POST-SEASON DEPRESSION

As a sophomore at Grossmont High School in 1979, I fancied myself a writer—still do, I guess--and so one of my biggest goals was to get an article published in the school newspaper. Unfortunately for me, only juniors and seniors were allowed to write for publication. In fact, another student and I were the first sophomores to even be admitted to the beginning journalism class. Our job was to learn the basics.

But one day the teacher gave the beginning class an assignment that, for me, struck a nerve. I don’t remember the exact prompt, but I wrote about something I had noticed over the two years I’d been in high school thus far. Even though I had never been much of a sports fan, I found it interesting that not only was the football season clearly one of the most important times of the school year but that, after the season ended, there was a tangible emotional letdown for everyone—teachers, students, athletes, even the community. No more late night games, no more partying, no more gridiron rivalries. It was back to school, back to work, and back to normal. So I wrote a personal essay called “Post-Season Depression.”

Mr. A., the journalism teacher, gave“Post-Season Depression” to the editorial editor of the school paper, and he ran it in the Christmas issue. It was my first published piece of writing and my first ever by-line. And as we all know, you always remember your first.

But what I ALSO remember is this: when I got my assignment back from the teacher, he had written a note that followed just after the last of my neat blue cursive writing. Something about the melancholy tone I’d captured, he said, had reminded him of one of the verses in Paul Simon’s song “Kodachrome.”

And then he quoted it:

“If you took all the girls I knew when I was single
and brought them all together for one night
I know they’d never match my sweet imagination
Everything looks worse in black and white.”


That was almost thirty years ago, but I still have that hand-written article in a Pee Chee folder somewhere in my file cabinet. Mr. A. was trying to tell me that when you’re older, and you reflect back on things—even if it’s only been a few months—the reality of what happened never quite matches how you remember it. I’ll always associate Paul Simon’s song about capturing memories with my first published piece of writing and Mr. A.’s personal note.

It wasn’t the only lesson Mr. A. ever taught me, but it was a good one.