This was second period, sophomore honors English, taught by Mr. David Oglesby at the Jesuit College Preparatory School of Dallas. The course and its teacher were legendary for their rigor and Socratic curveballs. Each morning, Oglesby walked into class purposefully, carrying his “persuasion stick”—today it was the black-and-maroon Keisaku; he had many others—and an olive-drab backpack slung over one shoulder. The pack was government issue and a reminder to the sophomores that their teacher had once been an army medic on a search-and-destroy team in a place we used to call Indochina. For this version of boot camp, Oglesby dressed sharply—Hickey Freeman sports coats, button-down oxfords, cuffed Brooks Brothers slacks, cordovan penny loafers, and a sequence of solid knit ties that were in fashion the fall of 1987.

For the first two weeks, Mr. Oglesby was quick to prove command and control. He had two default modes: stern and strict. Each day, twenty new vocabulary words, and each night, a journal-writing assignment—at least one hundred words on weird topics that included: epic simile, Venetian blinds, Pyrrhic victory, and something called the Paraclete. Oglesby’s class came with a minor catechism of standard-issue rules—“Organization is the key to high school,” “Think before you speak”—and absurd ones—“Never give a gun to a duck.” (“After all,” he’d say, “the duck might be a quack shot.”)

Each class was at once a performance and an inquisition aimed at startling sophomores into effort. Dan Malone certainly was intimidated. Oglesby had a booming teaching voice, dactylic in cadence. He had wide, searching gray-blue eyes that were quick to appraise whether the light was on or not with a student. He also had the reflexes of a black belt and was quantum quick to grab a wisecracking ephebe by his tie knot (Oglesby synonyms: cravat, foulard) or bring his teaching stick down with an emphatic near miss of a sophomore skull.

Dan had strong marks from freshman English and had moved up to the honors class with his crew—namely, Rick Dowlearn, Rob McGhee, and Steve “Sticky” O’Donnell. None of the boys knew what to make of Oglesby’s strange temperament. Rick admittedly did the best Texas Brahmin impression (“Misterh DAWH-learn, de-FINE mimesis”), along with a mea culpa beating of the breast with a copy of Strunk and White, which ended in a back-of-the-hand-to-the-temple half swoon. But all the sophomores were on guard for when Oglesby’s class turned into a close-reading cross between Jeopardy! and Press Your Luck.

“Gentlemen, I’m returning your journals,” Mr. Oglesby said, his back to the class. He whirled around and peered at them one by one. “Let me say this: Your parents are not paying tuition for you to scribble such narcissistic drivel. Writing begins with thinking. Thinking begins with asking questions. Rule number four: your journal is your life-force.”