HIGH SCHOOL

Rising to the occasion, Far Rockaway High School—which educated two generations of my family—offered a journalism class for sophomores. It was taught by Earl Jagust, an impassioned English teacher known to stand on desks and chairs for solo enactments of Romeo and Juliet, delivered in a classroom with a footprint on the ceiling.

The ceiling embellishment did not amuse the school custodian, who applied a fresh coat of paint before the sophomore semester.

Disappointed, I asked Jagust about the missing footprint.

“What footprint?” he responded, walking in the direction of the classroom windows.

“Footprint?“ he repeated, as he grabbed a window pole. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He then lifted his foot, removed a loafer, stuck it on the pole, jumped up on the radiator, and hoisted the pole over his head.

“Oh, you mean that!” he said, pointing to the markings of a shoe.

When the laughter died down, Jagust pivoted from entertainer to educator. In giant letters on the blackboard, he wrote Who? What? When? Where? Why? How?

“Now,” Jagust said to the class, “I want you to write a story about what just happened.”

And, with that, a reporter was born.

I joined the student newspaper, The Chat (hint: the faculty advisor wore loafers), and gradually ascended to sports editor—contributing an eponymous Sports by Schwartz.

Jagust set high standards for the paper. He encouraged free expression and left decision-making to the editors. He pushed back against interference by school administrators.

It was a winning formula: The Chat earned multiple First Place awards in the annual Columbia Scholastic Press Association (CSPA) competition.

When an editor learned that our mentor had a passion for the sport of fencing, he convinced Jagust to launch a team, which several of us joined. Coach Jagust’s Seahorses unseated the Public School Athletic League champion Brooklyn Tech Engineers, and our team captain was recruited by NYU’s three-time Olympic coach (recounted in Living by the Sword).