Trafford Publishing: Cageball, Poker, and the Atomic Wedgie: A Tale of Catholic School Mischief

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Cageball, Poker, and the Atomic Wedgie: A Tale of Catholic School Mischief

by Valentine J. Brkich

219 pages; quality trade paperback (softcover); catalogue #03-0943; ISBN 1-4120-0574-4; US$21.50, C$24.94, EUR18.00, £12.50

A humorous tale of mischief and misbehavior, this book takes you on a nostalgic journey back to when days were spent tormenting teachers, and the future's possibilities were endless.

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About the Book Reviews About the Author Excerpts

About the Book

Are you tired of your life? Tired of working day after day in the same place doing the same old boring things again and again? Don't you wish you could just go back in time and be a kid again?
"Cageball, Poker, and the Atomic Wedgie: A Tale of Catholic School Mischief" takes you back to that simpler time in life when all you cared about was having fun. Reminisce about your own childhood days as you follow Isaac and his friends through three days of the Eighth Grade. Revel in their high-jinks as these masters of mischief attempt to pass the time by relentlessly tormenting their teachers. As veterans of school time shenanigans, they pull out every trick in the book to make class time more enjoyable.
But as they cruise towards summer break, Isaac and his friends must face the most daunting challenge of their lives-the big Algebra final. Hopelessly unprepared for it, they scramble for a way to overcome this final obstacle in their path to graduation.
This humorous and nostalgic tale of childhood will make you laugh out loud. Brkich's clear and casual voice provides a refreshing narration that is a delight to read. It is sure to transport you back to that simpler time in life when summers seemed endless, birthdays were magical, and when imagination was everything.

About the Author

Valentine J. Brkich is a graduate of Westminster College in New Wilmington, PA where he received a Bachelor's Degree in English. He resides in Bridgewater, PA where he continues to write. Cageball, Poker, and the Atomic Wedgie: A Tale of Catholic School Mischief is his first published book.

Reviews

"Using a relaxed narrative style, as if he was sitting around the table gabbing with old friends, Brkich's book relays SS. Peter and Paul stories like The Great Twinkie Incident of '84, in which a rowdy student's errant throw caused a snack cake to splat and stick to the face of a Jesus statue. For that effort, the rebellious student got dragged - by his ear - to the principal's office.
"And that student need not worry now - Brkich changed the names of the characters in his book, protecting the innocent, and guilty, alike.
"The 219-page book will help readers remember how fun and confounding it is being a 13-year-old. He devotes one chapter solely to his stint as a Beaver County Times carrier, for which two of his biggest nemeses were aggressive dogs and invisible spider webs."
- from an article by Scott Tady, Beaver County Times Staff www.timesonline.com (10/05/2003)

