Freshman year of high school, I developed an inexplicable desire in trying out for the basketball team... Without ever playing basketball (or any team sport for that matter). Sure, I could shoot free-throws, but could I handle the fast-paced aggression of a game? Would I voluntarily take a charge from someone twice my size? My piano teacher, fretting over the fingers she was priming for competitions and exams, had some choice words for my new interest. Regardless, I pioneered ahead and mysteriously found myself playing as a shooting guard/small forward.
Our head coach, B, was a loud, intimidating force. He would later become my AP Calculus teacher (and I the token victim of his teasing as involuntary teacher's pet), but I didn't have to wait until senior year to learn math from him. B taught me a lot, but I apply one lesson most often, perhaps because I've had to scramble between classes within 15 minutes:
the quickest, most direct way to get somewhere is a straight line.