How Math Saved My Life: From High School Disappointment to Hall of Fame Speech

As HF-L inducts new members to its Alumni Hall of Fame, it reminds me of that pleasant fall day in 2009 when Gates-Chili honored me in a similar way. The district asked all inductees to address the senior class in a special assembly. I thought the speakers would probably talk about either why education mattered to them or how their time at Gates-Chili helped them in their jobs.

In short, they’d be bland bios.

I didn’t want to bore the kids. I wanted to leave them laughing in the aisles with self-deprecating humor. At the same time, I wanted them on the edge of their seats, enthralled by the dramatic arc of a true-life story.

Of course, I’d abide by tradition by acknowledging the importance of education, but let’s be honest, what did they care about my career? So, I left that out.

I knew I was coming out of left field, but, in the words of those 20th-century British philosophers, “Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition.”

Because of this daring, I suspected the students would become unsettled. I hoped they would let me speak last. I didn’t want to risk having a speaker follow me to a rambunctious crowd. As fate would have it, my “4-minute” speech (it was really 8 minutes) fell at the end. In fact, it ended right as the bell rang.

What follows is the bland script of that speech. Spoiler alert: There will be some math in it.

N.B.: I am giving you the original script, including all spelling, grammar, and punctuation errors. If you watch the video, you’ll discover where I veered from the script.

I shouldn’t be here.

No. Really. I should be dead. But that’s another story.

The story I’d like to tell you is of my greatest high school disappointment. No, I’m not speaking of the time that pass flew within inches of my outstretched fingertips under the then newly installed lights one Friday night—I made up for that by racing down the sidelines with an interception. Nor am I talking about the time when I proudly wore my jersey the day of the game—I had #81 before TO did—and my English teacher looked at me during a silent moment of class and sniped, “81? What’s that, Carosa? You’re IQ.” And I’m not talking about the time I complained about a particularly low grade on my report card. After all, in retrospect I don’t know how the teacher even justified giving me a passing grade let alone the one I received. No, my greatest high school disappointment occurred just moments before I crossed the stage to receive my diploma.

You see, during my 4 year tenure within these Spartan walls—and believe me, things were a lot more Spartan then, I dreamed of being known as “the science guy.” I hated English and hated reading. I hated reading so much, I chose to write my own novel instead of reading one and writing a review of it. Ironically, I even hated reading science fiction. With me, science was fact or it was nothing at all.

Was I a science nerd? Probably not by your usual definition. Was I a science nut? Well, I’ll let you decide. On career day my senior year, while all the other science and engineering wannabes wore lab coats, I came in wearing a complete (albeit homemade) Captain Kirk uniform—including hand phaser.

So on graduation day, as I stood on the cusp of striding across the platform resplendent in cap and gown, someone in authority asked me to pause. And, to my delight, they began reading a lengthier introduction, signaling I would be honored with a special prize. As the accolades rose, my heart raced. I imagined my coveted prize—the Science Award.

And then, the Superintendent paused and announced, “Chris Carosa has been awarded the… MATH AWARD!” Amidst the genuine congratulations and excitement around me, my mock smile—and oversized gown—hid my sunken shoulders…

The math award?! But, but,… I was Mr. Science. Science was my subject. Sure I liked math, but math was a mere tool. Science was the real excitement. Math is just squeaky chalk scraped across a slate board. Science is rockets, volcanoes and super novae. Math quietly calculates. Science explodes and spits fire.

I dejectedly accepted the math award that disappointing graduation day and went off to college, where I majored in Physics and Astronomy – and took enough courses to earn a math major but made darn sure they didn’t put that fact on my sheepskin.

And so, I sadly wore this scarlet letter  “M” emblazoned upon my chest, until about five winters after I graduated from college and sporting a new Chevy S-10 truck (blue, nonetheless, my favorite color), I hastily drove up a mostly deserted Route 65 on my way to work. Up ahead strolled a slow moving Escort—and a several hidden spots of dreaded black ice. As my hulking truck caught up to the tiny car, my rear wheels caught the black ice—or, more specifically—failed to grip the pavement because of the black ice.

Now trucks, having little rear weight, have a tendency to lose control very easily. I could feel the vehicle head into a spin and, using the knowledge learned in Driver’s Ed and joyfully practiced on empty supermarket parking lots, I began to compensate for my fishtailing rear axle. My eyes quickly darted up ahead and to the shoulders of the road—just in case. On the right lay a flat lawn—perfect for driving off onto for a natural braking. To the left posed an embankment—a sheer drop of 20 feet into a cove of trees.

Wait! The miniature car in front of me, starts to slow down. What? Can’t the driver see I’m fishtailing!

And then, my worst fears are realized. I am about to lose control. The most I can do is to force the vehicle off to one side or the other—and hope for the best. The answer is obvious, isn’t it? Go to the right and settle onto someone’s front lawn. Right? Well, that’s what I thought. Unfortunately, that miniscule Ford had got in my way. My choice was reduced to either ram the little car in front of me—or head over the embankment.

Hmm, it was a bit more complicated than that. The choice was really either ram the Ford and possibly hurt the driver in an accident that would certainly be my fault, or lunge over the embankment and hurt myself—possibly real bad. My upbringing forced me to take full responsibility for my action. That meant avoiding engaging the car ahead of me and take my chances with the embankment.

Really. I thought this all through in milliseconds. But that pales in comparison to what happened next. Remember, I was about to lose control and I had only one move—one decision—left. I was about to drop off a steep cliff and straight into several large trees. That’s when all those years sitting in those becalmed classrooms paid off. Now, I’m about to tell you exactly what went through my mind in those final moments. You probably won’t understand it, but listen carefully, because some day you’ll know what this means and it might just save your life.

In that blink of an eye, this is what I thought: “Linear momentum has greater potential energy than angular momentum.” Let me translate this. It hurts a lot more when you slam straight into a brick wall—or a tree trunk—at 6o miles per hour than it does if you hit that same object while you’re spinning. In other words, if you’re going straight, all the energy of the impact is absorbed by a single point of contact. On the other hand, if you’re spinning than that same amount of energy is spread over several points of contact.

So, I pointed the truck into the trees and purposely induced a wild spin. Over the edge I flew, rotating like some mutant Motown gyroscope. I ducked under the dashboard just before impact, but when the truck smacked the trees, I could sense every side panel, every fender, every bumper each take their hits in turn. The vehicle stopped angled at 45 degrees against a trunk and, fearing the imminent science—namely the gas tank I had just filled—would soon explode, I kicked out the busted door with my two feet and ran up the embankment.

At the top, the woman driving the slow moving car walked up to me and asked if I needed any help. Instead of the appropriately sarcastic “Duh!” I shouted an elated “I’m alive!”—as in “my calculations proved correct.” I gave this stranger a relieved hug.

And that’s how math saved my life. Without math, I probably wouldn’t be here today. And today, I no longer sport that scarlet letter, but rather a red badge of courage. So, thank you Gates-Chili for telling me something about myself I never knew.

If you want to feel the actual excitement of the event—despite the math—you’ll have to watch it on YouTube. (Want to watch it? Click here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VP69Ak79P5Q&t=180s)