Memorable moments: The Matric marathon

In South Africa, the Matric Dance is the undisputed peak of the school social calendar. It’s a night of high-stakes glamour, tuxedos, and floor-length gowns. I went with a childhood friend, Wendy, but my close friend Tony was in a bit of a bind. Tony was the academic titan of our year—frighteningly intelligent and always top of the class—but he was a bit of a nerd and lacked the social "processing power" to find a date.

Feeling for him, I offered up my sister, Jo. She was gorgeous, lovely, and possessed a non-judgmental patience that I knew would be the perfect safety net for Tony.

The night began perfectly. We all looked the part in our formal gear, the atmosphere was electric, and the girls looked spectacular. Then, the music started, and the "disaster" began to unfold on the dance floor.

Tony, whom I had never seen move faster than a brisk walk toward a library, didn’t so much find the rhythm as he did a pace. Being tall and gangly, he didn't sway or step. He jogged. He began to lunge up and down on the spot with giant, athletic strides—arms pumping and legs churning with the mechanical efficiency of a cross-country runner.

Poor Jo was dutifully in tow, trying to maintain some semblance of a dance while Tony treated the disco lights like a finish line. After about an hour of this high-intensity cardio, Jo and I managed a quick sidebar. She was breathless but smiling, her legendary patience still intact.

"My God," she whispered, "he must have clocked up at least ten kilometers by now!"

It was a classic "Tony" moment. He had approached the dance floor with the same relentless focus he applied to his exams, oblivious to the fact that he was the only person in the room treating a slow ballad like a qualifying heat for the Olympics.

Memorable moments: The Paarl Gymnasium massacre

Growing up, my mother was the silent, steady heartbeat of my rugby career. I have the most heart-warming memories of her standing in the pouring rain, huddled under an umbrella, cheering us on through every muddy scrum and sodden tackle. Her love was as consistent as the Cape winter weather.

But there was one fixture on the annual calendar for which her nervous system was simply not equipped: the away match against Paarl Gymnasium.

Paarl Gym was an Afrikaans powerhouse out in the country, and to our prep school eyes, they didn't look like children—they looked like a different species. They towered over us, their forearms the size of our thighs. We were convinced they’d been raised on a strict diet of boerewors and biltong instead of breast milk. For them, winning wasn't just a goal; it was existential.

I have a vivid, slightly traumatic memory of three of us desperately clinging to a single Paarl player, hitching a collective piggyback ride as he thundered toward the try line, completely indifferent to the extra weight of three terrified schoolboys.

And then there were the fathers.

The Paarl dads didn't just spectate; they participated. Many of them wore the exact same rugby kit as their sons, looking like older, angrier versions of the giants on the field. During one particularly lopsided encounter, I saw a father reach down, rip a side flag out of the turf, and begin stabbing the ground with it in a rhythmic frenzy.

"Moer hulle, seuns!" he screamed at the top of his lungs. "Murder them, boys!"

Needless to say, the score was always catastrophically one-sided. I don’t think we ever managed to cross their try line, let alone win a match. I never blamed my mum for sitting those ones out. While she was happy to watch us get wet in the rain, she drew the line at watching us get systematically dismantled by teenage titans while their fathers reenacted medieval battle cries on the touchline.

Memorable moments: The blackboard brawl

In 1984, my school world shifted. We moved away from the dour, strict atmosphere of the previous headmaster and into the era of Mr. Cannon. He was charismatic, warm, and—most importantly—an unbelievable teacher. In his first year, he tossed out the standard textbook and devoted half the syllabus to an "alternative" approach. We were no longer students; we were detectives, gleaning history from archaeological clues and conflicting accounts.

But the most powerful lesson I ever received didn't come from a book or a shard of pottery. It came from a staged "scandal" that has stayed with me for nearly forty years.

