Pitching pennies has been a childhood pastime for generations. The rules are simple: whoever lands their penny closest to the wall—or even better, gets a “leaner”—wins. A group of kids would play, and the winner took all the pennies. It seemed like just another harmless schoolyard game. But for me, it meant something entirely different.
At Lakewood Junior High, there was always a game going on before school, right in the playground between the two cafeterias. Most kids played for fun, but for me, it was about more than just bragging rights. It was about lunch. If I had a good day, I ate. If I didn’t, I walked past the lunch line, empty-handed, and waited for my friends outside.
But this isn’t a story about being poor or scraping together lunch money. This is a story about compassion—and the soul of a teacher.
Some people are born to teach. They connect with students in a way that goes beyond textbooks and lesson plans. I was fortunate to have several teachers like that, and I’m grateful every day for the impact they had—not just on my education, but on my life.
John Glover was one of those special teachers. I’ve mentioned him in a story before, but he deserves to be mentioned again and again. His classroom overlooked our daily penny-pitching games, and every so often, we’d notice him watching. Back in the early ‘70s, schools were a little more relaxed about things like this, so no one made a fuss about our so-called “gambling.”
After a while, Mr. Glover pulled me aside and asked about the game. He had noticed that I was there every single morning, carefully counting my winnings. I was honest with him—I told him that if I won, I ate lunch. If I lost, I didn’t.
The next morning, he asked me to come see him. I’ll admit, I was nervous. I thought I was in trouble. But instead, he took me to meet the cafeteria manager. He had arranged for me to wash dishes and clean up in exchange for a meal. No fuss, no big announcement—just a quiet, simple solution that ensured I had a decent meal every day.
Now, more than fifty years later, what stands out to me isn’t just the food—it’s the effort. Mr. Glover didn’t have to do anything. He could have just pulled the blinds in his classroom and ignored it. But he didn’t. He saw me. He cared. And he acted.
That’s what it means to have the soul of a teacher. It’s not about curriculum mandates or test scores. It’s about knowing that your students are people first, with struggles and stories beyond the classroom. And if you have that kind of heart, your students will know.
I taught for thirty years, and though I never got the chance to find Mr. Glover and thank him, I hope I honored his legacy in the way I treated my own students.
Mr. Glover: Thank you for caring and I hope I have honored your efforts!
Story edited for clarity and grammar using AI – Randy