I’m sure my nostalgic ruminations of past high school teachers is of minimal interest to readers. With devastating tornadoes, a looming war with Iran and former Monkee, Davey Jones’ death, you have more pressing interests than hearing of someone else’s teachers from decades past.

But that being said (which I love saying), I submit: “Teachers I Recall, Part Two.”

Our art teacher, Mr. Kososki, was not one of those mammoth, feared teachers I described last week. In fact, he himself was victimized by one of the tough and brutal ones, my baseball coach, Mr. Michaels.

Michaels was like one of those angry coaches shown on blooper shows coming from the sidelines to make a tackle on an opposing player. Winning was everything to the egotistical guy, and he couldn’t have cared less about the tender psyche of a young student athlete. I once failed to make a timely throw to home from second base after being viciously spiked by a sliding runner.

The winning run marred our then-undefeated season, and Michaels bum-rushed me with his big chest puffed out, screaming “What the hell were you doing out there?” I looked him right in the belt buckle and answered defiantly, “Sleeping.” He roared, “Sleeping? Sleeping?!! You sleep at home, dammit-to-hell! You walk home.”

Walk? We were in Windber, 10 miles away, for crying out loud. Hoping it was merely bluster, I boarded the bus anyway, and on the dark ride home, he even softened enough to dab blood from my gashed ankle. He did bench me for a game, though.

So, once during an eighth-period alumni basketball game, referee Kososki called a foul on player Michaels, who slammed him so hard on the chest, the art teacher landed four rows into the bleachers.

No, Kososki wasn’t one of the feared teachers, but he was short-tempered and foolish enough to pull my hair once. He didn’t lift me off my feet like Mr. Fuller did, but it was an offense I wouldn’t take lightly.

Kososki believed art was sacred and had no time for students who didn’t seek to excel. I did not seek to excel; it was just an elective class and one I used to break in new comedy material with my buddies. He gave a weekend assignment for us to create a sculpture using common objects found around our homes.

Just before bedtime Sunday night, I found a small, 2x4 block and pounded six large nails into it. Kososki wasn’t impressed, suggesting I had put zero effort into my project. He did say it could have had potential had I for instance, bent some of the nails and painted the nail heads differing colors. “Take this home and return something we can be proud of,” he said.

So just before bedtime Monday night, I bent three of the nails and then slept like a baby. Again this guy wasn’t satisfied and blathered on with some half-baked theory about me not having much of a future. Half-way through class when I heard he was in the hallway placing the best sculptures in the show case, I told my buddies, “Watch this.” Carrying my improved nail board, I tapped him on the shoulder and asked, “Did you forget this one, sir?”

And that’s when he grabbed my hair and rudely escorted me back into the classroom. This time, I was the one unimpressed. That Friday night, my buddies and I put my plan into action. We snuck eggs from our collective parent’s fridges, parked my ’63 Ford Falcon at the bowling alley and made the short walk to Kososki’s driveway. I yelled “Fire” and eggs filled the night air.

Just as I released a missile while yelling, “Pull MY hair will ya?” Kososki came rushing out the door. The timing of my verbal joust was admittedly bad, so there was an outside chance that our yolks were cooked. In class Monday though, it was pretty much business as usual, although I maintained a more serious demeanor. But after “Class dismissed,” came “…except for Blough, Salley, Shields and Koba.” (Coincidentally Dave Koba is now the CTHS athletic director).

The rebuke was surprisingly mild — little more than a silly lecture on how a few eggs wouldn’t hurt him but could have led to his elderly neighbor, Mrs. Pipta, having a heart attack. Not surprisingly, he had recognized my voice, and the bowling alley parking lot lights had illuminated our giggling retreat.

So he took it all better than expected, but then just had to throw in, “You know what shocked me the most that night? That Blough would even have enough ambition to throw an egg.” We left laughing, and I really wasn’t that offended by the slight. I had made my point: Nobody gets away with pulling my hair. Not unless they’re big and pretty tough.