an “X” across the page.
Then he glared at me. Real hard.
“So, how long do you think you’d like to work for us?” he asked.
“Till I’m 65.”
He held up the three pages and tore them in half.
“No, seriously,” he was saying now, “how long do you think you’ll be working here?”
I already was reading between the lines, but I played along.
“About a year?”
“If you give me horse shit like this again, you’ll be out of here in twenty minutes.”
And to make his point, he tore the sheets one more time and threw them at me. My story had been reduced to confetti. I was mortified. Did I mention this was done in front of an entire newsroom?
“Pick them up,” he ordered.
“No, you’ve made your point.”
I headed back to my desk and finished the shift.
Neither of us picked up the torn scraps that night, but I made a decision. This would never happen again. The next day I bought copies of The New York Times and the Daily News and I went to the library and took out an anthology of sports stories. I not only read the works of Times sports columnist Red Smith and sports writer Dick Young of the Daily News, I wrote out their articles by hand so I could get into their heads and learn the secrets of sportswriting.
A month later, the editor assigned me to write an advance about the upcoming Princeton-Columbia football game. I couldn’t think of two more desperate teams, but I had a job to do. I spoke with both coaches, interviewed a couple of players on each team, found an angle, and got to work on an old Remington typewriter. I had two hours to write the piece. I handed it in on time, returned to my desk, and waited for the bomb to drop.
The editor read the story, took out his Chinese grease pencil, but hardly used it. Then he put a headline on the story and sent it to the print shop.
I was curious as to what his thoughts were.
“Was the story okay?” I asked timidly.
“Did I rip it up and throw it in your face?”
I nodded, and back to my desk I went.
Well, I did not stay much longer after that. I was pretty thin-skinned at the time. But if I have to cite a turning point in my writing career, it most certainly was the night I turned in my first story about the kid from North Arlington. And while I never would have treated a young writer the way I was treated, I’ve got to admit that sports editor’s teaching method worked. I’ve been writing ever since.
By JOSEPH TINTLE
All of us can recall an adult during our youth who made our lives difficult. But there was only one kid I knew who delivered an eight-ounce glass of payback juice to his adult nemesis. That boy’s name was Freddy and he played on our Little League team in Fords, New Jersey during the 1960’s.
Freddy was a nice kid, a slick athlete who could roam the outfield like few players his age could. He had a good bat as well, yet our manager could not stand him because at age 10, Freddy spoke his mind. He was never disrespectful in words or tone. But we knew what he was thinking. And, more often than not, he was correct in his assessments about daily life.
One day the manager was addressing the team after a win. He said we were going to play a team called the Gray Sox and he went on and on talking about how tough the team was and if we didn’t win, well, that wouldn’t be so bad because our current record was 12-3 and we could still find our way into the championship game.
“Hey, Coach,” Freddy chimed in, “aren’t you supposed to be telling us why we can beat this team?”
The manager gave Freddy a glare that would have melted most kids. Freddy didn’t blink. And the manager lost it. He screamed at Freddy and told him to keep his mouth shut.
“When I’m talking, you listen,” he shouted. “You think you’re so good and have all the answers. Well, you don’t. So shut up.”
Freddy drew in a small breath and said no more.
What seemed to bother Freddy the most was not what our manager had said, but the harsh tone he took. Freddy’s teammates could tell he was hurt and after the post-game meeting he just slipped away from Woodland Field and wandered home.
Things weren’t the same afterward. Sure, Freddy played well in practice, but he seemed to lack spirit at times.
Well, the coach was right. We did lose to the Gray Sox the next game and back into panic mode went our manager. He was overbearing during our next two practices, especially toward Freddy, but the kid seemed to shake it off. Still, something was amiss with our center fielder.
Finally came the game to decide our championship fate. Our manager was ecstatic. He had been coaching Little League for more than a decade and he was now at the doorstep of a title. Visions of a team trophy danced in his head. In fact, the night before at a Dairy Queen ice cream stand, he went on and on to my father and me that this was a special moment for him. I thought the whole thing was rather silly and when I saw Freddy later that evening I told him about the conversation.
“It’s just a game,” Freddy was saying now.
“Don’t tell that to Coach,” I said. “He’s mad enough at you.”
“Well, I’ve just about had it with him too.”
The next day the two teams met at Woodland Field for the game that would determine which team would chase the championship trophy. Woodland Field then, as today, is a rock-strewn piece of acreage filled with gaping holes. Every game is a misadventure. Amazingly, however, both teams played excellent defense throughout their game and by the bottom of the sixth (the final inning in a Little League game) our team was leading 2-0 when our opponent’s first baseman cracked a run-scoring single in the bottom of the sixth.
