No. 265 – Burning Rope

Performer: Genesis

Songwriter: Tony Banks

Original Release: … And Then There Were Three

Year: 1978

Definitive Version: Knebworth 78, 1978.

As I mentioned, by the end of 1986, when Knebworth 78 was a daily listen, my future as a journalist was in doubt. My Boot Camp work at Northwestern was a mixed bag. My reporting instructor hated my work. No matter what I did, I couldn’t satisfy her. I rewrote every story. My copy editing work, however, was consistently at the top of my pod.

The final week before Christmas break was when students on the borderline were debated by the faculty. Everything you did was brought to bear, including the classroom work from the first half of the semester. I was the only one in my circle on pins and needles. Everyone else knew they would advance to the masters program.

To celebrate advancement, the end of the semester and Christmas, Don decided to have a dinner in the Engelhart Hall suite he shared with Frank and invited Lisi, Amy, Mary and me. I accepted, but depending on how my conference went with my reporting instructor, who was my main academic conduit, I didn’t know whether I’d attend. My conference was scheduled the morning of the dinner. Given bad news, I wasn’t going to be in a mood to celebrate. Don said I should come regardless.

The night before my instructor conference, the entire Boot Camp student body went to Rush and Division, specifically to Houlihans, to let off steam. It was the end of the semester after all, and no matter what happened, we all were about to go off in different directions.

It wasn’t the first time I had too much to drink—I don’t know that I really could say I was drunk—but I just kind of went for it as much as having three beers is going for it. I was dancing, chatting everyone up, getting kisses from female students who had I not been with Beth I would’ve pursued. I might even have finished someone else’s beer like Spalding in Caddyshack. It was a good time.

The next morning was less of a good time. When my alarm went off at 8 a.m. for my instructor conference, my head was pounding from, well, not the first hangover I ever had, but a good one nevertheless. Actually, aside from being in pain, how I felt was perfect. The immediate concern—my pain—outweighed the existential one—what the Hell am I going to do with my life after today?

My instructor’s classroom was in the basement of Fiske Hall. When I got there, Frank and another student (I don’t think it was Don) were in the computer lab. I stopped by briefly to say hello while I awaited my appointment with my instructor.

They said I didn’t look so good, and I probably didn’t, but I said, no, I’m fine. I said, I want to walk into the conference, pull out my bottle of Advil and put it on the table right at the beginning, so my instructor would know that anything she was about to say to me wasn’t going to affect me that much. Frank said he was sure it would be fine, and he’d see me at dinner that night. I said I’d see.

Finally, it was time to face the music. I sat by my instructor’s desk in the dimly lit, empty classroom, but I left my Advil bottle in my pocket. My instructor made short work of the proceedings. She started by saying that if it were up to her, she’d flunk me out of Northwestern. Luckily for me, she said, it wasn’t up to her.

Apparently, my copy-editing instructor, Buck Ryan, got up in front of the faculty and defended my case passionately and concisely. It turns out my copy-editing grade wasn’t just the highest in my pod but in the entire class—out of some 125 students. He argued you can’t flunk out the top student in one aspect of the program even if his work in other areas—according to one person—is substandard.

So, yes, using the word “lucky” again to emphasize that she thought I was a whiz-poor reporter, she said I had passed … by the skin of my teeth. I would be admitted into the Medill School of Journalism’s masters program.

I certainly felt good about that, but my hangover diluted any feelings of euphoria. I went to tell Frank the news, but he’d already left, so I went back to my residence suite and back to bed.

That night, at dinner, which I recounted already (good ol. No. 327), I delivered my good news. Everyone was happy, but I definitely felt subdued. Maybe it was the hangover; maybe it was just the calming nature of The Pat Metheny Band playing in the background, I don’t know. I did know that I at least knew what I would be doing for the next year.

I made sure to thank Buck Ryan personally for his advocacy on my behalf, and I hope my career since then vindicated his opinion of my potential value. I also made sure to never see my Deerfield instructor again and even go so far as forget her name. I can’t say I learned anything from her except the need to survive. But then, aren’t survival skills what you learn in any boot camp?