McKay Proctor- Winchester College

Winchester from the College Cathedral

First and foremost, I would like to thank MBA, Winchester, Headmaster Gioia and the Warner family for making a trip as incredible as this possible. Without all their generosity on all fronts, none of this would have been possible. I really cannot thank them all enough.

I have a lot to cover, but I will break things down into sections for convenience.

Academics

The most striking thing about the academic culture of Winchester was the deep focus of the English educational model. Where the American system zeroes in on pesky things like “grades” and “tests,” the English predicate their learning on a holistic course. Everything goes toward a larger purpose and goal, not the smaller signposts of their American cousin. For me, this difference made for a fascinating immersion in my three academic classes: Physics, English, and History. There were national exams to worry about, but those were not for another year in most cases. Each course seemed more like a leisurely romp through the subject matter than the hurried pace I have grown used to. Our Physics class, for instance, would spend entire days trying to determine just why an experiment churned out the results it did. Everything in Physics was abstract and the mathematics of it all fell into place beyond those principles.

In History, the material focused on a depth of understanding. Our AP curriculum makes vast swaths of history into survey courses, covering nearly three hundred years per semester in some cases. At Winchester, the history department taught to tests in the same way, but the tests are about the ins and outs and minutiae of the subject. My American History class spent a week on the Parliamentary situation following William Pitt’s fall from grace leading up to the American Revolution. Every possible angle was brought to light and the discourse was lively. I took more than a little delight in finding myself in a discussion of the American advantages in the war of the Fourth of July.

Harold Pinter- Manic and brilliant

English was similar to history in its emphasis on depth.  In the time I was in my rotating English blocks, We covered a grand total of three authors: American expatriate T.S. Elliot, Irish master (and Mr. Kelly favorite) James Joyce, and Nobel Prize winning playwright Harold Pinter. I had read some of each, but never with the intensity or the energy that Winchester demanded. Even with the intellectual commitment, the professors kept the material rooted. Mr. Taylor spent a day telling us how he had run Harold Pinter out in a club cricket match (It’s like a forceout in baseball, just different).  We spent Bloomsday reading Ulysses outside in the college court. We listened to contemporary Parisian music to go along with Eliot’s somber portrait of the city.

Apart from all the knowledge imparted on me, the main thing I gained from the academia of Winchester was the sheer joy of it all. Everything was an opportunity for enjoyment. At MBA the work can get in the way of the love of the subject at times. After my Winchester experience, I can say I approach my daily studies at MBA with a bit more wonder and whimsy- freer from the constraints of grades and more focused on the actual goal of learning something.

Div

My div atop the cathedral

I separate Div from academics because it was truly a different beast.  Div is a free flowing class meant to  shed departmental divisions and focus on articulating big ideas. In my month there, we read Proust, watched a brilliant young Sidney Portier in the classic In the Heat of the Night, discussed the merits of the designs of airports and train stations around the world (my favorite has always been Hong Kong International), and deemed the Americans the best at making breakfast. On my last day of classes, we climbed to the top of Winchester Cathedral (a more harrowing experience than expected) and read Whitman. We sounded our collective barbaric yawps over the rooftops of the word. It was pretty special.

House Culture

Enjoying the grounds

Obviously, the house culture was a big part of making my Winchester experience. At Cook’s (my house of residence) Parrish and I found ourselves in a healthy environment. The house had a reputation for being well rounded, leaning toward sporty. Parrish and I took part in many afternoons of yard cricket (a truncated version of the  actual sport) Basketball (much to my delight) and headers and Volleys (an intense variant of soccer). We never felt foreign or even like outsiders. Everyone in Cook’s extended their welcome to us and we took it. By the third day, I had identified all the NBA fans in exile and we were plotting how we would watch the Finals which would not start until one in the morning English time. Life in the house was a little bit more regimented than life on the Hill, but for good reason. If all fifty boys were allowed free reign, things would spiral quickly. The banter inside the house was unmatched.

Travels away from the school 

Taking in Regents Park

Parrish and I spent a fair amount of time with our new Wykhamist friends wandering the township itself. The biggest landmark in town was the Cathedral which is something to behold. It’s a hulking gothic thing with beautiful gardens all around. We even found a hidden garden that was perfect for reading or sneaking a nap in the sun. The town’s main street was delightfully English- cobbled sidewalks, boxy storefronts and thatched roofs. On our free time sometimes we would walk the “strip,” taking in the scene of quaint bustle.