We were in the middle of a session when the Deputy Head, Mr. Hart, stormed into the classroom. He looked livid. He marched up to Mr. Cannon and bellowed, "I saw you eyeing up my wife the other day! How dare you!" (To this day, I’m not even sure Mr. Hart was married, but the delivery was flawless).

The class sat in stunned, horizontal silence as the two most powerful men in our school got into a physical scuffle. Mr. Hart shoved Mr. Cannon against the blackboard, teeth bared, shouting more angry words while we watched in total disbelief.

"You haven't heard the end of this!" Mr. Hart finally screamed, storming out and slamming the door.

The tension in the room was thick enough to carve. We were reeling—what had we just witnessed? Mr. Cannon calmly straightened his tie, dusted off his jacket, and turned to us with a slow, knowing smile.

"Right class," he said quietly. "What did just happen here?"

The relief that swept through the room as we realized it was a performance was immense, but the real work was just beginning. Mr. Cannon began to grill us on the details. What was Mr. Hart wearing? What exactly did he say? What did his body language insinuate?

The results were staggering. Even though we had all been in the same small room, watching the same event only ten minutes prior, our accounts were a mess of contradictions. We argued over the words used, the intensity of the shove, and even the color of Mr. Hart's tie.

Mr. Cannon grinned with the satisfaction of a man who had just pulled off the ultimate heist.

"Well, class," he said, "if you can't all agree on something you witnessed first-hand ten minutes ago, how in the hell can you believe in historical accounts? How can you believe in history?"

Nearly forty years later, the details of that day are still more vivid to me than any date I ever memorized for an exam. That is the definition of powerful teaching: creating an experience so disorienting that the truth finally has a chance to sink in.

Memorable moments: The ribbon transformation

When I was in high school, our mathematical world was presided over by Mr. Norton. To our teenage eyes, he seemed ancient—at least eighty years old—and his teaching style was as dry as the chalk dust he conjured. We were a naturally unruly bunch, and Mr. Norton’s dullness was the perfect fuel for our misbehavior. We pushed every boundary, right up until the day reality crashed into the classroom: Mr. Norton had a sudden heart attack.

The guilt was immediate and heavy. We felt personally responsible for his failing heart, and his long absence left a somber void. That void, however, was soon filled by a replacement who couldn't have been further from Mr. Norton’s world.

She was an eighteen-year-old Polish girl, straight out of university, named Miss Kateryna. She was young, pretty, and possessed a simple, daily ritual that became the focal point of our lives: she wore a different colored ribbon in her hair every single day.

The effect on our class was miraculous.

Before she even stepped through the door, the once-rowdy room would be hushed in anticipation as we placed frantic bets on the day's color. "Yellow?" "Deep blue?" "Red?" The entire class was hopelessly, collectively smitten.

We had spent years perfecting the art of being a nuisance, but in her presence, we became like meek puppies. The transition was total. You could hear a pin drop in that room; we hung on her every word, suddenly finds ourselves intensely interested in the properties of a parabola or the mysteries of calculus.

It turns out that what Mr. Norton’s decades of experience couldn't achieve, a bit of Ukrainian charm and a silk ribbon did in an afternoon. We were a group of teenagers who had successfully defeated an "ancient" authority figure, only to be completely conquered by an eighteen-year-old with a penchant for primary colors.

Memorable moments: The gangly champion

In my early school days, I was the quintessential nerd—more likely to be found in the library than on the rugby pitch. My athletic career started with a distinct lack of promise; I spent my first few rugby matches standing aimlessly on the field, sucking my thumb while my mother watched from the sidelines in a state of terminal embarrassment.

But in Standard 3, aged 10, my gangly, awkward frame suddenly found its purpose. I discovered I could leap. I could leap high, and I could leap far.

That year, for the first time in my life, I wasn't just "the smart kid." I won the high jump and the long jump for my age group. Then, feeling bold, I competed in the age group above mine—and I won both of those, too. I spent the rest of the day vibrating with the anticipation of the prize-giving ceremony.