The score was 2-1. Then, with one out, up stepped their right fielder. He moved the runner to second with a walk. Coach was at once nervous and giddy. Would he punch his ticket to the championship game?
Up stepped John Rachel. Now here was a bruiser of a 12-year-old player. He stood 5-feet, 9 inches and weighed about 155 pounds. Big for Little League then and now. Donnie, our pitcher, fired a strike on the outside corner. The coach started pacing the first-base line because there was no dugout at Woodland Field. The next pitch was in the dirt, but our catcher blocked it.
Rachel stepped out of the batter’s box and exchanged a laugh with his teammates. Then he resumed his stance. Our pitcher tried to quick pitch Rachel but he was not fooled. He lofted a deep fly to centerfield and Freddy gave chase. Woodland Field had no fence and so Freddy just kept running. The ball must have traveled 235 feet but Freddy was able to reach out and make the catch with his outstretched glove. He stumbled a little on the bumpy turf and regained his balance.
Our manager leaped in the air. The moment he had been waiting for was only an out away. Then the opposing manager yelled to our coach, “Hey, Coach, what’s your center fielder doing?”
Seems that after Freddy caught the ball for the second out with two men on, he decided to keep on running with the ball away from Woodland Field. He ran across the playground, down the street, and out of sight.
The runners on base just froze. But Freddy was nowhere to be seen so they could not be thrown out. Using his right arm as a windmill, the opposing manager signaled to his players to run home. They did and we lost 3-2.
While many of his teammates disliked what Freddy had done, we understood his actions.
But the manager had no clue. He paced the outfield kicking up clods of dirt, cursing. No one would go near him. He had missed his chance at Little League immortality and it was tearing at him.
No one saw Freddy for the rest of the summer. The story was that he had moved to Massachusetts two weeks after our loss.
I think about Freddy at times and what he did that day only brings a smile to my face. That was one nervy kid.
So, Freddy, wherever you are, no hard feelings.
By JOSEPH TINTLE
Oh, boy, the new Apple Watch is here. It has apps for the weather, tracking our heartbeats, sending Instagrams, telling time, reading news, turning the watch into a canvas and color palette for painting, negotiating the aisles of the nearest Target store, and countless more meaningless activities to assure we no longer think for ourselves and lead a human existence. All with just the flick of the wrist or a light tap. And all for the basic price of $349 for the Apple Watch sports version to upward of $17,000 for the gold premium Apple Watch edition.
Now isn’t the Apple Watch just like the much less expensive iPhone in many ways? And don’t we need to have an iPhone in our pockets for the Apple Watch to work?
Stop right there. Let’s not rant on Apple. It is merely a company of smart people dreaming up smart toys for us to buy, to distract ourselves, and to make them billions of dollars. We’re the dummies.
What I don’t get is why we need to buy the smartwatch because it’s practically the same thing we’ve already got in our pockets. But because it makes us look like Dick Tracy talking on his wrist radio in the 1960 cartoon, some of us must have it.
I know a guy who has ordered the Apple Watch. I asked him why and he ran down the laundry list of apps I’ve already cited. And more.
“It has many of the same features as your iPhone,” I told him.
“You don’t get it, Joe, now I don’t have to take my cellphone out of my pocket.”
“That’s because you have to keep an iPhone in your pocket when you wear the watch?”
“Sure, otherwise the Apple Watch won’t work.”
So, let’s see, an Apple Watch and an iPhone: now you’re paying maybe a minimum of $500 to “stay connected.”
Did this guy ever study simple arithmetic?
So he will now join what I call the 2015 version of the Stepford Wives and stare at his wrist all day and get little to no work done. Then, when he crosses a street, he won’t even hear the peeling of car brakes that are being applied to avoid killing him as he glances at his wrist watch and ignores oncoming traffic. And, of course, he will have less communication with people. Might he even bring the Apple Watch to the bedroom? I can hear the pillow talk now.
“I’m just taking a quick glance at MLB, honey.”
Oddly all this technology is referred to as “the new forms of communication,” but has there been a time in recent history with a greater dearth of human interaction?
Long before the Apple Watch was conceived, I was standing on the corner of 34th Street and Fifth Avenue in Manhattan waiting for the light to change. The woman next to me said, “Good morning. How are you?”
“Fine,” I replied.
“Thanks for last night.”
“Ah, what happened last night?” I said, turning to her.
Then I spotted her Bluetooth, the latest communication rage at the time.
So what might happen if millions of people buy the Apple Watch?
