We called him “Chicken Legs.”
He bobbed about with the cadence of a chicken’s walk, with tall, bony legs and turned-out feet that mimicked fowl. From the waist up, however, he favored Eddy Munster with dark black hair and bushy black eyebrows.
Chicken Legs was the bane of my existence during my middle school years. He was a maniacal, yet mostly benevolent, girls’ P.E. coach. He was intent on making us girls well-rounded students of physical education.
He and I could not have had more opposite goals for my education.
Every fall and every spring, Chicken Legs made us play whiffle ball, a “lighter” version of softball/baseball. I was horrible at this game. The sad part was — every time I thought I was doing well, Chicken Legs would come over to me and fix my stance or say “choke up on the bat!”
I had that bat so choked that I was almost swinging it like a golf club.