Our biggest experience off campus was a trip to London on a delightful day. Our close friend Marti Moshfeghi took us under his wing for an incredible foray. We caught a train into Waterloo station, then went to Regent’s park for Taste of London, a festval celebrating the city’s high cuisine. We were surrounded by the culinary delights of an international city. We spent half and hour tasting different olive oils and balsamic vinegars. We sampled any and all fare offered, it was truly incredible. We even found a Malaysian bazaar selling A&W root beer next to Fanta with fruit flavors I had never heard. After that, what clouds there were gave way to pure blue. We went from the festival into the park with Marti's puppy (a Chihuahua the size of a gerbil) to walk off the food. We found our way into the Rose Garden for what was a sublime, if serendipitous experience. We strolled among color burst and fluorescent blooms until we ran out of time. 

One of the acres and acres of rose fields

Of all the afternoons I have passed waltzing through parks, that has to be in the top three. The combination of the weather, the feeling of foreignness and familiarity made for something magical.

The gate outside the Rose Garden

Soccer

I couldn’t go through my Winchester experience without discussing the beautiful game. I have always had a cursory interest in the sport, but in England I “found religion” so to speak. My stay overlapped with the Euros, a tournament of the best European sides contested in the off cycle of the World Cup. All of England turned its eyes on 23 men in white shirts. I was glued to the screen for every bit of the action I could catch.

Every team had a personality and I was determined to decode each. Germany was a glorious machine with an artist at the helm in their half-Turk attacking midfielder Mesmut Ozil. Holland was a dysfunctional assemblage of beautiful parts with no continuity between Wesley Sneijder’s brilliant vision and Robin Van Persie’s chocolate legged (the Dutch phrase for a left-footed player translates as  “Chocolate leg”) finishes. Beloved England was a scrappy if unglorious side. Captain Steven Gerrard did his best to cover the team’s offensive flaws with his swooping inswinging crosses, but even he could not hold up a fundamentally flawed side. The eventual champions, the Spaniards, were a little bit more manic than their World Cup iteration, but the fundamentals were the same. Barcelona midfield mates Andres Iniesta and Xavi Hernandez were the captains of a vaunted tiki-taka attack that would disembowel their larger opponets with needle points.

He knew it was going in. He knew it. 

By far my favorite side of the tournament, the Italians were a bold set of stylists and elder statesmen – Mario Balotelli excluded – lead by their virtuoso holding midfielder Andrea Prilo. I cannot put into words the way he saw the game and dictated the pace with such economical flair. In a tournament filled with neon-booted rapscallions, Pirlo stood as the one player with actual style. He seemed more like a man browsing the bread aisle than a world-class midfielder when he addressed the ball with his shoulders back and his feet working below an unflustered face and a divine mop of hair. He carved the rude English like he was purging his half of the field of their stench. He seemed to almost be playing a different game. His opposite, Gerrard, was visibly frustrated, but Lord knows he could never stop such a force of nature. I would have never submerged myself in the sport quite the same way without a push from the Englishmen around me. Now I am beyond hooked, and I thank them for that. 

The Six-a-side Invincibles bask in their glory

There was soccer to be had even beside the Euros. Parrish and I were honored with managing the Cooks Six-a-side tournament side. Footballing geniuses that we are, my assistant Mr. Preston and I devised a counter attacking 2-2-1 that made use of our mobile wingbacks and agile midfielders. Under our toutelage, the side went undefeated on its way to a championship. The final victory on penalties came from a well struck PK from a fellow American, Imran Adeeyo (born in Boston and a diehard Celtics fan) on July 4^th. It seemed a fitting end to a championship run. Parrish and I were easily the greatest managerial duo in English Footballing history, so we retired on top, clutching the cup with both hands as a reminder of unparalleled glory.

I pose with the hero of the final

I could go on for days about the amazing experience I had over my month across the pond. I have not even come close to summarizing every event, mentioning every person, or recounting every tale that made it so great, but I wish I could. I want to thank all of my Wykhamists from the bottom of my heart, along with Mr. Gioia, the Warner family, and the school for making all of this happen. Until next time. C’mon England!