Jack Stallard

I slept a little later than usual on Thursday, so my routine was off and the short drive to the gym was interrupted several times by a school bus picking up kids along my usual route.

I didn’t really mind, except for the one stop where a child evidently had the same attitude about school that day as I did about the gym.

We’ll get there when we get there.

The bus driver had already retracted the swinging “STOP” sign and was about to pull away when she saw the kid. She deployed the sign again and waved for the kid to get a move on, but he was having none of it. In fact, he only began to pick up the pace when mama came out of the house with what looked to be a large limb from the “get right” tree.

I could have cut down a different street and avoided being stopped several more times, but for some reason I didn’t.

I am stubborn, but I think the real reason is because I was a bus rider for most of my school days, and trailing behind that bus — and smelling the unmistakable aroma of Yellow Dog exhaust — brought back some pleasant and not-so pleasant memories.

I kissed a girl for the first time on a school bus, and later that day she broke my heart on that same bus.

I got into a fight with five guys on a school bus defending my little sister’s honor, and the beating I took that day hurt only slightly less than the aforementioned broken heart.

The kiss? It was unexpected, as first kisses usually are. The relationship I had with my sixth-grade girlfriend had not gone past hand holding at that point, but the kiss happened one day on a school field trip.

I’m not actually sure who kissed who, but at that point it didn’t matter. I was too busy looking around to make sure no one saw us, while at the same time hoping everyone did.

The heartbreak? When we arrived at our destination, my girlfriend informed me we were breaking up and she would be hanging out with one of my so-called friends the rest of the day because he had money and I didn’t.

I didn’t bother to tell her my dad had slipped me $3 earlier that day in case I wanted to buy her a cold drink or a candy bar. By then, the romance was gone.

The fight? My parents split up for a short time during that same year. My brothers and I lived in a different part of town with our dad, while the sisters lived with mom. My baby sister, Donna, wanted to stay with dad and the brothers for a weekend, so she rode the school bus home with me.

A group of guys sitting nearby were using language I didn’t want my little sister hearing, and when I told them to stop they asked what I was going to do if they didn’t — throwing in a few special cuss words with the question.

I got a couple of punches in, but overall it was a bigger mismatch than Georgia vs. TCU.

When my baby sister told my dad what I had done, he made me my favorite meal that night in honor of my chivalry.

Trying to make out shapes through two swollen eyes while drinking my blended hamburger through a straw didn’t seem heroic at the time, but Donna knew from that day on her big brother would always have her back.

I sincerely hope none of the kids I saw Thursday ever have their hearts — or their jaws — broken on a school bus, but I’m not sorry I experienced those things because I learned some valuable lessons.

For instance, if I had to do it all over again, I’d probably take the $3 my dad gave me and buy my baby sister some earplugs.