There’s no denying it now. Summer’s over.

In a few hours, I will be standing in front of a roomful of students. My mouth will move. Will anyone pay attention to what I say? Will I say anything worth paying attention to?

The students will be generally docile. They will do what I ask because they won’t be comfortable enough yet with me, or with each other, to risk offense. I will address them with a fair amount of bombast, as if I know what I’m talking about. By the time the final bell rings this afternoon, my voice will be hoarse and my jaw will ache. I will want to fall asleep immediately on the couch in my living room. I am not, at the moment, in teaching shape.

From September ‘til June, the school year is a sprint. I will begin running when the first bell rings. In response to that horrid electronic chirp, I will breathe deep and exhale the beach; sleeping late; reading long unhurried chapters of Young Adult baseball novels to my kids; taking them to the park and pitching them dozens of plastic balls from a bucket; contemplating ice cream; allowing my son to tackle me in swimming pool - Watch out, Quarterback! -; contemplating pizza; listening to Yankee games, so many, many Yankees games on satellite radio (yesterday was a double-header sweep of Tampa); taking my kids to the driving range; contemplating taking my wife to dinner (probably Paesano’s); searching on-line for live recordings of Stevie Nicks; staying up late to watch episodes of Entourage; reading long novels or thirty straight minutes of poems; reading more of the newspaper than just the front page; the Sports section, and the editorials; contemplating Indian food, Mexican or Thai; napping splayed out on the upstairs carpet; sitting on the porch and listening to the breeze rustle the leaves; doing none of that and not caring - my breath will be colorful and thick and it will leave me like a lover I do not want to depart and I will continue to do a number of these things after the school year starts, but I will do none of them without worrying whether I am prepared for my next class and whether I could be doing what I am doing better than how I am currently doing it.

I will not be ready to run, but I will run. The first thing I will say is, Welcome, I’m Mr. Kass. That rhymes with class and I trust this will be a good one. Then I will read a poem. I may or may not stand on top of my desk in order to do that. Sometimes that feels right. Sometimes that feels like me pretending to be Robin Williams pretending to be a teacher. I often feel like I’m pretending to be a teacher.

I will spend most of the first three weeks trying to find a pace. I hope I will not settle into a plodding rhythm, urging one dull foot in front of the other in order to keep moving. I hope I will run with my head up, my eyes bright, each step a search for a moment of transcendence. I hope I will not sound like a pretentious new-age schmuck for the next nine-and-a-half months.

There will be papers to mark. Portfolios. I will screw up taking attendance and inputting grades. I will raise my hand at staff meetings and say stupid things. The bag I carry will be heavy, stuffed with memos I should have recycled. I will, on occasion, be late to class and pretend not to feel as horrible as I do. September to June. I will search for new and innovative ways to remind students that texting while I’m talking is not an acceptable form of human interaction. I will make jokes and nobody will laugh. There’s no denying it now. September to June. I’m ready. I’m not ready. Let the race begin.