Story originally submitted to Narratively’s 2024 Memoir Contest

Spoiler alert: The title’s elements are in reverse order of their appearance.

Also, the Singer was a sewing machine.

And me, I was a funny thirteen-year-old kid doing hard time at middle school, counting down the final weeks until my three-year sentence was served. To have some sort of creative outlet, I re-enlisted in the six-week Home Economics class I had taken earlier. I don’t think that was allowable, but I signed up, and I got in. Too bad for poor Mrs. Tamburino, who would now get a double dose of my dorkiness.

The first time around was unremarkable. Wally Walrus, a fabricated brown pinniped in pillow form, the bare minimum of bookwork on finances and nutriti0n, and adequately constructed English muffin pizzas earned me a grade that brushed the bar of average and skittered over.     

Perhaps such stunning success went to my head. I arrived for my second stint in Mrs. Tamburino’s class as a debatably delusional kid with ambitious aspirations. My unrealistic notions manifested themselves as the students were each choosing a pattern for their sewing project.

“Can I make a shirt?” I asked. That was not one of the choices. Mrs. Tamburino’s eyebrows lifted skyward, a combination of shock and amusement. I took it to mean that she was impressed! It was a bold move, after all. Making a shirt had a much higher degree of difficulty than an animal pillow. I didn’t care. I had a plan. Following a covert trip to Cloth World with Mom, I also had a pattern, and two yards of Deep Lagoon aqua fabric. This was to be no ordinary shirt.

It was to be a Miami Dolphins jersey! Living in the Tampa Bay area, the Buccaneers have always been the home team. I was a Bucs fan, but I liked the Dolphins too. On Monday mornings, I had to go past all of the full-color photos and Bucs highlights on the front page of the St. Petersburg Times sports section to find the Dolphins’ results. Often there was just a brief paragraph, and maybe a tiny black-and-white photo. The Miami games weren’t often televised, so I would listen to them on my portable Kmart radio.

Local shops, the mall, even the Kash-N-Karry grocery store all sold Tampa Bay Buccaneers merchandise. I had plenty of orange and white shirts in my wardrobe. They made me a high-visibility target for bullying all throughout my incarceration at Safety Harbor Middle School. If I wanted a Miami Dolphins jersey, and I did, I would just need to make my own.

Mrs. Tamburino was a good sport, giving me numerous tips throughout the process. I was consistent in my failure to follow her suggestions. As a result, a misshapen and asymmetrical jersey materialized. Still bleeding from the pins used to impale the parts of the shirt to one another, I hurried over to the first available Singer sewing machine in the classroom. If anyone else needed to use it, there wouldn’t be a long wait. My first Home Economics go-around had taught me how to set it up the Singer quickly. Faster meant better, I figured.    

That was the mindset I brought to the sewing machine. I mastered the pedal-operated Singer with all the finesse of a lead-footed teen driver. The chalk lines I’d carefully applied to indicate the precise path to follow meant nothing to me! I took shortcuts on either side, and what should have been gentle transitions in the seams veered off in sharp angles. I might not have a future as a seamstress or garment maker, but perhaps Nascar racing was an achievable goal. The Singer’s stainless-steel bobbin was probably white hot, I had pushed it to nearly impossible RPM’s. I finished in record time (no victory lap) and went back to my desk before some ambitious student from Journalism could photograph me sitting at the sewing machine. Let’s face it, having glasses, acne, funny hair, and a skinny physique was already enough for the middle school meanies to make fun of. I didn’t need to give them more material.

Back at my desk, I ripped out the stitches that had run hopelessly off course, and I turned the inside out product back to reveal the results of my Singer session.

It looked, well… It looked…

Mrs. Tamburino just gaped. Yes! I had apparently wowed her once again!  And I wasn’t done. There were more tricks up my sleeve, or should I say, on it.  

Stripes, of course, on the sleeves, just like a real football jersey! Two stripes each, to perfectly showcase my heavy-handed stitchery. Those stitches had no chance of ever coming loose; they were pulled so tight that the fabric bunched up on both sleeves. Both stripes, both sleeves, all puckered. Consistency rearing its head once again!   

And on the front of the jersey – – Wait, was it the front? The way I had sewn the parts together made it impossible to differentiate. An ill-advised large number 12 would adorn what looked to be the better of the two sides. Cut out of a white fabric remnant with my hurried hand, the edges were jagged. I pinned those poor numerals, not particularly straight, to the front of the jersey, and proceeded to stitch them down so tightly that the puckered 12 matched the puckered stripes.   

It wasn’t all bad. Some was … worse. Many flaws were obvious when I fit the jersey on the dummy in the Home Economics classroom. I don’t mean a mannequin, I mean myself. The fit was less than optimal.  My neck was not a thick one, but rather the type that the word “pencil” normally preceded. The neck opening, however, did not take into consideration the fact that the head, my head in particular, has a much greater circumference.