I went up twice to collect my cups for my own age group. Then came the awards for the seniors. The presenter looked at the list, squinted, and frowned. He looked at me, looked back at the paper, and decided there had clearly been a massive administrative mistake. No one "nerdy" could possibly sweep two age groups.

He skipped the award entirely. I sat back down, trophy-less and invisible once again.

It was a crushing disappointment, but I eventually found my redemption. A few years later, I walked back up to that stage to receive the award for "Most Improved Rugby Player." I had finally traded my thumb for a tackle—and this time, they didn't need a calculator to believe it.

Memorable moments: Highlander of the high school

Before I was born, my parents engaged in a titanic struggle over my identity. My father was determined to name me Lambert, after his own father. My mother, however, was equally determined that I would be Graeme.

Thankfully, my mother’s powers of persuasion won the day. I became Graeme Myburgh, and Lambert was relegated to the "middle name" safe zone—sandwiched between Anthony and my surname as a tribute to both my grandfathers.

For years, it stayed hidden, but in my final years of high school, the secret got out. "Lambert" became my nickname. To my surprise, I didn't mind it. My grandfather had passed away by then, and carrying his name felt like a quiet way to keep his memory alive.

It also didn't hurt that Christopher Lambert had just starred in Highlander. Suddenly, my "old-fashioned" middle name wasn't a liability; it was the name of an immortal, sword-wielding hero.

So in the end, Mum won the argument. No doubt about that.

But life has a funny way of balancing things out.

Because despite all that effort…

I still ended up being called Lambert anyway.

Memorable moments: The gem squash gambit

At school, some teachers—especially the formidable Miss Mallet—were legendary for their "clean plate" policy. This was no issue for "human garbage cans" like me, but for my classmate Sean Peche, Friday lunch was a weekly brush with death. Sean harbored a primal, soul-deep hatred for fish, and he spent every Friday gagging his way through a greasy fillet under the unblinking gaze of Miss Mallet.

One Friday, Sean arrived with a plan. He meticulously ate the flesh of his gem squash, leaving the hollowed-out green skin behind. Then, with the precision of a structural engineer, he began packing his fried fish into the shell. He compressed it so tightly it achieved the density of a black hole, before flipping the squash upside down to make it look like a harmless, untouched vegetable.

It was a masterpiece of camouflage. Unfortunately, Miss Mallet was a veteran of the "fish ruse" wars.

She marched over, flipped the squash, and exposed the compressed contraband. In a move of true pedagogical cruelty, she announced that nobody—not one of us—could leave for playtime until Sean had consumed every single, high-density mouthful.

We sat there in agonizing solidarity, watching Sean’s heroic, pale-faced struggle against the laws of biology. How he didn't decorate the dining hall floor I’ll never know.

Sean may have lost the battle against the gem squash, but he won the respect of every hungry boy who just wanted to go outside and kick a ball.

Memorable moments: The blackboard’s secret

In high school, we were plagued by a phantom prankster whose commitment to the bit was truly terrifying. We never did find out who it was, but their magnum opus remains etched in my memory (and my nostrils) to this day.

It started as a faint, metallic tang in our maths classroom. By Tuesday, it was a distraction. By Thursday, it was a biological hazard. The odor became so thick and aggressive that the entire class was forced to evacuate, relocating to the school lawn to solve equations in the fresh air.

Eventually, the school authorities traced the epicenter of the stench to the front of the room. They began detaching the massive, heavy blackboard from the wall, and as the wood pulled away from the stone, the culprit was revealed.

A large, green, thoroughly putrefied piece of fish—which had been ripening in the dark for days—slid slowly down the wall. It landed with a sickening squelch directly into the open satchel of a very unfortunate student standing below.

The culprit was never caught, leaving the mystery unsolved for decades.

I suppose we’ll never know who the phantom was, but I’d like to think that somewhere out there, a retired prankster is still smiling, knowing he’s the only person in history to make a roomful of teenagers actually want to go outside and do trigonometry.

