I had impressed Mr Priamo with my passion for winning. In questioning his certainty I learned the eternal value of doubt and ambiguity

Even before I entered his class, I knew Mr Priamo, the sixth-grade teacher at my Catholic elementary school, as the small, powerfully built man who strutted the hallways, and especially the gymnasium, with the ease of an athletic star. In golf shirts and trousers that pulled too tight at the rear, he appeared to be in perpetual motion – an illusion enhanced by his booming voice and jangling keys, the storm of gum-chewing and cologne that encircled him. It was my first encounter with a kind of masculine drag, an adult embodying a role so fully and so well it was impossible to tell where that bit ended and the real person began. Having crafted my own persona as a low-key academic prodigy, I watched him as a cub might regard the leader of a rival clan.

The prospect of submitting to the instruction of someone as brash and sports-metaphor prone as Mr Priamo intrigued me. He was my first male teacher – a relief, following a year in which two female co-teachers (eager to prove a point, it seemed to me, about wanting something too badly) had denied me the top scholastic prize, breaking a three-year streak. Though useless on the track and the basketball court, I impressed Mr Priamo due to the stealthy resolve with which I secured and guarded my standing in his class. Among the first things I learned under his tutelage was that to share a passion for winning is to share a lot.