A dozen years ago, about a dozen of us retired from Highlands University, having amassed possibly a total of 300 years of service (12 faculty times 25 years average). There must have been enough of us personas non grata to prevent us from celebrating our retirement on the university campus.

Instead, a group of fellow faculty treated us retirees to a buffet dinner and program in the basement of Immaculate Conception School. The building has since become the Father George Salazar Catholic Center. I was pleased to attend, taking my mother, who forever thought of her then-59-year-old retiring “Hijito” as a pre-teen. She beamed, as did many other parents, siblings, children and well-wishers.

When it was my turn at the mike, I thought of the damage my brother Severino and I might have caused during our 12-year tenure at I.C., w-a-y back in the ‘50s. I remarked that I was amazed the building had remained intact. But in reality, I plied much of my discourse with hyperbole.

At the microphone, I asked if anyone there had ever played basketball in the I.C. basement, which happened to be the same spot where we’d just been served enchiladas, posole and salsa. Up went the hand of a kid who couldn’t have been more than 18. “I used to make baskets here,” he said. There was no way, unless he had an extremely persistent case of acne. A boy in his teens couldn’t possibly have played in that spot, as the gym possibly 20 years before had been converted to a banquet room. So there, Pimple Face!

The kid persisted. So I modified my original question: “Did anyone here ever play basketball in the ‘50s?” Ha! Gotcha! Unless the kid had a resurrection, he wasn’t even alive when I.C. School was in session. But yet …

But yet, some vivid memories came back to me just last Saturday, as I entered every room of the remodeled building, where I spent 12 years, occupying every room. Saturday’s occasion was a program that addressed immigration and U.S. border issues. The conference featured a bevy of stellar presenters, all knowledgeable and passionate about what they spoke.

When not attending a session, I browsed my old haunts. Immediately I recalled that we played basketball in a less-than-regulation facility. So low was the ceiling that the hoops hung at less than 9 feet. My friend, Tomas Salazar, once told me that when he first saw the I.C. gym, he understood why the Rudolph brothers, Trancy and Charlie, had such effective bank shots. Whereas those trained in regular gyms put some arch into their shots, I.C. Colts needed to adjust the angle of the ball, lest it hit the ceiling.

Remember, we’re talking I.C. gymnasium, not The Pit.

My recollection took me to each classroom, starting with the second-story room on the south side. That was where Sister Mary Yotemiro taught first and second grades. Several of the grades were combined, and those of us able to read at grade level generally moved north as we advanced.

There was Sister Mary Mucha Pena in third and fourth, and Sister Mary Dolor Fuerte in fifth and sixth.

The last classroom I visited Saturday — occupied that day by a group discussing privatized prisons — was where I spent my senior year. The top-floor room now has modern, flat plastic translucent sheets that shield the fluorescent lights. In the olden days, there was a concave plastic sheet covering an early version of a skylight.

As an admirer of James Dean, I rebelled at being thought of as a “santito.” I wanted to be a rebel with a cause. I soon became a rebel with a plan.

In those days, every Saturday, fruit-and-vegetable venders came by our neighborhood. Somehow, they always approached us with a negative question, in Spanish, which asks: “You don’t want to buy … do you?”

But we bought. This time, Mom bought some dried garbanzo beans (also called chick peas), a bit smaller than a marble. Armed with a pocketful of them, I positioned myself close to the skylight in the senior room, and during a free period, tested my accuracy in the same way that Edward Fox in “The Day of the Jackal,” in Frederick Forsythe’s novel, honed his skills.

I thought, “If I sit in a particular spot and flick a garbanzo toward the skylight, it’ll carom off at the precise angle to hit our homeroom teacher’s habit. And nobody will know where it came from.” In those days, the Sisters of Loretto wore tent-like hoods. The other advantage was that their design cut off some peripheral vision.

So during study hall, my nose purportedly buried in a Shakespeare’s “Hamlet,” I got away with several bulls eyes. Some of my classmates enjoyed the show, as I’d flick the chick pea, which bounced off the skylight and made its way toward the nun.

Other classmates were unable to determine the source of the action but seemed amused anyway. The best part was the nun’s reaction, as if the missile had simply come from heaven. For sure, my pea-shooting acumen was better than my basketball shots.

Our teacher would look around, casting I-know-who-did-that glances over the room. One of my classmates, who gave every indication of enjoying the show, and who even appeared to encourage my reckless behavior, soon became Señorita Benedicta Arnold, announcing days later, “It’s Arthur who’s shooting garbanzos at Sister.” Faced with incriminating evidence, I tried a feeble defense: “Why lots of kids walk around with garbanzos in their pockets.”

Well, I was busted, warned that “such behavior is not conducive to the receiving of college scholarships,” and let off with a wrist slap. It’s amazing that they turned me loose on the streets to wreak more havoc.