Mid-Season: Chapter 4

Transition

Your eyes would widen, stretching to their limits, when you stole the ball and there was nothing between you and the basket.

A rush of adrenaline accompanied every dribble as you would race to score.

There are times when you push your body faster than your balance could catch up.

I missed my share of transition opportunities.

As a child or young adult, it was painful but a slice of Dunwoodie pizza and a coke afterwards and it was all forgotten.

When you are approaching 50, when you blow the bunny in transition, you realize there’s no guarantee you get back on the court.

I knew the day was going to come, when Five-Star Basketball wasn’t going to be a part of my life.

Change is frightening. The older we get, the harder it is to re-define who you are and what you are good at.

In my heart, I always felt there was more to me than Five-Star, I had a family, I had other interests, I had skills.

A year ago, I decided I would take my shot. I’ll teach, i’ll consult, the sky’s the

limit.

From the outside, teaching appears to be a high-percentage shot.

In reality, it’s really 4-on-1 the other way and you’re the only one back.

If you didn’t go through the academic track (doctorate by 30), getting a full-time teaching position is like getting a Division 1 scholarship.

The percentages are not in your favor.

Do you remember when you got that call or had the conversation?

We don’t have a scholarship or a spot on the team but you could practice with the team, go through conditioning- do everything. You looked like you were on the team, but you really weren’t — where it counted.

That’s what it’s like being an adjunct on the college level. I imagine the same for those who substitute teach as well.

The drive to campus is as far as if you were full-time, the classes are the same length and the homework takes the same time to grade.

You start to feel like you are a professor- that is until your paycheck comes in and you realize that you spent more on groceries during that two weeks.

Yesterday, I was sitting in a dark corner office on the second floor of Aquinas Hall. A black robe hung on the back of the door, it had the markings of someone important, or someone who did something important, that would parade it around graduation or Convocation.

He was the Dean of Arts and Letters and he was the highest power at this meeting between two of the communications faculty and our sports management team which included, one business faculty member and yours truly. I teach one class per semester trying to carve out my place for myself in academia.

You sit in these meetings, self aware, trying to prove yourself -worthy. Am I dressed — right? Will I be able to add to the conversation? Can I articulate why I should teach the course?

And the reality is that it’s all a waste of time. When you are an adjunct professor, full-time faculty treats you as less.

Not only do you have to listen to them tell you that they are the only ones qualified in the subject matter but when you try to interject real expertise, from a life in the field — you get a hand put up in your face. They don’t want to hear from you and the system is built — so they don’t have to.

This exercise about the class wasn’t about the students, it wasn’t about the merits of the course- it was about career survival.

They construct a system to keep themselves protected in their position of full-time salary and benefits for as long as that tower stays up even as the rest of the walls of the castle come crumbling down. In small religious-affiliated colleges, like the one I teach at, it’s like the second invasion of the Huns. The future is bleak.

Those outside of academia who are trying to break in — there is a giant wall for keeping you out.

When you pursue a career in education,you feel as it would bring out your best self. A dedication to the betterment of others. A school would be a collection of those people that are all cut from that special cloth.

Now, I am able to have a closer look. It looks far different. Too many of those involved aren’t doing it for what’s best for the students or what’s best for the school — it’s about status, ego and a paycheck.

What’s best? It’s about what’s best for them. They need to keep the cycle going.

Growing up, I never was a great hitter. I was a reliable glove with an inconsistent arm. My batting came in spurts.

I would like to think it got better when I got older but not really.

An adjunct professor is like a pinch-hitter. You work as hard as you can at your one at-bat a week, hoping to earn a second one.

Those around you, wonder when you are going to hang it up and pursue something more stable, more lucrative.

You sit and reflect on why you missed the curve ball.