A few Fridays ago as I was making my way to the busses after school, Jordan--a student of mine who always rounds the corner at the exact moment I come out the door and lets me know what dramas closed his school day--said, "Look! It rained baseball cards!" I looked. It had. There on the sidewalk looking back at me was none other than the recently-retired left-handed, pinstriped work of art (I'll stop.) himself. (No need for names, right?)
I picked him up. I picked up a few of his colleagues on other times. Feeling happy and open-minded, I picked up a Red Sox pitcher.
Then I resolved on Monday to report my lucky find to an administrator who would announce to all the children that these treasures had been recovered.
I did. That is, I tried. Every time I approached the house principal, he was too busy counting out standardized test booklets and packets of crackers and calculators and things to talk. So I told my students and a few teachers. I put the word out. As I type this, the cards are in my bag. I will keep trying to get them back to their rightful owner. Meanwhile, Pettitte's in my back pocket, and it's a cool thing.
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