Teachers already have a tough time getting students to put away their cellphones during class. Wait until the children purchase an Apple Watch. Kids will only have to slightly turn their wrists to view whatever information they need. How uneducated will they soon become? And children are supposed to be our future!
People are already anticipating the next generation of the Apple Watch, and possible apps to change diapers or make peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.
The point: It’s time to become human again, folks.
Now, don’t toss away your Apple Watch if you already ordered one. Just don’t glance at it hundreds of times a day and forego a meaningful conversation. And please, don’t get struck by a car while crossing an intersection because you’re checking out Bruce Jenner’s latest surgery. And stop reading stupid Internet articles with titles like Why Russia and Costa Rica Cannot Co-exist, When Laughter Filled the Ottoman Empire, Salad Oil and Pus: Not a Good Mixture, and Twenty Reasons Why Vincent Van Gogh Did Not Cut Off His Other Ear.
Instead, read something meaningful.
Or just sit and think.
Perhaps contemplate a flower.
Or your navel.
Even better: pay attention to a loved one.
Remember, humanity got this far without excessive gadgetry. Want proof? Bill Gates and Steve Jobs grew up during a time when the world just used pencils, paper, and pens to communicate. So how did they single-handedly usher in our technological world?
They had time to think.
By JOSEPH TINTLE
During the fall of 1969 I, like millions of other high school seniors, was sending out college applications. Most of us just had the colleges send an application and a catalogue and if we liked the photographs of the campus and there was a cute girl or two lurking in the background guys often signed up right then and there.
I desperately wanted to live away at school. I felt it would give me a greater sense of responsibility and I’d grow up faster. So I applied to Loyola University in Los Angeles, St. Bonaventure in Alleghany, N.Y., Duquesne University in Pittsburgh, and the University of Toronto in Canada. I was accepted to all of them.
When I told my dad, he nodded in the affirmative and then pointed out the kitchen window. “That’s where you’re going,” he said. He was pointing to the northeast but not Boston College or Harvard. He had someplace else in mind.
A quarter mile away was the campus of Fairleigh Dickinson University in Madison, N.J.
“I didn’t even apply there,” I told him.
“Well, you’d better,” he said. “Time’s running out.”
“But I want to go away, Dad.”
“I’m not spending $2,500 a year to send you to college.”
“You just spent $2,000 a year to send me to high school.”
“Yeah, but you didn’t work to your potential.”
All I could think of was what high school kid works to his potential? Sure, I had a horrible freshman year — eleven failures. Now keep in mind that my high school sent out report cards every month. You could amass a pile of “Fs” as I did, but I only had to go to summer school for one subject: Algebra I. I turned things around in sophomore, junior, and senior years and raised my G.P.A. to respectability and college admission officers saw that I had matured academically. But my dad did not see it that way.
So I went to Fairleigh Dickinson. I enjoyed the place, had some fine professors — Dr. Walter Cummins and Dr. Neil Salzman come to mind. But one day in sophomore year we were on a class trip to the Frick Gallery in Manhattan and on the way home we got stuck in the Lincoln Tunnel. That’s when I heard professor Cummins talking about Wroxton College just outside Banbury, England. His conversation was intriguing and I knew this was the place for me.
I asked Dr. Cummins if I could go there and he said sure, that I had the grades, it was just a matter of filling out the necessary applications, sitting for an interview, and putting my application up against other candidates from around the country. Wroxton only took 68 students but he felt certain I had the credentials to get in. So I applied.
Meanwhile, I started saving my money from a full-time maintenance job at the College of St. Elizabeth in Convent Station, N.J., made certain my grades were tops, and wrote a solid application essay. Now I never told my father any of this. My mom knew, but she was all Irish and she knew how to keep secrets. In fact, she thought it was a hoot.
So on the night of August 30, 1972, after I came home from a John Lennon concert at Madison Square Garden, I told my dad he needed to give me a ride to Kennedy Airport the next day.
“Kennedy Airport?” he said.
“Yeah, Dad, I’ve got a flight to England tomorrow. I’m going to school at a place called Wroxton College.”
“Well, you wouldn’t send me away to college two years ago, so I thought I’d send myself away. Don’t worry, I paid for everything: tuition, airline ticket, spending money. You won’t pay a thing.”
His head spun for a while. He even asked my mother if she had sent Fairleigh Dickinson University a check for that semester. She told him no because she knew about my plans all along. He was stunned, but he came to accept it rather quickly and admitted the next day that he was proud of what I’d done. That felt good to hear.
