During PE (Physical Education or gym class) in my senior year of high school, the teacher decided we’d spend a couple of weeks learning about and playing baseball. I’d always enjoyed PE, and this particular teacher was great. He’d lay out the rules of various sports, have us practice drills for a few days, and then run two sets of games: one competitive and one for fun. We students were allowed to choose which we did; that way, we could be with classmates on our own skill levels. For example, during our volleyball session, I played on the fun side as I’m terrible at volleyball. When we did soccer, I played on the competitive side because I was on the school team.

When it came time to actually play baseball, the coach said that just for the first game, we would all play together (he split us into teams with equal amounts of “new” players and “experienced” players) so that he could pitch. He stressed that he wanted everyone to be able to hit the ball, so he would be very generous with pitching and calling a fair ball versus a foul or strike.

I approached him as we headed out to the baseball field and explained that I was especially terrible at hitting a ball. I literally struck out multiple times in tee ball, a younger child’s version of baseball where the ball is set in front of the hitter on a stationary tee. It’s hard to strike out as much as I did; I actually found out in adulthood that I have a mild eye condition that makes things like hitting baseballs and volleyballs difficult. But I had a solution! One of my classmates was on the school’s baseball team but had a sprained ankle. Meanwhile, I was captain of the school’s track and field team and had previously captained the cross country team; my classmate could hit for me and I’d be his designated runner.

It made sense to my classmate and me, but the teacher said he really wanted everyone to feel good about being able to hit the ball. So, when my team was at bat, I got in line and waited. All my classmates hit the ball in four or fewer tries, so I thought maybe I’d have a chance. The teacher was pitching well, and very gently for us new players.

But when I got to the plate, I couldn’t hit the ball to save my life. After about ten strikes, I suggested that we go with my plan to be my injured classmate’s designated runner. After twenty, I suggested it again and assured him that my self-confidence in sports and otherwise was fine. I had multiple varsity letters in five different sports; I just wasn’t good at baseball.

Finally, after — and I’m not exaggerating — thirty-two strikes, the teacher saw how bored everyone else was and how non-existent my hitting skills were, so he let my injured classmate up to the plate. My classmate instantly hit the ball deep into the outfield, and I sprinted to second base. With the game finally moving again, I was even able to score! I was a designated runner for the rest of the baseball session.

Even in the moment, I appreciated that he was sincerely trying to help. He didn’t want me to be embarrassed at being the only one to strike out. It just took him a bit to realize that not only was I unbelievably bad at hitting, but I also wasn’t embarrassed by it. More than anything, I was amused by the whole situation, and it still makes me laugh years later.

Classmate #1: “I can’t wait for break. We’re going to Nepal.”

Classmate #2: “What are you going to do there?”

Classmate #1: “Dunno yet. I’m trying to find things to do, but I can’t find it on the map.”

Classmate #3: “[Classmate #1], Nepal’s in Asia. That’s a map of Mexico.”

Classmate #1: “Nonsense. It’s somewhere here on the west coast.”

Sometime later…

Classmate #1: “Told you! Here it is.”

Classmate #3: “That’s still not… You know what? I hope you enjoy your vacation. You should learn all about Nepal before you go.”

[Classmate #1] triumphantly showed us his map. He was pointing to Naples, on the coast of Italy.

Years ago, my Scout troop did a weekend bike trip. Part of the route went through an old railway tunnel. There was literally no risk of a train. The track had been closed for years if not decades, and that tunnel was officially part of a walking and biking path.

But that didn’t stop the Scoutmaster from being a smart aleck. He waited until we were halfway through and then pulled out a surprisingly loud wooden train whistle.

Any panic was very short-lived, as he only got two toots out before succumbing to laughter.

It was pretty funny in hindsight.

This story reminds me of a history teacher I had. He was SO strict, everyone was terrified of him. And his wife — a French teacher at the same school — was worse. Terrible bullies, the pair of them. But, for some reason, he REALLY hated me.

We had him for the first period after lunch, in a “terrapin block” — a set of “temporary” classrooms, set up on brick plinths on some waste ground beside the main school buildings. To access the classroom, you had to go up a set of steep concrete stairs. Because we couldn’t be trusted — naturally, as we were school children — the school mandated that these classrooms must be locked at break times. The first teacher in the room after break had to collect the key from the office and unlock the classrooms.

One day, [History Teacher] was very late. We were all queued up on the steps but stood to either side to allow him free access to the door. He made us line up with girls to the left (because they should be LEFT out of his lessons) and the boys to the right (because they were always RIGHT in his lessons); his reasons, as stated to us, are given in parentheses.

I happened to be at the front. Some of the other girls in the class were pushing each other forward, and therefore into me. I was using the door handle to anchor myself to push back against them, so as not to get in trouble with [History Teacher] by being on the right. He eventually came along.

History Teacher: *Very snappily* “I can’t possibly access the lock if you have your hand on the door handle.”

The lock was readily accessible. I tried to explain, but he cut me off.

History Teacher: *Angrily* “Remove your hand from the door!”

So, I did.

And just at that moment, one of the girls gave an almighty shove to the girl in front of her, who barrelled into me, causing me to barge into the teacher, knocking him off his feet, as he was completely unprepared.

He tried to give me a detention for that one, but the teacher in the adjoining terrapin confirmed my story — that I had tried to warn him and then done exactly as he told me — so that went nowhere. I don’t think it made him like me any more than before, though.

Related:
When You Wish They’d Cool Off A Bit

My boss used to be a teacher in IT at university. He had the weirdest quirk for a teacher — at least compared to my own student experience.

During any written (noted) assignment, students were allowed to ask him any question they wanted, and he would answer them legitimately and correctly. In exchange, he would dock an amount of points depending on the importance of the answer.

His reason: in IT, when you are locked, you pay for a consultant. So, in order to prepare his students for real life, he applied the same principle.