"Yo man. Let me get this straight. You work five hours a week and they pay you 50 G’s?"
It wasn’t a rhetorical question. Calvin, who as far I know answers only to "Hot Rod," was expecting an answer, and I wasn’t sure what to say – especially since I was pretty sure that Hot Rod didn’t even know that I don’t teach in the summers.
"Dawg, I’m in the classroom five hours, but I spend a lot more time preparing for class. It’s just like out here, baby (I shove the basketball into the pit of his stomach); I only teach your ass for about an hour, but I spent years perfecting those pretty moves."
Hot Rod chuckles at the lie. I play hard, have a passable jump shot, and am a willing passer, but at 35 my quickness and jumping ability ain’t what they used to be, and they never used to be all that good. As Mister Señor Love Daddy likes to say, "that’s the truth, Ruth," but I’m not complaining – far from it. I get to hoop three or four times per week, which isn’t too bad considering that, my conversation with Hot Rod notwithstanding, teaching is just one of several professional activities that I and other university faculty juggle. But I’m getting ahead of my story.
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