School Days of Bob
“Stand up straight when I’m talking to you!”
This was Jack Tovell, the principal of Victoria Park Collegiate in Toronto, addressing me after feigning he’d only just noticed me standing alone in the hallway. He had just asked me why I was there. Amused by his attempt at intimidation, I snapped to attention.
A few minutes earlier, I’d received a failing grade on a test from Mrs. Marsden my Social Studies teacher. After I’d embarrassed her by saying, “What am I gonna do with this?” I laid the test back on her desk and she’d sent me out of
class.
I’d arrived at Victoria Park High in the fall of 1966, following two years living on the streets of Toronto after running away from my mother’s home in Kingston, a couple hundred miles north.
At school, I shared little with my classmates beyond age. While they’d been navigating the usual transition from pre-teen to teenager, I—aside from a brief stay with my cousin Miriam outside Toronto—had spent those years scrambling daily to find food, somewhere to clean up, and a place to sleep.
Just before turning sixteen, I’d been rescued from near-certain death or, at the very least, jail time by Bertie Mignacco, a kindly Toronto bookie. Thanks to him, I found a home with distant relatives and returned to school. More importantly—and maybe just to keep me out of trouble—after school each day and on weekends, I started boxing at the Lansdowne Boxing Club.
Located in a rough area of downtown Toronto, the Lansdowne was where I started learning the lessons of the so-called “street” from various fight game people and the “rounders” who drifted through.
In return, I accepted attending classes at Victoria Park as the price to pay, though I often showed up with a chip on my shoulder. Much to the frustration of teachers and administrators, I didn’t participate, just endured, while daydreaming about the fight game.
Still, I knew I needed to move forward, so I’d cram and barely pass finals after failing the first two semesters. History was the exception; to this day, I’m convinced studying history is embedded in a Serb’s DNA.
During this transitional period, was when Principal Tovell had found me in the hallway and ordered me to straighten up.
I exaggerated my “straightening up,” and things went downhill from there, starting with my answer of “Dunno” to his question, “Why are you standing here outside Miss Marsden’s class?”
Naturally, I knew he was aware of the reason—I’d watched Miss Marsden pick up the classroom phone through the door’s window. Using my brilliant powers of deduction, I figured she wasn’t ordering a pizza.
“Dunno” backed Tovell into a corner, where he stiffened his jaw and raised his voice: “I am asking you, Bozic, why are you out here?”
Using a boxing term, I ‘had him on the ropes.’
I shrugged, which in some way forced him to react—he did so by cuffing me across the head with the back of his hand. But I was used to taking punches in the ring three or four days a week, so the strike barely rattled me. Still, I raised my clenched fists to waist level, signaling that his next blow wouldn’t go unanswered.
After consulting with Miss Marsden in the classroom and learning that all I’d done was return the test to her desk, he stormed off. He knew detention was pointless; I already had a reputation for seeking out the detention room after school, even when I hadn’t been assigned one. The supervising teacher would check the clipboard, see my name missing, and order me out.
During my early days at Victoria Park, I developed a peculiar habit, sparked one day by Mrs. Parr, our last-period science teacher on Tuesdays. Frustrated with the constant chatter every time her back was turned to the chalkboard, she ordered us to sit “quietly” in our seats for half an hour at the bell. Groans echoed when she added, “And hands under your bottoms.”
After a few minutes of sitting on my hands, I started to feel this punishment was more suited to children than teenagers old enough to drive. Determined not to waste thirty minutes of my life—especially after spending the last two years in near-mind-numbing routine—I carefully slid my hands out and stood up. I walked over to Mrs. Parr, who, absorbed in her paperwork, looked up with mild surprise as I approached.
She asked calmly, “Yes, Bob, what is it?”
Leaning over, I told her quietly that while I didn’t mind staying, I didn’t want to sit on my hands. I asked if I could read my book instead.
She considered it before saying, “I’m sorry, Bob, but you’ll have to do as the others.”
I smiled and replied, “Sorry, I just can’t.” Gathering my books, I shuffled to the door and left. A few doors down, I spotted the detention room, and an idea struck. “Why not just go serve a detention?”
When I entered, the detention monitor—a new teacher—glanced at her clipboard, then looked up at me. “Excuse me—Bob, is it? I don’t have you down here.”
Feigning innocence, I said, “Yes, I’m just trying to build up a line of detention credits.”
Confused but too new to argue, she let me stay. I spent the next hour reading in the quiet detention room, surprised by how much tension melted away in the silence. The next day, I found myself in Jack Tovell’s office, listening to Mrs. Parr recount my actions. And that afternoon, I surprised the same detention monitor by cheerfully entering the room again—and even more so the following day, when I showed up yet again, unlisted.
Soon—worse for the school—a few other students began this practice of going to the detention room just to do their homework.
By grade eleven, as evidenced by my report card shown below, everything was going well. Marked by the trauma of being taken from the home of my loving foster parents, the Leopold’s, I distanced myself from normal society. At school, after a few sessions with the psychologist, it became understood—much to the irritation of some teachers and a few parents—that I would attend classes and take tests at my own discretion.
As Mr. Rowan, my biology teacher—one of the few who liked me—put it, “Bob, there’s no point in you even taking the exam. Smart and a smartass, you’ll study just enough to scrape by. So, most of us have agreed to give you a passing grade.”
Stained by the trauma of being taken from the home of my loving foster parents, the Leopold’s, I had rejected normal society. At school, after a few sessions with a psychologist, it became understood—much to the annoyance of some school staff and quite a few parents—that I would attend class and take tests at my own discretion.
In the words of Mr. Rowan, my biology teacher, who liked me, “Bob, there’s no point in you even taking the exam. Smart and a smartass, you’ll study just enough to scrape by. So, most of us have agreed to give you a passing grade.”
Somewhat regretfully, this privilege became a double-edged sword. As I entered adulthood, I believed that my achievements, like in boxing, would come through sheer tenacity and willpower alone. Consequently, I seldom relied on the intellect passed down from my father, Dobrivoje, the inventor of train brakes.
For me, these stories on Substack and in my book aren’t merely tales; they serve as a cautionary reminder not to let ego overshadow one’s innate, perhaps divine, talents.
Hey, I hope you’ll tune in to my live Instagram event on Monday, November 4, at 8 p.m. Just go to my profile, Bob Bozic, and click on my photo. Ha! Good luck!