And so I spent junior year at Wroxton Abbey with its 56 acres of woodlands, lakes, and gardens. It was a scene out of Masterpiece Theatre. There was the Great Hall replete with Steinway piano, oil paintings of Queen Elizabeth, Lord North, and knights’ armor. And every morning students took a break from their lectures to convene in the Great Hall for tea time. That’s when we guzzled dozens of bakery-fresh cookies and washed them down with countless cups of tea and coffee.
Weekends were spent traveling through the United Kingdom and every three weeks it was off to the Royal Shakespeare Theatre in Stradford-Upon-Avon to catch productions of Macbeth, Titus Andronicus and Hamlet. Afterward, students met with the Shakespearean actors to discuss their roles and how they went about interpreting their characters.
The next night on campus we’d meet on the grand lawn behind the abbey and have a cookout that featured pig on the spit, roast beef, Yorkshire pudding, and myriad desserts. I had arrived at Wroxton weighing 170 pounds; I departed at 185. It was a great learning experience that not one of us from the Wroxton Class of ’72 has ever forgotten. And to his dying day my father always liked to boast to his friends about how his son had studied in England and how it didn’t cost my dad a shilling.
By JOSEPH TINTLE
Every neighborhood has at least one wild neighbor. Ask Seth Rogan or Justin Bieber. Rogan makes films about nutty neighbors and Bieber is the nutty neighbor.
But right now I’m thinking about a real doozy I once knew. Twenty-two years ago when my son, Kieran, and his friend, Greg, decided it would be a great idea to cover my new car with dirt, I chased them away, cranked up the hose, and started to wash my Toyota Corolla. What resulted was a two-inch wide stream of chocolate-colored water trickling down our newly-paved road.
My neighbor spotted this miscue of mine and came huffing and puffing up the street. She hurled insults at me like former New York Yankees relief pitcher Ryne Duren hurled fastballs — all over the place. I stayed calm. After all, I couldn’t understand why she was so upset.
That same month–July 1993–the Mississippi River had flooded the entire Midwest. People in several states had lost their lives, their homes, even entire towns were swept into extinction. But my neighbor was far more concerned about a narrow stream of dirty water that was ruining the apparent pristine look of our street.
“What do you have to say for yourself, you idiot?” she shouted at me with her gravelly voice.
“Just this, lady,” I replied in a most Christian mannner. “Get off my property and don’t come back.”
Her eyes widened and she turned to leave, never to be seen again.
Perhaps my most interesting neighbor, though, was the one who lived by our family home in Morristown when I was 13. Two days after we moved into the house, she approached my mother and father and said that her cat had been kidnapped and that I had driven it to Livingston, New Jersey, some ten miles away. Now remember: I was 13. In New Jersey, one needs to be 17 to drive.
My father dismissed her ramblings with a laugh, but my mother was not cracking a smile.
Two months later our phone rang at night and this woman was on the other end.
“Joey,” she said to me, “I can see you in your pajamas with my binoculars.”
She laughed hysterically and hung up.
“I told you about her,” my mother said to my father.
To give you an idea where our neighbor was coming from, she also enjoyed hosting barbecues in the fall and often invited the entire neighborhood. Those who did not live near her to witness her antics year-round attended, but after two or three invitations they knew better than to return.
This woman used to pile up the grill with unlit charcoal, toss several hamburgers onto the metal tray, then grab a can of gasoline from the garage. She then laced the burgers and charcoal with gasoline simultaneously and struck a match.
Those burgers sure cooked up fast. She was dishing out a dozen or so within ten minutes. Talk about flame broiled!
One time I was walking through her yard during one of her cookouts and I surreptitiously hung a sign by her grill that read: HIGH-OCTANE BURGERS: 33-9/10 cents. (Such was the price of gas in 1967).
Eventually I decided to get back at her big time. Year after year whenever she’d come out of her house carrying a massive plate of food to her barbecue, I’d dial her house phone. She’d drop everything, go in the house, walk up the steep stairs to her living room and answer the call. Of course, just as she picked up the receiver, I’d hang up. Then she walked downstairs and outside again, and as she took a few steps away from the house, I’d ring the phone again. Up the stairs she went to the living room. And, like always, I’d hang up.
I did this dozens of times and never once felt a twinge of guilt. The expression “Payback is a bitch” did not exist at the time, but it was payback and for her it was a bitch.
Our family also lived near another curious family. One day I was sitting by their driveway and I was doused with a wet substance that came from a bedroom window. No sooner did I realize that I had just been soaked with gasoline than one of the boys living there came charging out the front door brandishing a lighter. I took off and he never got near me. But he’s changed his ways since then. He has become the fire chief of his current home town.
Years earlier we lived in Middlesex County near two notorious brothers, Carl and Frank. Clearly they had issues when it came to associating with people of the Earth. One time they took on the sons of a law enforcement agent and beat them to a pulp. Pulp may be too mild a word because the cop’s kids walked away from the fight having their faces bashed against rocks.