Excerpts

INTRODUCTION
      Every morning around eight o'clock, I arrive at work and make my way to the eight-foot by eight-foot cubicle I call home. Once situated in my ergonomically correct seat, I take a nice big swig of bitter office coffee, and slowly begin to sift through my day's work. The first thing I do is open up any new e-mails that may have popped up overnight. After that, I check my phone messages and prioritize my various tasks for the day.
      As soon as I get all my ducks in a row, I begin to work. Now, by "work" I mean that I arbitrarily manipulate numerical data with the help of a computer keyboard and mouse. Sounds fun, huh? If they could just train monkeys to type, I'd be out of a job.
      This monotonous processing of random numbers and data means absolutely nothing to me. Most of the time I'm not even sure what I'm doing. Nevertheless, I continue to drag myself into work to perform this disheartening ritual, day after day, in return for a meager paycheck twice a month.
      Every morning as I tap away at the keyboard, I ask myself the same question: how in the world did I get here? With my tie strangling me, and the florescent lights mercilessly beaming down upon my tired eyes, I try to figure out how I became trapped in this terribly unfulfilling existence.
      It was during one of these inspirational mornings when I had an enlightenment of sorts. I can't recall what triggered it, but I had a vision of the past. Suddenly, I remembered how, when I was a kid, I used to set up a fake office in my basement and spend my entire day pretending I worked for some imaginary corporation. Young, innocent, and naive, I used to think that nothing could be more exciting than to work in an actual office. I couldn't wait to work for a real corporation, with a real computer on my desk, and a real nameplate hanging on my cubicle wall.
      As I came to this realization, I was dumfounded. Trapped within the upholstered walls of my cubicle, listening to the sound of angry telephones, and staring at the mountain of paperwork on my desk, I realized that this...this is what I had always dreamt of doing. What the hell was I thinking? I must have been out of my mind. This isn't fun...it's torture! I have to drag myself out of bed every morning, spend eight painfully long hours in front of a computer monitor, and then return home too tired and too drained to do anything worthwhile. My entire day is spent doing the same boring tasks over and over... and over again. There is absolutely no emotional gratification in this type of work. When it comes down to it, I'm just a miniature gear within a great corporate machine.
      You know what's funny? Even though I loved to play office, I think deep down inside, I knew office life just wasn't for me. That's because anytime someone asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, I never told them I wanted to be an office worker. Instead, I would say astronaut, archaeologist, or writer. When we had career day at school I never showed up wearing a shirt and tie and carrying a briefcase. I was always the one dressed up like Neil Armstrong or Indiana Jones. I wanted excitement and adventure. I wanted to explore uncharted territories and to discover ancient secrets. I wanted all the adventure and excitement that life could offer.
      Somewhere along the line, however, these dreams simply faded away and I found myself spending my days staring into a dusty computer monitor.
      My job is very simple: I sit in front of a computer and manipulate numbers. That's all. Nothing more, nothing less. Sure, my boss would tell you differently. He would tell you that I am moving inventory, affecting sales accounts, invoicing customers, and so on. But really, all I do is move numbers around. Someone calls, faxes, or e-mails me some numbers. Then, by tapping the keys on my keyboard, I insert these numbers into specific areas on my computer screen. These numbers then act together to create different numbers--numbers that in turn go on to affect other numbers which already exist in some invisible number storage place. Then I proceed to kill thousands of trees a year by printing these numbers on countless sheets of paper which I then staple and file away, never to be seen again.
      Where did I go wrong? How could I have allowed this to happen? There must have been some point along the way where I took a wrong turn--some crossroads where I went left and should've gone right. Maybe it was during college? I'm not sure. I can't really remember?
      I'd give anything to be a kid again, to be free of all responsibility. How great would it be to regain the refreshing perspective where playing office was actually something fun to do! If I could just recapture that magical outlook on life, everything would be so much simpler. Even if it meant I had to go through school all over again, it would be worth it. Believe me, the trials and tribulations of my school years would be a welcome escape from the overwhelming boredom of staff meetings, filing, and trivial office banter.
      Think about it--when you ask a kid what he wants to be when he grows up, he never says, "customer service representative," or "administrative assistant." Kids say they want to be astronauts, racecar drivers, painters, doctors, scientists, dancers, football stars, rock stars, actors, etc. Granted, sometimes these dreams may seem unrealistic or impractical, but they are dreams, nonetheless.
      A lot of people tell me that "Nobody likes what they do," or "Everyone has to work...that's just how it is," or "Not everyone can do want they want to do in life." Baloney. Okay, maybe my ambition to be the starting quarterback for the Pittsburgh Steelers was a little far-fetched. But why should some people get to have a great job and not others? Why should someone have a better quality of life than me simply because they hit the genetic lottery? Mr. Seven-foot-superathlete signs a hundred-gazillion dollar tennis shoe contract and I'm supposed to just sit here and type away until I'm sixty-five? I don't think so.
      What did you want to be when you grew up? How did it turn out? Did you realize your dreams, or did you just let them fade with the passage of time? The important thing is to remember that it's never too late to rediscover your dreams. You only have one life; why not make the most of it?
      I wrote this story so I could preserve some of the most precious memories of my childhood. I wanted to capture these stories on paper so I could, in some way, return to them and relive them in my mind. Most of all, I wrote this book because it had always been a dream of mine to become a writer. Sure, I had lots of other dreams along the way. But as long as I can remember, I've always imagined what it would be like to hold my very own book in my hands. Therefore, as you read this book, my dream has become a reality.
      As you read this story, I'm sure you will recall that childhood was no walk in the park. In some ways, I think childhood has as much anxiety and drama as adulthood. Between the tests, the bullies, the hormones, and the peer pressure, sometimes childhood can be quite a difficult time.
      Most of the time, however, I remember childhood as a magical, exciting time when anything was possible. It was a time when the only thing we really worried about was having fun. Sure, things weren't always easy, but our resiliency and innocence allowed us to carry on with hope and optimism.
      I hope that by reading this book, you will be able to recapture some of the magic of your childhood. Hopefully, these stories will help you recall events, people and places that may have been lost or forgotten with the passage of time. Hopefully this tale of mischief, innocence, and growth will help you recapture that boundless zest for life that only children possess.
