the goal

Leaned back, feet flip-flopped apart, too big for his chair, elbow propped on the desk behind, he looks ready for something, something not school: I badger him into position, back into my boundaries. It's a habit, though questionably productive.

A month into school-- already a month-- and we're still figuring each other out. I do, however, know his secret, not that it would take a super sleuth. When a kid snatches his notebook up to his chest and then "reads" a story far more elaborate than could be contained in few penciled phrases, well. I am a professional. And he is a talker, an aspiring charmer, all quick-moving defense and constant, one-step ahead strategy. It would seem less effort to learn how to write. And read, maybe, though I'm not yet sure how much is can't and how much is doesn't. His scores are fine and his homework's complete and his friends, I'm sure, are willing.

Sometime soon we need to talk outside of my grand central classroom so I can introduce our goal for the year: enough progress that he can be as proud of himself on paper as he is on the ballfield. If I were his coach, it might be easier to prove myself to not be the opposition, but, if he ever stops giggling at the notion of a girl who loves football-- I'll take whatever in--perhaps we'll gain some ground.