By Pat Cashman

I was in the 7th grade at catholic school---and very worried.

Teachers didn’t normally tell a kid to stay after class unless there was trouble brewing. So when Sister Mildred Marie told me to stick around after the final bell, I knew something was afoot. Or ahead. Or somewhere in between the foot and the head.

As it turned out, the nun offered a stunning reversal of my worst expectations.

“Pat,” Sister began, “I have very good news for you.” I swallowed hard, as she continued. “Have you ever heard of the Leader’s Club?” she asked.

“I have not heard of that club,” I said, waiting to be hit over the head with one.
“It’s an honorary organization that only special students are chosen to be a part of,” Sister said. “And you, Pat, have been selected.”
I stood stunned, uncomprehending. She filled in the blank: “It means that you are being
recognized as a school LEADER!”

She presented the blushing me with an official “Leaders Club” patch that could be sewn onto my school sweater. It would tell the school, the city and the world that a great figure was in their midst.
Would I be a kind, benevolent leader---or a cruel, despotic one? I figured I’d try both approaches and see which one I liked best.

The next day, Sister herded me and six other new “Leaders” into a room. We spent several minutes congratulating ourselves as the new generation of The Justice League of America.

“You will be role models,” Sister said. “It’s your job not only to be exemplary yourselves, but to point out the bad apples in our school.”

I raised my hand. “Are we looking for wormy types?”
She clarified. “Whenever you see a student cheating on a test, passing notes during class or misbehaving during recess---your job is to report it to me,” Sister told us.
Her eyes narrowed. “I’ll take it from there.” I swallowed even harder than the time I did in the second paragraph of this column.

The next day, at bell for morning recess, I headed for the door with a sense of nobility and purpose---and an unmistakable swagger. My “Leaders Club” patch was sewn onto my sweater sleeve like the stripe on a general’s uniform. Or a Gestapo’s.
I scanned the playground looking for miscreants. It didn’t take long.
Donnie Marcoulier was over by the fence. He had the biggest nostrils I had ever seen on a human---like a pair of open manholes. And they were made even wider when he was up to no good.
He had just told Judy Baumgartner there was a spider on her shoulder. She screamed and ran hysterically across the playground.

There was, of course, no spider. Donnie had made it up---and as Judy ran, he just laughed. Evildoers are like that. Watch any Bond film.

As a newly appointed informant I immediately reported Donnie’s action to Sister. Soon, I saw her collar him---and within moments the budding criminal was on his way to the principal’s office.
I should have felt proud of my leadership, but I didn’t. I felt more like I had just led a lamb off to slaughter. Not an innocent lamb of course. Frankly, Donnie looked more like a pig than a lamb. But I still felt like a stoolie.

Donnie agreed. And when he returned to the classroom his nostrils were wider than ever---like a two-car garage in the middle of his face.

He sat two rows over from me---with his eyes boring into me like a wood-burning kit.
I have long felt that Donnie would have made a skillful plastic surgeon. At least he certainly did an excellent job of rearranging my face after school that day.

To make matters worse, Donnie wore two rings on his punching hand---the equivalent of wearing a half-set of brass knuckles.

Thanks to Donnie, I was no longer a mere member of the “Leaders Club.” I was in the “Bleeders Club” too.
The next day, I resigned from my leadership role. Sister asked me why. I told her straight out: “It just seems to me that the “Leaders Club” is more like the “Squealer’s Club.”
I thought the nun would be angry, but her response was different. “You expressed that very well, Pat,” she said. “Especially for someone with a fat lip.”

Within a week the “Leaders Club” was history. Sister never said why she disbanded it, but I guess she’d decided that it had put the chosen students in a difficult spot. In my case, it had put Donnie’s fist in a difficult spot.
Personally, I never felt the Club should have been disbanded. It just needed a name change and better branding.

On the other hand, nobody would likely have wanted to join the “Ratfinks Club.”

pat@patcashman.com
Pat can also be seen on TV’s “the [206]”---and heard on a weekly on-line show: www.Peculiarpodcast.com