We all have inborn skills. They vary in degree and kind, but we’ve got them from the get-go.

For example, there are those history-making, one-of-a kind, blazing geniuses like Einstein, Shakespeare, Marie Curie, Muhammad Ali, Jane Goodall, Mozart, Da Vinci and Michaelangelo. No one is in their class, no one ever was, no one ever will be. Whatever they were born with, we weren’t. And while they also worked harder than almost anyone else, their success wasn’t due to hard work alone.

After the One-of-a-kinds, there’s their second string — world class, but not in their class. Those are your Olympic and world champions and other global heavyweights. Mark Twain, Carl Sagan, Norman Rockwell, Elvis, Robert Burns, Jimi Hendrix, Emily Dickinson, Ada Lovelace, Philippe Petit and Joni Mitchell get my vote for that category.

Next there are the three percenters. They’re better at what they do than almost everyone, but never good enough to be a world-class numero uno. In sports, those are the peeps who from single digits are in some sport 100%. They compete constantly, have private lessons, personal trainers, got to specialty workshops and summer camps, have the best of everything — equipment, diet, coaching, you name it — but they finish consistently in 10th or 12th or 25th place. But being 10th or 12th or 25th in the world, while it’d send you and me into fits of ecstasy, does nothing for them. They want to be first … and they never will. They have great skills, instruction and motivation, but they just don’t have it.

After that, the field spreads out until you, me, and Yasah Pisher are in it. We’ll never get rich or famous, or even well-known outside our immediate neighborhood, but we do have a skill that is outstanding. We are minor leaguers, for sure, maybe even Triple A, which is something to be proud of, as far as I’m concerned.

Generally, while the Big Hitters seem to have vast depth and breadth to their skills, we minor leaguers seem to be really good in a realm or two, and not very good in the others. If I use myself as an example, I was always good in English and history, and abysmal in math and science. And with math especially, it wasn’t due to lack of effort or poor teaching. Jack Peightal was a first-rate teacher … but I was an abysmal student. And my only consolation was I wasn’t alone; I had other friends (though not very many) who were almost as incompetent as me.

And when I think about my failure as a math student (which I try never to do), I’m reminded of my pal Jackie Mackey and his epic triumph in the annals of college math.

–

A failed teacher and failing students

–

Jackie was a fellow history major at Old Siwash, and like me, was good in history but weak in math. Since his major was history, he had to take only one math class. Unfortunately, the class he took was taught by the infamous Dr. Z — and I use the term “taught” so loosely, I might not have used it at all.

Dr. Z was always called Dr. Z because no one could pronounce his last name — at least not to his satisfaction. He was from one of the Slavic countries and his last name seemed to be nine letters long, all but one of them consonants, the single vowel being a Y.

But pronouncing his name was the least of his students’ problems. When it came to teaching skills, he had none. From all years in the Trenches of Academe, I came up with my list of must-haves for a good teacher. First, they must know their subject, inside and out. Second, they must be able to communicate that material, in a bunch of different ways, to a bunch of different people, who have different learning styles, concentration spans, aptitudes and so forth. Third, they’ve got to be able to evaluate their students’ progress accurately and fairly and give the students clear and specific feedback. And finally, they have to have classroom management skills. There are as many different management skills as there are teachers, but all the good ones have to have them.

As for Dr. Z? He had a Ph.D., so obviously he knew all he needed to know about freshman algebra. But that was it. Beyond that, his skills were either zero, or minus 50.

He cut a weird figure, too. He was tall, pale and gaunt, with slicked-back pitch-black hair, and always wore black suits with white shirts (or maybe it was the same suit and even the same shirt, for all we knew). Instead of a tie, he wore ’round his neck a huge, gold-colored, gem-bedecked cross that looked like he clipped it from the Hermitage.

His classroom delivery was impossible to follow, his tests impossible to pass, and his manner imperious. He claimed to be descended from royalty of some sort, and so the kids nicknamed him The Count if they were charitable, or Drac if they were not.

