By Al Root, Tribune columnist

I was a senior in high school. It was the first day of the new school year. I was drifting through life while infected with a classic case of senioritis.

I had a study hall my first hour in a large room that was used just for study halls. I thought having my study hall the first hour of each day was a stroke of good luck. It would provide me with an opportunity to catch up on some of the sleep I had lost earlier in the day to milking cows.

I was surprised to discover that the room was overbooked by at least one. Everyone but one had a desk. Everyone was seated except me.

I stood at the front of the room as the bell rang to start the school day. I looked at our first-year teacher, replete in a nice suit and tie, reading a newspaper at his desk located in the rear of the room.

I had not met the teacher before, but was about to ask him where I should sit. But, before I could do that, a friend, wearing a grin as big as his face, reached into his pocket and showed me the shiny ball bearing he had retrieved from it.

Before I could say a word, my friend threw the metal orb towards our teacher at the back of the room.

Fortunately the teacher was protected by a newspaper shield. The ball bearing hit the newspaper with a loud, &uot;THWAAAAK!&uot;

The room became extremely quiet.

The ball bearing dropped to the desktop, rolled to the edge of the desk and fell to the floor. It bounced a number of times before it finally came to a rolling stop.

Our new teacher folded his newspaper methodically and placed it on his desk. He looked at the students in the study hall.

Every one of them was seated at his or her desk with eyes pointed straight ahead. That is, all except one.

My teacher squinted as he looked through horn-rimmed glasses to the front of the room where I stood facing him. I looked back with a crooked grin and the comfort of innocence.

&uot;You! What’s your name?&uot; said my teacher.

&uot;Batt.&uot;

&uot;Well, Batt, you march right back here and let’s have a talk.&uot;

I did as I was told. He sent me to the principal’s office.

I was assumed guilty because I was unwilling to finger the true culprit.

The first day of classes brought a carnival-like atmosphere to the principal’s office.

Teachers were complaining about their schedules.

Students were complaining about their schedules.

Parents were complaining about the teachers and the students.

The school secretary feigned surprise to see me in the principal’s office so early in both the school year and the school day.

We shared a laugh. I’d been to the principal’s office before.

The principal saw me and asked what I was doing sitting on the miscreant bench. I told him that the teacher had sent me from the big study hall.

The principal nodded and said that he had heard that the room didn’t have enough desks to go around.

&uot;Go to the library.

Tell the librarian that you will be spending your study hall in the library. I’ll adjust your records so the FBI will know where to find you when they come looking.&uot;

I liked my principal’s sense of humor. I expected he needed it in his job.

I didn’t bother him with any of the details about the ball bearing throwing incident. I figured he had enough things on his mind.

I went to the library. I spent every first hour of every school day in that library. I loved the library and the librarian.

I helped her carry boxes of books and move tables. She gave me first shot at new books and the daily newspapers.

I never caught up on my sleep. I was too busy reading. It was heaven to a boy who cherished the written word.

The teacher who kicked me out of the study hall would come in each morning to get the newspaper. He got it, but not until I had finished reading it.

He once asked me what I was doing in the library.

I told him that the principal had sent me there and that I was helping the librarian.

&uot;Good,&uot; said my teacher.

&uot;It serves you right.&uot;

I don’t know if time in the library served me right or not, but I do know that it served me well.

(Hartland resident Al Batt writes a column for the Tribune each Wednesday and Sunday.)