I peeked into the classroom to see if my teacher was alone. He wasn’t. Some other student was getting extra help after school. I started to pace back and forth in the hallway by the burnt-orange lockers. I guess you could say I was nervous. It was my first-ever pitch meeting, not that I knew it at the time. I decided to try different combinations on one of the locks—you know, just to see if I could open it. After about 10 failed attempts, I saw the other student leave. I entered my teacher’s classroom with an overstated smile.

“Turney, my boy,” Mr. Foster said. “To what do I owe the good pleasure?”

Mr. Foster was my junior English teacher. He was a jolly fellow who loved teaching. He looked like he was right out of Central Casting, with his thinning hair, glasses, bowtie and suspenders. He was the epitome of a high school English teacher. He talked like one too. In class he would say things like, “You’re all a bunch of perverts,” and, “This is absolutely titillating.”