The Extraordinary Spit Ball by Bruce Emard

 THE EXTRAORDINARY SPIT BALL

by  Bruce Emard

Father Grimes had his back to the class as her wrote a physics formula on the blackboard in white chalk, chalk dust drifting on to a ledge, some on to the floor.  Tiny spit balls were flying silently across the classroom from Bic pens, ink cartridges removed. Joe Brady sat in the desk next to me, his cheek bulging as he chewed.  At first, I couldn’t determine what he was chewing.  Then, as he opened his mouth a few times to adjust the contents to the other cheek, I realized it was a whole sheet of lined white note paper from his binder.    I expected Joe to heave the giant spitball across the classroom at Bill Zimmerman, the middle linebacker on the football team, who was staring intently at the formula.

Father Grimes continued writing the physics formula on the black board.  I watched as he raised his chalk-whitened hand to the top of the chalk board to continue the exceptionally long formula. Suddenly, a white disc-shaped wad about four inches in diameter appeared just below his bent, outstretched arm.  A loud “splat” echoed through the classroom, and it grew deathly quiet.  Father Grimes stood frozen at the blackboard, his back to the class.  He paused in mid formula, then slowly began to turn toward the class.  When he completed his turn, it seemed an icy chill enveloped the classroom.  Father Grimes’s face was bright pink.  His white teeth shone through purple lips in a devilish grin.  In a high-pitched voice affected by a bout with yellow fever as a child, Father Grimes said, “Alright gentlemen, I want to know which one of you threw that wad.  Speak up!  You have ten seconds.  If I don’t get my answer, the whole class will suffer.”

I took a furtive glance at Joe, not wanting to give away his identity.  Joe slowly raised his hand, “I did Father.”  Father Grimes saw his raised hand, then walked down the row of desks to where Joe sat with an impish smile on his face.  “Do you think it’s funny, Mr. Brady?”  “No Father,” Joe said, the smile still on his face.  Father Grimes’s hand slowly moved toward Joe’s head, then took a quick dive and grabbed Joe by the throat of his collared shirt.  Again slowly, he pulled Joe across the closed-in side of his desk until Joe lay across his desk on the floor.  “Stand up Mr. Brady,” Father Grimes said as he pulled him to his feet.  Wap, Wap!  The sounds of Father Grimes’s slaps across each of Joe’s cheeks stunned the class.  The smile on Joe’s face was gone.  “Do you still think it’s funny Mr. Brady?”  “No Father,” Joe said seriously.  “Now Mr. Brady, about a week ago when I entered my classroom, I found a stiff, yellow jock strap tacked to my message board.  Are you by any chance the culprit?”  “Yes Father.”  Wap!  “That was an extraordinary spitball, Mr. Brady. Now I want you to remove it from the blackboard and throw it in the trash.”  Joe walked meekly to the front of the class, his cheeks lined with red and white finger marks, peeled the giant spit ball from the blackboard, and carefully dropped it into the trashcan.  “Thank you, Mr. Brady. Now, if you ever act up in my classroom again, I won’t be so nice.  Do you understand, Mr. Brady?”  “Yes Father.”  

The next day in physics class, to my astonishment, Father Grimes wheeled in a cart on top of which sat three gallons of strawberry ice cream and three gallons of vanilla ice cream; announced he was mortified by his reaction yesterday to the extraordinary spitball; then asked us politely to form a line and come to the front of the classroom where he served each of us one scoop of strawberry and one scoop of vanilla ice cream.