"Don't make me have to call your momma."
Words that I'm sure have been uttered to many a child partaking in some sort of youthful misbehavior. Words that were no doubt used on me by more than one teacher. But the one I specifically remember saying it was Mister B.
Mister B was our middle school phys ed teacher. His daughter, Amy, was in my class. He knew my parents. And somehow he knew I would far rather face a swinging slab of oak than have my parents know I had done anything wrong.
(That still holds true, by the way. I can easily see Mom to this day giving me the days-long silent treatment and look of utter that-is-not-how-I-raised-you disappointment. Though surely she wouldn't still pinch the living daylights out of me if I acted up in church. Would she? Nah. I mean, I'm pretty sure. And I don't even think Dad wears a belt anymore.)
Anyhow, back to Mister B. There were good things about having the parent of one of your friends as a teacher. Like the time I sneakily tripped Cedric King while we were playing football in PE.
The school bully, he was fifteen in seventh grade and built like a middleweight boxer. We'd only play tackle when Mister B wasn't watching. (Sometimes I think he knew but was just letting us be boys.) Everyone had always been afraid to tackle Cedric.
Not me. I was too dumb to know better.
After I tripped him, he got up and pushed me down in the dirt. I was in no hurry to spring back up. Mister B quickly darted over and intervened. He sent Cedric to the principal's office, almost surely saving me from what would have been both an embarrassing and fully expected licking.
Mister B's wife, I shall refer to her as Mrs. B, was the high school home ec teacher. And they had a pool table at their house. This provided for some of the best get-togethers of my youth (and one epic co-ed sleepover my senior year).
Usually, eight or ten of us would hang out at their house. Mrs. B would serve all manner of snacks and baked goods while we watched movies, shot pool, or played cards and board games. Most nights, Mister B would join in.
He was pretty handy with a cue (I was beyond awful back then). I remember him always giving us tips to help us improve. Grip, angles, English, bridges.
It seemed like such a small thing to do.
As years sped by, I'd still occasionally see Mister B. Anytime I managed to make it back to my hometown 10K, I would see him and Mrs. B walking the two-mile race. Side by side. Every year.
Mr. B also found me on the radio. He would occasionally call and request a song. He rarely introduced himself, but I recognized that forever enthusiastic, familiar singsong voice. He was one of those people who always made you feel they were excited to see or hear from you.
At the last station I worked, Mr. B never failed to call in and put Mrs. B's and the kids' birthdays on our birthday calendar. As well as his and Mrs. B's anniversary. Every year.
It seemed like such a small thing to do.
I got out of radio in 2015 and they held the hometown 10K run for the last time in 2016. I probably only saw Mister B a time or two after that.
Waiting in line at the visitation Saturday night, I was able to look at some of the pictures of Mr. B and articles mentioning him that were on display there, telling part of his story. Things I had never known.
Turns out he was quite dapper in his younger days, and had been inducted into his home county's sports hall of fame. He had coached his kids' youth sports teams.
There was a certificate acknowledging his election as a deacon at church. I went back to look up the qualifications of a deacon before writing this. One stood out: The husband of one wife.
As I read through the small funeral program, it stated one of Mister B's favorite hobbies was writing love letters and poems for his wife of more than fifty years.
That stopped me.
I thought about my marriage. I couldn't help but think maybe Mister B was giving me one last tip on how I could improve.
There is a song Mister B used to call and request. This was three radio stations ago for me. Another century. I didn't think of it the evening of the visitation. I didn't think of it on Sunday as I texted back and forth with Amy about memories, how much I loved her parents, and how blessed we were to have had such a good friend group in high school.
But I thought of it today, as I was trying to think of how to write something worthy of Mister B.
Long story slightly less long, the song's hook line says, "It's better to be gone but not forgotten, than to be forgotten but not gone."
Gone. They say his mind was starting to go. He was beginning to forget things. Hospice was called in near the end.
Gone. From this brief human existence.
But forgotten?
Well, Mister B, that's about as likely as middle-school me continuing to misbehave after one of your "Don't make me have to call your momma" admonitions.
Not happening.
Many people were fortunate enough to know Mister B far better than me. But I wanted to write something personal; things I remember about him and what he meant to me. I just wish I had told him some of this when I still could.
It would've been such a small thing to do.