Twenty years later, one of the bully brothers actually was decapitated in a car accident. The remaining brother lived at home with his mother who died one August. Oddly, the son did not report the incident and instead let her body rot on the sofa. It wasn’t until a neighbor “sniffed something funny in the air” that police were called to the home. She had died of natural causes, but her son was too petrified to call the police.
That incident prompted my mother to instruct my father to find us a another house in another town within two weeks because she was pulling up stakes.
My father, a former newsman who knew all about deadlines, did better than two weeks. Six days later he was signing papers for a new home at Kimball-Coleman Realtors in Chatham, N.J. My mother could not have been happier. That is until two days later when she met her new neighbor. You know, the woman who said that my mother’s 13-year-old son — me — had kidnapped her cat and driven it ten miles away.
Apple sauce is pungent.
By JOSEPH TINTLE
Every September I tell incoming students to my English III classes that before the year is over they will participate in a writing contest and stand before their classmates and deliver a speech.
“No way, Mister,” someone always blurts out.
“This guy’s crazy,” another whispers.
I know why they react this way. They’re afraid to stand before their peers because they believe they’ll be ridiculed or come off seeming not as smart as the other guy.
Then I tell them a Jerry Seinfeld joke: “According to most studies, people’s number-one fear is public speaking. Number two is death. Death is number two. Does that sound right? This means to the average person, if you go to a funeral, you’re better off in the casket than doing the eulogy.”
The kids laugh.
Then I ask a question. “How many of you in this room are afraid of public speaking? Now, be honest.”
Ninety percent of them raise their hands. So I point out that they are all in the same boat.
“Now,” I ask, “how many of you want to see other people fail or make fools of themselves? Again, be honest.”
Not one hand shoots up.
And so a seed is sown to assure a successful writing contest in April.
We are now approaching April and the speeches have been handed in. Once again the students have made it difficult for the judges to select finalists much less winners. This year’s topic is titled The Last Lecture. It is based on the internet sensation of 2007 in which Dr. Randy Pausch of Carnegie Mellon University in Pittsburgh delivered a most memorable talk advising his peers, students, and a worldwide audience about how to live a meaningful life. Not long after that he died of pancreatic cancer.
After we watch Dr. Pausch’s address, I tell my students that even though he delivered a touching, memorable talk, theirs will be better.
“How’s that going to happen? We don’t even have high school diplomas and he had a doctorate.”
“Good question. I’ll tell you how during the contest.”
So the students get to work. For the most part they must write the speech in class. I don’t want mommy’s and daddy’s fingerprints on this assignment. I convince students that it is important they consider their lives at age 16 and from time to time after that. As Socrates once said, “The unexamined life is not worth living.”
The students are now excited about the contest. Some are asking me for criticism moments after writing their first paragraph. I tell them no. I’ve taught them how to write, now they must write on their own. For several days they write and rewrite and soon their pieces start to take shape. I now give their work a glance to make certain they have written in a conversational tone because their version of The Last Lecture cannot sound like some stuffy speech riddled with SAT words and countless quotations culled from dusty bookshelves.
No, this has to be from the heart. After all, the students are told they only have a brief time before they die so what will they tell classmates, friends, and family before they depart for the hereafter? Of course, many address the topic of death. Others thank their mothers and fathers for a job well done. Advice is often parceled out to classmates. But no one is called ever called out.
The students often come up with observations about life that I’ve never even considered in my 62 years. These are the magical moments I experience when reading over their copy.
When they finally stand and deliver their work, the students who battled me in September are often the ones who want to go first. They have something meaningful to say and they want to say it now. They talk about topics that are of concern to them: love, family members, and God. Precisely the topics Randy Pausch said he would not discuss in his Last Lecture. And that’s why many of our students wrote better talks than the man with the Ph.D. They got personal.
Speeches are met with tears, laughter, profound thought, and deep appreciation. Each student receives warm applause and leaves the podium beaming for having delivered a moving talk and having beaten back the fear of public speaking.
Then come the trophies. Each of my five classes receives three trophies for first, second, and third place. It’s expensive, but it’s worth it. Teachers need to put their money where their mouths are when it comes to education.
The biggest thrill is when you see the winners strut across the classroom holding their trophies on high. Then I issue a warning, “Get these home safely. I’m not buying new ones.”
“Don’t worry, Mister, when you weren’t looking I texted my father to pick it up at lunch time.”
“Thanks for your honesty,” I say. “When you see your dad, tell him to also pick you up after 4 p.m. detention.”