Darryl embodied the upper-school spirit of Berkley.
By the time he lumbered down to the basement cafeteria, where Cleveland was chef, his gigantism loomed over us, his lower-school peers quietly from the line.
He only acted out once; a red-haired, varsity basketball player rubbed him the wrong, raising his ire. But his flaming mop was no match for Darryl's wrath.
I was not privy to the details of their verbal exchange other than the inaudible bellows of two bass profundos thundering, but Darryl settled the matter by hoisting a semi-empty, grey fifty-gallon plastic container at the flame.
It was a spectacle, but lasted only thirty seconds. Darryl was the victor, and his point was made. He left the redhead with the garbage to consider the recompense of his error.