There’s an old photo of my junior high school football team with me, the one with the dorky glasses, in the back row. The adult close to me is Coach Hammer, the shop teacher. Yes, Hammer was his real name, yeah, it’s still funny. He was a good teacher and coach, fair, even-tempered. I recently learned he was a Korean War combat vet—he never mentioned it—and just passed away a few years ago.

Then there’s Ron (not his real name), the kid I bullied, near the front. In an age of apologies and reparations, his image begs an answer: What do you do about the past?

After the calm of junior high, football at my high school meant being bullied by the varsity. If you were lucky they only stole your lunch and made you embarrass yourself singing love songs and pop hits to the group. Sometimes they took away your water on hot days—water during practice was rationed in this era, to toughen us up. It went on when coaches less decent than Mr. Hammer would mysteriously disappear during breaks. Adult teachers with clear responsibility to stop it, but who did nothing but encourage it, calling it initiation. To toughen us up.

While a very few guys quit the team because of this, most just endured, some sought empty relief bullying others. I was in that last group, mercilessly teasing Ron. I was cruel in a way I wish I hated then the way I hate it now. He was an easy target who, I thought years ago, was a way for me to feel better. I couldn't beat up the varsity football team who humiliated me, so Ron was their surrogate. Nothing I have done before or after makes me more ashamed.