      This is my story. It's about that simpler time in our lives when the year revolved around your birthday, when summer days were endless, and when dreams were limited only by your imagination. It is a tale of mischief and adventure, of friends and enemies, of mistakes and lessons. It is a tale of childhood.
The Science of Mischief
      Wednesday morning continued as we made our way over to Mrs. Findley's room for Science. The good thing was that this was the last class of the morning. The bad thing was that it was a boring class, taught by a boring teacher, and it was going to be a long, boring forty minutes until lunch.
      Mrs. Findley was one of Saints Peter and Paul's several regular teachers. By "regular" I mean she wasn't a nun. She was just your regular, run-of-the-mill teacher, just like they had down at the public school. Surprisingly, the majority of the teachers at S.S.P.P. weren't nuns. There were a lot of Catholic Schools in the area and I guess there just weren't enough Sisters to go around. This shortage gave people like Mrs. Findley the opportunity to teach in a Catholic school. Much like Sr. Mary, Mrs. Findley was easy to talk to. She was young, smart, and didn't feel the need to brandish her authority in order to gain our respect. Raising a couple kids of her own, I think she found it relatively easy to communicate with us. It was actually quite refreshing to have someone who could relate to us and who could understand what we were going through.
      This wasn't always a good thing, however. Since she understood kids so well, Mrs. Findley was also familiar with how tricky we could be. This gave her a slight edge and made it a little more difficult for us to screw around in class. But of course, we were always willing to give it our best shot.
      "Today we're going to learn about the atom and its parts," Mrs. Findley said as she erased the chalkboard. "So please get out your texts and open them to Chapter 7."
      Fantastic...we were going to learn more exciting facts about the atom. What a great idea. Neutrons, electrons, blah, blah, blah. How were we supposed to concentrate on such nonsense with the delicious aroma of burgers and fries rising up from the cafeteria far below?
      To make matters even worse, Mrs. Findley had a dull, monotone voice that could put you to sleep in a matter of seconds. Obviously, it was going to be very difficult to make it through the entire class without passing out. So with our stomachs screaming for attention, and our eyelids growing heavier by the minute, we resorted once again to mischief--our savior in times of agony.
      One of our favorite ways to pass the time was to annoy the teacher as much as possible. This wasn't very difficult to do, but it was something that demanded a little bit of creative ingenuity. The trick was to drive the teacher crazy without incurring any unwanted wrath. So as Mrs. Findley jotted her notes on the board, we secretly began our games.
      One of our traditional favorites was the Shave-and-a-Haircut Game, based upon the old barbershop slogan. Ingeniously, we had transformed this old tag line into a devious game that could aggravate even the toughest teacher.
      The rules were simple. One person would start by taking his pencil and tapping it on his desk: "Tap, tap, tap-tap, tap..." Then, about ten other kids would follow up with a "tap, tap" in reply. After about three rounds of this simple game, Mrs. Findley was visibly irritated.
      "The next person who taps anything on his or her desk is getting sent out in the hall! Is that clear?" Mrs. Findley threw us a dirty look and then turned back to the board. Usually a threat like that would scare us into submission. Getting yelled at was no big deal, but getting sent out in the hall was a serious penalty. You were never exactly sure how it would turn out. If you were lucky, you'd spend a few peaceful minutes alone in the hall. But if the school principal, Sr. Ann, just happened to be roaming the halls, you'd have to come up with a good explanation as to why you had been kicked out of class.
      We were feeling quite brave today, however, and chose to simply disregard Mrs. Findley's idle threat. Although she had momentarily stopped the tapping, her troubles were far from over.
      Next we resorted to another old favorite passed down from generation to generation--The Coughing Game. This was another simple yet effective way to terrorize the teacher. One person would cough, another would sneeze, and yet another would clear his throat. This irritating and disrupting cycle would continue repeatedly until the teacher could stand no more. Mrs. Findley showed a lot of fortitude by lasting through two whole rounds before losing her cool.
      "If I hear one more sneeze or cough, I'm going to give you tomorrow's quiz TODAY! Is that clear?" Yeah, right. Did she actually think we'd believe such a blatant attempt to scare us? We weren't finished just yet.
      Now it was time for The Humming Game. This was a tricky game which required a bit of acting to pull it off effectively. The trick was to quietly hum while looking around as if the sound was coming from someone else. Since I was a renowned expert at the art of covert humming, I decided to begin the game. Others soon joined in the fun. Give us the quiz today? Ha! I'd just like to see her try.
      Moments later we were taking the quiz. Now, if I had been keeping up with my reading, I'm sure I would have had no problem with the ten true or false questions. But since I hadn't even looked at the book in a couple of weeks, I knew I was in deep trouble. These little quizzes weren't big enough to make or break your grade, but I couldn't afford to completely bomb one. This situation called for drastic measures.
      Looking over at Jon sitting in the next row, I could see he too was in no way prepared for this quiz. No words were spoken, but I could just tell by the panicked look in his eyes. So, without saying a word, we nodded to each other and decided to resort to one of the oldest tricks in the book.
      Whenever she gave us a quiz, Mrs. Findley would always have each student correct the test of the student sitting in the next row. Knowing this, all we had to do was answer each question with something that looked a little bit like a "T" and a little bit like an "F". Then when it came time to correct each other's quiz, we would simply complete the partial letter and make it into a "T" or "F" as needed. It was a brilliant plan. Once again, when faced with inevitable doom, we had found a way to save ourselves.
      Mrs. Findley quickly read aloud the ten true or false questions, and within minutes we were finished. I was pretty confident with about five of my answers. The rest I left up to Jon to finish during the correcting phase.
      "Alright, exchange quizzes with the person next to you." Mrs. Findley gave us our directions and waited as we swapped papers. "Everyone ready?" she asked. Jon and I smiled at each other. Everything seemed to be falling into place.
      "Number one...true. Number two...false." Mrs. Findley went through the answers slowly as Jon and I adjusted our answers accordingly. It was beautiful. Once again we had found a way to outsmart the teacher.
      "Isaac and Jonathan!" Unfortunately, our master plan wasn't as foolproof as we thought. We forgot to keep an eye on the teacher and didn't realize that she had secretly made her way behind us. "Unless you both want to fail this class, you better stop cheating right now!" It was an embarrassing moment, but it could have turned out much worse. It was just one little ten point quiz. Sometimes you just had to cut your losses and accept defeat. Besides, it was finally eleven-thirty --time for lunch!