Even the Worst can Be Best
by Brad Foster (2021 ©)
Every kid in middle school hated Mr. Best.
And even before sixth grade arrived on a blustery day in 1982, I was already afraid of him. His infamy had managed to creep into our waning days of elementary school and cast a pallor across the warm summer months still ahead of us.
In the halls, terrified whispers and fear-stricken eyes: “Who do you have next year? Mr. Best? Oh, no….”
On the flip side — elated voices and relieved cheers: “YES! I don’t have Shop class!”
I did have Shop class, every Tuesday and Thursday. Like a doomed convict, I dreaded the hour of that class. And I found out that his reputation was well-earned.
Mr. Best treated us like we personally offended him during every fifth period. I don’t recall now if he had been missing one or more fingers, but if he had — that would have only added to his notoriety.
His sharp rebukes cut like a band saw through any kid who drew his ire. In Mr. Best’s eyes, we could never do anything right. To alleviate our fear and hatred, we’d smirk and laugh, calling him “Mr. Worst” outside of his class. Such was the height of our clever insults as sixth graders.
As for my other teachers, I liked them a lot. When winter finally arrived, I wanted to make presents for them before our cherished Christmas break. I only remember two of those gifts now.
