Burning A Bridge

 

 

I’ve always believed that it’s not a good idea for anyone to burn bridges. The way I look at it, there are lots of paths  in life, and some them will intersect with people we have dealt with before. So why take the chance?

 

But there was one time  when I didn’t follow my own advice.  I not only burned a bridge, but I blew up the supports, and watched it fall into the river. I still think it was justified.

 

During my final semester in college, one of the last courses I had to take was called GBA 490, known to everyone as The Business Game. 

In this class, you played a computer game in which you managed a business that competed with your classmates.  Every week you inputted variables like product pricing, advertising budgets,  inventory levels, etc. Then a report was posted showing if you made or lost money. It was fun, kind of a palette cleanser for graduating seniors before they went into the real world. 

Then Dr. Gibson began teaching  the class. 

Gibson wasn’t a popular professor in the business school - and with good reason.  Aside from being difficult, unfair, and autocratic, he had the people skills of Attila the Hun along with an ego the size of Australia. He seemed to enjoy belittling students. One summer I took a class at another college to avoid him.  And now he was teaching a course I had to take. 

 As you might expect, grades in the class plummeted; in fact, more than a few graduating seniors were failing the course.  For those who had jobs based on receiving a diploma, this was catastrophic. 

 

However, by the grace of God, I was doing quite well, sporting an 89.4% average.  Don’t tell me that computer game was anything but luck. 

 

In fact, I if I could get a little help from Gibson, then I would  make all A’s for the first time in my life. That would be a nice gift for my parents - the perfect sendoff from the University. The only downside was I would have to go to and ask for his assistance. Ugh. 

I headed to his office located on the second floor of Alabama’s business school. It wasn’t hard to find, because in front of Dr. Gibson’s opaque glass door several students were in line to see him.

Everyone of them was trying to get some help from Dr. Gibson  - basically begging for assistance, so they could pass this course, and get on with their lives. I begin to feel bad because I was asking for a little help to make an A.

I noted that all of them came out of their meeting with solemn expressions. The coed who went in before me was crying. 

Now it was my turn.  

I entered the office, shut the door, and sat in the chair facing his desk. He looked at me over his glasses, undoubtedly waiting to hear the same story for the umpteenth time. 

 

However, he seemed surprised to find a student in his office asking  for a fraction of a point to make an A, rather than to just pass his course. No matter. When I made my request and gave him the reasons, his wiry frame leaned forward and he spoke thru his thin mustache. 

 

“Mr. Hobby, it is my policy not to give any students fractions of points to affect their letter grades.” 

 

No surprise there. I expected that.  So, I gave him my comeback.

 

“I’d be willing to do an extra paper, if that would help.” 

 

“No”, he said sharply. “Anything affecting your grade has to be earned in class.”

 

I bristled. Not for me, but for all those people I knew he was hurting. 

 

So, I pulled out the gasoline and the matches. I still have no idea why I did this.  But I did. Looking directly into his beady little eyes, I held my gaze and spoke.  

 

“You know, if it was me Dr. Gibson, I would be trying to help these graduating seniors, if for no other reason than to not have them walk around campus saying what a son of a b****  they think you are.” 

 

He appeared genuinely surprised as I continued.  Now I was lighting the fire. 

 

“But now that I’ve talked to you face to face, I can see they’re right.  You’re nothing but a son of a b****.”

 

I’m sure no student had ever spoken to him like that before. All he could weakly muster was, “I’m sorry you feel that way, Mr. Hobby.” 

 

Empowered, I stood up, admiring the flames on the burning bridge, and said, “You are.  You’re nothing but a wormy little son of a b****.”

 

And with that, I left the office. 

 

I closed the door behind me, then turned and faced about a half dozen of my fellow students, all smiling broadly. They heard it all. Without making a sound that would give away their glee to Gibson, they gave me high fives, patted my back, and hugged me.  One girl kissed me. It was like watching the end of Rudy with the sound cut down.  

 

Things in GBA 490 changed shortly after my visit with the professor. The word was that the administration told Gibson to quit failing graduating seniors. He did.  But it should come as no surprise to anyone that I didn’t make an A.  

 

Over the years, I’ve wondered if I did the right thing that day. I think I did. I felt I was righting a wrong, and taking someone down a notch who desperately needed it. 

And even though I ended up with a B in the class, I got a story to tell. 

 

It was more than a fair trade.