Memorable moments: The bottle of justice

When I was seven, an operation left both my legs in heavy plaster casts. For six long weeks, I was confined to a wheelchair, which created a logistical problem: I couldn't make it to the school toilets. The solution was a medical bottle kept discretely by my side in class.

However, my teacher quickly found a secondary use for my recovery.

The moment that bottle hit the floor, she would scan the room like a hawk looking for prey. "Patrick, you haven’t done your homework," she’d bark. Or, "Nicky, stop talking!"

Then came the sentence: "Go to the toilet and empty the bottle!"

I would sit there in my casts as the "guilty" student trudged over, shot me a look of pure resentment, and marched my personal business down the hallway. I wasn't just a classmate anymore; I was a living, breathing punishment.

I went into that surgery hoping for a quick recovery; I left as the most effective deterrent in the history of primary education.

Go Matt!!

Once again, Matt excelled in his exams and walked away with multiple certificates and medals at his school prize giving.  He clearly has a very intelligent mind to go with his wonderful, fun, warm personality.  Must be his uncle's genes!!

From Jo:

Yesterday, Matt walked off with 8 certificates.  He achieved an A (80 % and above) in all his subjects for the whole year.  To top it off he got a bronze medal for English (came 3d in the whole grade) and a bronze medal for science!!

Letter to Mr Suttle, my Latin teacher

Mr Suttle taught me Latin through my senior school years.  He taught us Latin translation (using brilliant texts he'd developed himself) and also inspired in me a lasting love of Roman history.  As part of our final year, we had to write 3 extended essays on aspects of Roman history and it gave rise to a level of enthusiasm and creativity in me that surprised and delighted me.  You can read one of them here.

Ray Suttle also taught us how to create and use mind maps as a way to study.  I immediately fell in love with this visual and practical tool and used it extensively in my final school year of study. I also used it at university and have used it often in my career.

Ray was elderly and suffered from gout which made him move very slowly.  Some of the boys called him "Speed Wobble" as a result. In his prime, he was the headmaster of a very reputable private school in Zimbabwe.  He was very highly respected for this leadership and scholarly excellence in the Latin field.  However, by the time he came to St Georges, Latin was rapidly falling out of favour, regarded as a dead language and no longer relevant for the modern age.  In our class, there were only three students who studied it. Everyone else opted for Geography instead.  It was the same story in all the younger classes at St Georges.  I think Ray felt this lack of interest very keenly.

In my final exam at school, I gained a distinction in Latin, thanks to Ray's excellent teaching.  This distinction, coupled with a distinction in Afrikaans, earned me a distinction overall which meant the world to me.

I left school, and went to the University of Cape Town on the slopes of Table Mountain to study 1st year Zoology and Botany. However, on a regular basis, I would return to the vicinity of my old school because I was a member of a youth group in the area.

One night, before going to the youth group, I suddenly felt inspired to write Ray Suttle a letter. It was a thank you note, written quickly on a blank piece of paper, but written from the heart.  I thanked him for his excellent teaching that had earned me my distinction. I told him how much I had enjoyed the classes and that I was finding the Latin really useful in my Zoology and Botany lessons. I also told him how much I benefited by using the mind-maps he had taught us.  

As I drove past the school on my way to youth group, I stopped off at Ray's residence on the boundary of school where he lived with his wife, Mam Suttle, who had been our English teacher.  It was late in the evening and getting dark. I dropped off the letter in his letter box and went on my way.

I forgot about it and 5 or more years went by.

Then one day I received a letter out of the blue.  I cannot remember how the letter got to me; maybe via my mum who bumped into Mam Suttle from time to time.  The letter was from Ray.

In the letter, Ray wrote something along the lines of "I remember that night so well, I heard a scurrying outside the door and went out to see someone disappearing off into the darkness. Then I found the letter.  I have to tell you, in all honesty, no letter has ever effected me more. It came at a time when I was feeling completely demotivated and flat in regards to my teaching profession.  I wondered if it was all worth it.  Your kind, heart-felt words meant everything to me.  They sank very deep. They gave me my mojo back.  They made all the difference in the world.  Thank you, thank you for your letter."

