How the teacher kept our eyes on the ball... (From Gazette & Herald)

How the teacher kept our eyes on the ball...

THE word 'encouragement' has at its root the Latin word 'cor' meaning 'heart' - to put heart into - and I know of no human attribute so inspiring as the ability to strengthen and motivate people, especially children, to grow to their full potential.

Which takes me back to my school days. I was a solitary boy, easily bored and restless, and, as a consequence, a disruptive element in the class. Any teacher reading this will recognise the kind of child I was and think "It only takes one to ruin a class". The only thing that could have been said in my favour was that I was a voracious reader and anything that interfered with that joyful activity I considered a total waste of time. Except cricket. That was my other passion.

And I was quite indifferent about coasting somewhere near the bottom of the class. As my twin brother was usually near or at the top, I felt that family honour was sustained without the need to exert myself unduly.

And that, I have little doubt, is how things would have ambled along until one day a new teacher in English Literature was posted to the school.

He was a tall man with a thatch of grey-white hair and very dark eyebrows (at odd variance with his hair) that met in the middle over eyes of a penetrating blue. This might sound a rather daunting description but around his eyes a smile seemed to hover permanently as though, regardless of the circumstances, he found life unquenchably amusing.

When he introduced himself to us on his first day as Mr Bligh, I shouted out (recalling the barbaric Bligh of the Bounty) 'To the t'gallants, Mr Christian!' in my usual attention-seeking way. To his credit, he took it in good part. But he gave me a measured look.

He managed a fairly boisterous class with easy authority and communicated his love of literature to us with infectious enthusiasm.

Even now, generations later, I can hear his dark indigo voice reciting by heart all the verses of Wordsworth's 'The Solitary Reaper' - the simple story of hearing a country girl singing to herself as she reaped the field, and whose:

'... voice so thrilling ne'er was heard

In springtime from the cuckoo bird

Breaking the silence of the seas

Among the farthest Hebrides.'

He spoke the words as if he was there watching and listening in wonder at the beauty of the scene. And I remember how an unusual silence had fallen on the class as we were magically and mysteriously caught up in the spell of the moment. For me, who had never taken poetry very seriously, it was an epiphany, a moment of revelation. An even more significant episode was soon to follow.

After a few weeks, during which I began to look forward more and more to his class on Friday afternoon, he told us that he would like us all to write an essay on any one of three themes - 'Dreams', 'Local Wildlife' and 'Friendship'. There was to be a prize, unspecified, for the best essay. When we asked him "Why unspecified?" he replied: "Because I want it to be personal to the winner and at the moment I don't know who that will be."

To this day, I don't know why I chose 'Friendship', unless it was that the only other character in the class with a worse reputation than me for laziness and disorder was my friend Ben. He was a highly-freckled red-headed boy who, even at the age of 13 was able to grow long side-whiskers and the ginger apology of a moustache. Mr Bligh called him the 'Regency Buck'. The name stuck.

Ben's way of coping with boredom was to bring a pet hamster with him in his pocket which he would allow out when the master's attention was diverted, to make its way up his sleeve to settle comfortable in his collar. But there was a side to Ben unknown to the rest. He knew every bird in the tree by its song and could name the species of every butterfly and wildflower in the hedgerow.

Two Fridays later, Mr Bligh came in with the essays under one arm and a new cricket bat under the other. It was only too obvious to me that a lad called Quinlan, who was captain of our team and a prefect, was the winner. To be fair, I had to admit he was a good all-rounder. But I was emerald with envy.

Mr Bligh settled himself at his desk and leafed through the essays, putting two to one side. I noticed how even Ben had returned the hamster to its warm home in his pocket and was all attention.

Mr Bligh looked up with a smile and said: "I know I told you there would be a prize for the best essay, but there were two essays of outstanding merit, so I decided to give a second prize, which is two tickets for the Blackpool v Preston North End match a week tomorrow, in which, as you all know, Stan Matthews is playing. And that prize goes to Ben for his colourful description of the life of a hamster."

Ben gave a gasp of delight and the rest of the class stamped their feet, which was our customary way of confirming approval. When order was restored, Mr Bligh went on to say: "I can't say it was remarkable for its spelling or grammar but his knowledge of his subject shone through. Indeed I think I could call it a 'love story'."

There was a titter round the class at this description but I knew what Mr Bligh was saying and led the stamping while Ben, with a face as red as his hair, went up to collect his prize. Everyone knew that he was crazy about football and Stan was a national hero. Some of my more senior readers will recall his outrageous talent on the wing.

Then Mr Bligh said: "Frank, come up here." I went to his desk with a pounding heart wondering what I had done wrong. He held up my essay and said:

"Frank, is this your own work?"

"Yes, sir".

"No one helped you?"

"No, sir."

He leaned forward and slowly tapped my forehead several times as if to indicate that whatever he was about to say was to be remembered, and he said: "You have a good head and a gift with words so why not join us and forget the antics?" And he handed me the bat on the front of which was the signature of Sutcliffe, England's famous opening batsman - along with Hobbs and Hutton.

When I got back to my desk amid a clamour of feet, I knew for certain that the bat, precious as it was, was not the real gift. The real gift was far more momentous. He had put heart into me. So I joined them.

Ben ended up a veterinary surgeon of distinction. He swapped hamsters for racehorses and was in great demand among the racing community. And I followed my three brothers into medicine.

Updated: 14:40 Wednesday, January 25, 2006