At the ripe old age of 16, I was
convinced my life as I had planned it was over. A few weeks before, I had made
the Penn High School varsity football team as a full-back. However, before the
big opening game, I suffered a crushed vertebra during a run. I was not a
particularly talented athlete, but I had a huge neck and strong legs, so I
could run people over like a locomotive with my helmet if I got up enough
speed. Unfortunately, I met my match with a 235 lb. linebacker whose left arm
came crashing down on my neck just at the point of impact, and I fell in a
heap.
Lucky for me, the injury did not
result in permanent paralysis, but the doctor told me I might not be so lucky
next time. So I had to make a decision to count my blessings and quit football
or to take my chances and perhaps never walk again. So I chose walking. Now the
truth was, I never really liked playing football. The only reason I did it was
so that I could be a popular jock. I believed this would enable me to date
cheerleaders, because cheerleaders only dated jocks, but now that plan had to
be scrapped. My life as a start football player and babe magnet had come to an
end.
As I stood in the hallway,
watching my former teammates weakly nod to me as they walked by, it was clear
to me that I was no longer one of them. And since they were my only friends, I
was feeling pretty isolated and depressed. What I really needed right then was
sympathy, I wanted to hear things like “Man, that is so unfair! You could have
been one of the greats!” or “Don’t worry man, we’re playing this first game for
you!” But the only words my teammates uttered were, “Hey, how’s the neck?”, or
“Too bad, man.”
But then my speech class teacher, Bill Ribblett, approached me with a serious look on his face. Speech class was required
in high school at that time, so all of my classmates begrudgingly shuffled
their way up to the front about once a week to give some kind of presentation.
It was torture for most of us, and I complained about it just to fit in, but quite
frankly, I secretly enjoyed it. One of the few gifts I was given was a deep
base voice when I was in junior high school, so out of surprise more than
anything else people tended to listen when I spoke. However, I tended to mumble
when I had to give a presentation, so I was hoping that speech class would help
me.
As Mr. Ribblett approached me, I
fully expected him to commiserate with me over my life-changing misfortune. He
said “Mr. Hardy, I hear you’re not playing football anymore.” I replied,
mournfully, “No sir, I’m not.” And he smiled and said, “That’s great!” I was
appalled. Shocked. Here I was looking for a little compassion, and he tells me
that the end of my life as I knew it was great?! I incredulously shot back
“What’s so great about it?” He put his hand on shoulder and walked me down the
hall to his class. “Well, I’m having tryouts for the Fall school play, and I
need several male characters. I think I might have a part for you if you come
to tryouts.”
Anyone reading this does not have
to be a fan of the TV show “Glee” to know what high school football players
thought of guys who were in the choir or the theatre. In the early 70s, these
were not real men. They were guys who were to wimpy or chicken to go out for
sports. Sissy boys. It was bad enough that the entire football team had written
me off as their friend, but to add insult to injury by being in the school play
was out of the question. I would never live that down. So I laughed and said
“No way, I am not going to try out for a stupid play.” And Mr. Ribblett looked
at me with his steely blue eyes and said “Don’t worry, I understand. I mean, to
get up there in front of all those people and perform takes a lot of guts. And
obviously you don’t have any.” And he left me standing in the hallway.
There are few things worse than a
football player admitting he has no guts. In my mind it was even worse than any
names people might have called me for being in a play. I mean, after all,
Tarzan was an actor, Charlton Heston too. And God help the man who called them
sissy boys to their face. Determined to show my courage, I showed up at tryouts
the next night for the play “The Silver Whistle.”
I don’t remember much about the
tryouts, but I do remember morning announcements when the chosen cast members
were broadcast for all the school to hear. I was given the part of Oliver
Erwenter, the lead and biggest part in the play. I was elated and anguished at
the same time. I was about to change the direction of my high school life in a
major way and had no idea where all of this would end up. Little did I know
that it would also change the direction of my adult life in profound and
significant ways.
Bill worked with me
constantly, pushing me harder than I had ever been pushed. And I was awful. I know I was awful because I saw the
video tape of my rehearsals. The school had one of the first video tape
machines created, one of those one-inch reel-to-reel kind with a camera that
only recorded in black and white. Bill decided to use it as a teaching tool for
us actors and the truth was brutal. But still he kept pushing. And on opening
night, when I stepped out on the stage, a feeling of calm came over me and I
knew that the theatre was where I really belonged.
Then Bill talked me into going to
a speech contest. The truth is that students who are on a speech team are much
more dedicated to their craft than any other student in high school because
they have to get up at 5:00 a.m. almost every Saturday morning during the
coldest time of the year and ride a school bus to speech meets! No other school
event demands such dedication. But he insisted I enter the “Group Discussion”
category and I reluctantly went. Alice Colley, Howie Katz and I sat in the back
seat of Mrs. Smith’s car while she briefed us on the the discussion topic
(pollution, I think), and I remember Howie Katz taking frantic notes as I dozed
in and out during the two hour drive to Fort Wayne, Indiana. I took one page of
notes that were, quite frankly, indecipherable even to myself.
When the day was over, Alice,
Howie and I had swept the top three places of the discussion category.
Amazingly, I took first place, which made Howie livid since he knew how little
I had prepared, and quite frankly I would been a little steamed if I had been in
his place. But it became evident to me that what the judges were looking for
was someone who could listen well and then summarize all the views that had
been expressed. So basically, I simply listened to all of the facts from
everyone else and BS’d my way through the entire four rounds. But it again
showed me that communication was my strength, and I competed at the state level
for three years in a row.
I was in almost every play in
high school, and in fact met my wife, Jodie, playing opposite her on that stage
(however, it wasn’t until 25 years later that we got married! But that is
another story!). Eventually I went on to acting school and professional acting,
and I still write plays. 40 years later, I still keep in contact with Bill
Ribblett, who is a retired teachers association president in southern
California. Today I teach at the University of Notre Dame and speak to groups
all over the country about the kind of “Personal Encouragement Philanthropy”
that Bill gave to me. Thank you Bill Ribblett, I am who I am because you shared
your fire with me and believed in me more than I believed in myself.
Great story that is told in very relatable way. In grammar school my voice got me the role as the narrator of "Sinbad the sailor" in our school play -- gosh was I horrified when asked--maybe it wasn't really my voice, but the fact that I was a young loud mouth -- and like you, that teacher "dared" me with some comment--thanks for the memory jarring story. I guess we forget certain things that made us who we are.
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