It may come as a bit of a surprise, but that roguish and dashing gentleman you see pictured to the right was once an awkward youth of moppish hair and scrawny appearance.

I know I’ve mentioned this before, but I just didn’t want you getting confused, especially when I mention — at this time of Austin Homecoming — that I too was on a homecoming court.

When I was a teen, not like last year. That would be weird.

To this day, I’m not entirely sure how I got on the homecoming court other than our class was small and options were thin — obviously.

And I was far from the favorite. In horse racing terms, I was that 99-1 shot that you think might trip coming out of the gate.

Both me and the other candidate had a pretty good idea the king would be the third candidate and I think we were okay with this. I was for sure.

At that point in my life I was awkward in public, given to bouts of silence when I didn’t know anybody or put on a public stage.

If you can find the video (good luck), I once was tasked with doing a horrible dance number for our Beach Boys medley during a band and choir concert. I’ve hinted that I was terrible at band. Well, then you should hear me sing.

A seal once flopped into another concert after my featured solo. Freddy Mercury I was not.

At any rate, I didn’t handle public situations well and homecoming was about as public as you get. Forced to walk down an aisle with a bunch of people staring at you — some happy for you, some expecting and hoping you would trip coming out of the gate.

I don’t remember much about the week. This was in 1991, the first half of my senior year, so that was some time ago. Vaguely, I remember the walk, but I’m not entirely sure who I escorted. The whole thing was kind of a blur.

I do remember standing on the stage, praying to any god that would listen not to let the year’s previous king rest that crown on my head.

Heavy is the head that wears the crown and as I’ve said numerous times, there wasn’t much neck to support an already awkward head. Still, I smiled nobly or as nobly as I possibly could.

I put up a good front and when the time came my stomach churned at the possibly of me becoming king, made so by some obscure god I didn’t know who rather than answer my prayers would make me a mockery of them.

Like the girl I escorted, I don’t remember who the previous year’s king was, only that he moved behind as we stood, a smug smile of knowledge from the information he had gleaned when it came time for the crowning.

I probably focused straight ahead, thinking over and over again, there is no way I’m king. I wasn’t popular per se, I wasn’t athletic really, I was just me. For the briefest of moments I suddenly found peace until I felt the crown rest lightly on my head for more than a moment.

It shouldn’t have. Just pass over, drop this shell game and move on I silently screamed and after the briefest period of time, the reigning king did and I about wilted.

I don’t need this in my life. I just wanted to skate by on the fringes of cool. Being cool is far too much work. You have to comb your hair for the love of all that is holy.

Even though I missed being homecoming king, I still had the rest of the week to deal with and that meant riding on a car for the homecoming parade and at halftime of the football game.

When you’re a small kid such as myself, trusting something much bulkier than I is always a risk. Like so many things I don’t remember the car I rode atop only that we were seated on a blanket that shifted on the waxed surface and I felt sure I was going to slide right down the hood in front of the largest concentration of people along the route. That is how my life went. I was a living Monty Python skit.

It was a fear that held me gripping hard and fast to the window of the car while perched precariously on the roof. Why I’m not entirely sure. It’s not like a high speed chase was going to break out, leaving me and my escort hanging on for dear life, cheeks billowing in the wind.

But don’t ever underestimate my ability to be a fool. I’m a natural talent.

Halftime was much of the same thing. Jump on the car, pucker for dear life as I tried to avoid falling off, jump off and pretend I’m enjoying homecoming because I wasn’t. There was still the dance.

Looking back, I’m not sure why I went to dances.

John Travolta wasn’t walking in with thick lapels and the urge to boogy to the music.

I never danced, but rather appeared to play the part of a puppet guided by a drunk puppeteer. Slow dances were especially trying because my moves were shuffle, shuffle — turn. Shuffle, shuffle — turn. I had that one move and while I did it with stiffened arms, telling my partner I was scared to death, it was my only move.

Ultimately, I got through everything unscathed and uncrowned. I guess my parents were pretty proud of me, though whether they were proud of me or that I didn’t fall coming out of the gate — well, let’s just hope for the former.