Beyond all that, from time to time in class he’d make religious references — about repentance, archangels, biblical esoterica, and if you’ll pardon the pun, God knows what else. Of course it turned off all his students, who considered him weird anyway. Or I should say it turned off almost all his students, because in the case of my pal Jackie Mackie, it was his salvation — in a secular sense, of course.

Here’s how it shook out. Jackie’s mid-term grade was a 27, which given Drac’s Draconian grading, could’ve been the class average. And given Drac’s teaching, things were NOT gonna get better, unless something changed drastically. And something did, namely due to Jackie’s wiliness and almost complete lack of shame. While Jackie was a mess with math, he was a master of human manipulation.

–

Divine inspiration

–

One day Jackie went into Drac’s office, hat in hand, the very picture of innocence.

“Dr. Z,” he said, “I don’t want to bother you, but there’s something I think you might be able to help me with. But it’s not about math.”

“What is it?” said Drac.

“Well,” said Jackie, looking at his feet, feigning embarrassment, “I’m having a crisis of faith and think maybe if I could get some religious guidance, I’d be in a better place.”

When it came to Drac’s Ballpark of Ego, Jackie had just hit a home run with the bases loaded.

“Of course you’ll be in a better place!” exclaimed Drac. “Do you have a bible?”

“No,” said Jackie.

“Well, here you are!” exclaimed Drac, opening his desk drawer and pulling out a copy of the New Testament from a pile of them that he’d stashed for just such an occasion.

Beaming, Drac handed the bible to Jackie, at that moment feeling like the Billy Graham of Academe.

They talked some more, Jackie acting like he knew nothing about religion, but cared deeply. In reality, he’d gone to 12 years of Catholic school, had sat through years of religious instruction, and had ended up an agnostic. But while he’d set Drac on a religious mission, he himself was on an academic one — to pass Drac’s infernal class.

And so it went: Every week, Drac would give some part of the bible to study, and the next week they’d discuss it. It was a mutually-beneficial exercise: Drac thought he was saving Jackie from eternal perdition, and Jackie thought he actually might shmooze his way to a passing grade.

Academically, the second half of the semester proceeded pretty much like the first: Drac stayed as weird, clueless and incompetent as ever, Jackie kept failing test after test. The only difference was Jackie and his Bible sessions.

By the time the final rolled around, while Jackie still couldn’t remember the quadratic equation or the symmetry rule, and didn’t know the difference between a polynomial and Pollyanna, he probably could’ve passed the Ph.D. exams from the Yale Divinity School.

Still, he worried about passing the course. To that end, his goal was modest. Or as he put it, “In algebra, far as I’m concerned, a D-minus is just as good as an A-plus.”

Just before the final, he went into Drac’s office for a final butt-kiss session. It was like all the others — half-religious, half-philosophic and half-baked.

As he was leaving he said, “Ya know, Doctor, I’m afraid I’m gonna fail the course, so I’d really appreciate any advice you can give me.”

“The best advice I can give you,” said Drac, “is to pray.”

Then he added, “And I’ll pray for you, too.”

Jackie thanked him profusely, and insincerely, and left, mumbling obscenities under his breath.

He took the final and it was every bit as impossible as he’d expected. So he figured the course, and all his efforts at sucking up, were a wash. But when he got his course grade, he got a huge surprise along with it.

He didn’t get a D — he got a B!

And he wasn’t the only one who was surprised. All the other kids in the class, most of whom flunked, and all of whom knew Jackie was as incompetent as them, weren’t just surprised he got a B, but were gobsmacked. Inevitably, when they ran into him they asked him how he he managed to do it.

He’d take a deep breath and shake his head as if he was as confused as them. Then, shameless as ever, he’d look them in the eye and say, “Ya know, the only thing I can ascribe it to is the power of prayer.”