Reading these words moved me to tears. It was, and continues to be, my greatest teaching about the immense power of gratitude expressed from the heart. Inspired by this, I have written many more letters of gratitude over the years.  

Thank you, dear Mr Suttle, for yet another of your priceless lessons.

Mr Suttle introduced us to mind maps like this one ...

Jenny Mallett, my bigger-than-life standard 2 teacher

One of my favourite and most influential teachers at St Georges was beautiful Jenny Mallett.

Jenny was a veritable force of nature.  A large woman with a booming, strident voice, she always carried a big wooden ruler that she would rap against the wall to make a loud noise if she was angry or wanted everyone to be quiet.  But she never once hit anyone with it.  I was scared of her to start, but soon I began to realise that under the tough exterior, there was an extremely caring, affirming and wonderful person.  As someone else once said, "We all got to experience that growl at times, but inside Jenny was the biggest marshmallow filled with love."  She was the kind of person you felt you could confide in and you could always rely on her to give you gentle words of encouragement and honest feedback.  But woe and betide if you misbehaved or made her lose her temper.  She had a very low tolerance for laziness or bullying or serial misbehaving.

When I was 9, I had Jenny as my class teacher and I loved being in her class except for Fridays when we would conduct one of her dreaded mental tests.  Jenny would shout out "times table questions" in rapid succession and we would have to write the answers as quickly as we could in to keep up.  And you certainly didn't want to get more than a few wrong or you would be in big trouble.

Jenny taught swimming too and her strident voice would boom out across the pool as she stood, bouncing on the diving board, giving instructions to the swimmers.  The more excited or upset Jenny got, the more she would bounce and we often anticipated her bounces becoming sufficient to launch her large frame into the pool.  But it never happened while I was there.  However it was rumoured that a few years previously, Jenny had got so upset with a student who would not follow instructions that she had leapt off her perch into the water below with a mighty splash and dunked the poor chap.  This was a school legend and I very much doubt it ever actually happened.

Some treasured memories of Jenny

• Jenny organising the bi-annual school plays like Oliver and Tom Sawyer.  She directed each play and was a logistical genius, organising and facilitating every little thing to the tiniest detail.
• Going to squash every Friday out in Goodwood.  Jenny would drive the bus and then organise the matches. The student who won each week was rewarded with a delicious, cool drink of power-aid.
• Jenny as the head of my school house (Shaw) and wanting to make her proud at school galas and athletic sports days.  I remember her wonderful exuberance when I broke the high jump record and when I won 4 cups in one year for high jump and long jump (first place in my age group and in the age group above me.)
• How Jenny loved sport and her coaching of the  Under 9 rugby (the barefoot league as it was known.)  I really enjoyed rugby though I wasn't very good at it to start.  According to mum, I used to stand on the field and suck my fingers.  Later on, however, I got better and won an award for most improved rugby player.
• Jenny's wonderful and distinctive belly laugh. She had such an exuberance for living.
• Jenny's mum who worked in the library.  She was such a warm and lovely person - I think that's where Jenny got her warmth from.
• Jenny's brother David who coached us in rugby in later years.  He went on to become one of South Africa's most successful coaches of all time, inspiring the national rugby team to an unprecedented number of successive victories.
• At dad's funeral in 1995 (17 years after school), I kept it together until after the service, when Jenny came to give me her condolences and I burst into tears and had a beautiful cry in her full bodied embrace.
  

In 1999, Jenny died young at age 48.  She went diving and had a aneurism or something like that. It was such a sad day when I heard of her passing.  I just couldn't imagine the world and especially the world of St Georges without her powerful presence. She was larger than life and enriched the life of her students in so many way. If there is such a thing as heaven, she is one of the first people I will look up and get a hug from.