The shirt was stretched out at first wear. Uncomfortable and ill-fitting, and yet! It was really something! That’s what the teacher told me. Really something! She sounded impressed.

The grade I received for the sewing project has completely slipped from memory, all these many years later.  

Was it a “D” as in Dolphins? “F” as in ‘Fins? Either were well within the realm of likelihood. Anything higher would have been extremely generous. But, like I said, I don’t remember the grade I got.

What I do remember is the pride I felt in having wowed Mrs. Tamburino. Throughout her years teaching the Home Economics class, she had doubtlessly seen many flawlessly fabricated animal pillows. Countless examples of careful stitchwork, and embroidery that didn’t pucker the fabric. Out of all the A-students and skilled seamstresses, though, she would always remember my Miami Dolphins “jersey.”  

That silly notion was the cause of a great deal of angst to me later. Award Day loomed, a week before middle school was out forever for a third of the students. It was a big deal for some kids. For others, it was a free day, sitting in the auditorium watching the more diligent students get trophies, plaques, and certificates. There would not be one with my name on it. Or would there be?

I glanced at the crumpled Award Day program almost everyone else had discarded. One thing jumped out at me. Mrs. Tamburino was going to present the award to the Most Improved Student. Uh oh. I went into a panic. Could that be me? I’d come a long way; from making a children’s animal pillow to a replica of a professional football player’s jersey. From Wally Walrus to Hall of Fame Quarterback. Oh no! I was certainly the most improved student, wasn’t I?

I could already hear the crowd explode into laughter. I could see myself making the long walk of shame up to the stage to accept an award that no thirteen-year-old boy would want. Afterward, every bully and wiseacre would tell me in between ear flicks and wedgies what a great housewife I was going to make one day. Someone would probably even bring in a frilly apron for me. The bullies would hold me down and put rollers in my hair. And it wouldn’t end there. This catastrophe would almost certainly carry over into high school next year. I would forever be known as the boy that beat out all the girls for a “Home Eck” award! Back in June of 1983, these were very real concerns to me. I think I gave myself the start of an ulcer that afternoon.

Sitting in the packed auditorium (Couldn’t there have been a flu outbreak, just for one day?) I had plenty of time to worry. There were sixth and seventh graders to honor before they even started in on the portion of the program I was dreading. Then came numerous awards to various eighth graders. The Most Improved Student award was going to be almost at the end – of the program, and of me. I was suddenly hot, as if I’d spent the hours inside the Amana oven in the Home Economics classroom. The one the class had made s’mores in, way back when my stomach could tolerate food, or thinking about food.  Finally, the dreaded moment arrived. Mrs. Tamburino stepped up to the podium. My heart promptly pumped all my blood into my flushed and sweaty face. She leaned toward the microphone, looked down at the award in her hands, and then straight out at me. Gulp!

A moment ago, all the students had been restless. Few were still paying attention, and many were carrying on their own conversations and shenanigans. It might just be possible that nobody would hear what happened next.  

Inexplicably, at that very moment, the whole place quieted. All the blood drained back out of my face. I dug my nails into the armrests of the chair so I wouldn’t fall out of it. I slouched down as far as I could, wishing for invisibility. In between the heads of the kids in front of me, I peeked at Mrs. Tamburino. She was still staring at me. She had the beginning of a smile on her face. I was as pale as a ghost and feeling like I might be about to become one. I tried to look away as she began her presentation, but I was paralyzed. I could only stare in horror, and hope the microphone suddenly failed.  

“This year’s achievement award for the most improved student,” she said loudly, (Rats!) “goes to…” She paused as the words echoed through the suddenly silent auditorium. Maybe … maybe she would lose her voice! It was a terrible wish to make, I regret that. The wish went unfulfilled anyway.    

All nine-hundred and seventy kids heard clearly the name that Mrs. Tamburino said next. I heard it too, despite the horrible freight train noise rushing in my ears.  

More than forty years later, I’ve forgotten the name of the student who won the award, and accepted it to somewhat enthusiastic applause, none louder and more ecstatic than mine.

It was at that joyous moment that reality finally penetrated my skull. There was nothing award-worthy about my jersey fail. What it earned was a far cry from even an honorable mention. I guess one lesson from that is just how irrational worries can be. As convinced as I was that I was going to receive an unwanted accolade, it was never even close to happening. Like most of the things we all worry about.

I should have known, right? I should have known something else, too; long before Award Day. I was not and am not a talented seamstress. I do not stitch carefully, measure twice and cut once, or follow guidelines precisely. Yet and still. I attempted a project that wasn’t just out of my wheelhouse, it was out my reach. I needed Clint Eastwood to give me a cold hard truth. (You knew he’d show up eventually.)

His character Harry Callahan walked it off at the close of 1973’s Magnum Force with words to live by: “Man’s got to know his limitations.” When it comes to Home Economics, I know now.

As for the Dolphin’s jersey, if you’re wondering about it? Sadly, it is long gone. I’m kidding. It is gone, alright, but there’s nothing sad about that.

The End