Bruises And Dents
My father played football in high school. His stories about his glory days as a lineman inspired my brother and I to want to play as well. We had one problem though. Our school, the one dad played for had abandoned football for the safer and cheaper fall sport of soccer. But then, we moved and got our chance. Our new school was the only one in the county that still held to the tradition of football. I was sure I would exceed like my father. However, I had one minor problem– my size. I was only one hundred and three pounds.
I know my exact weight because on the first day of P.E. class we were weighed in. I never questioned why the weigh in, and just assumed the teachers were probably paid by the pound or something. Anyway, an upper classman sentenced to the freshman gym class having failed core academic classes resulting in a scheduling conflict, asked my weight. I told him, “One hundred and three pounds.” “Drats!” was his reaction. “I just lost ten bucks. I bet you were a ninety-eight pound weakling,” T o which I said, “No I’m a hundred and three pound weakling.”
However, my size did not keep me from going out for the aforementioned football team. The advantage of attending a small school was that if you tried out and were breathing and had no obvious broken bones you made the team. It was eight man football, like my father had played. And since we were the only school in our county that still played this sport, we had to travel long distances to play the other schools in our league. At least they were smaller schools than us. Unfortunately that didn’t keep them from beating us and usually beating us badly. After losing all our games this would prove to be our final year. School officials decided to go for the safer and cheaper fall sport of soccer. But I digress. However, I can say I did play football in high school even though for a few weeks.
You see, I was the smallest one on the team and I bore the bruises to prove it. Not that I ever got even close to getting into a game, mind you. But I was a great tackling dummy in practice and after taking an especially hard hit in practice, I looked up from my accustomed position on the ground to see the concerned look in Coach’s eyes. That’s when I decided I was not my father. I would have to find my high school glory elsewhere. So I left the team and joined the safety of the school band.
Trying out for the band was even easier that trying out for football. You just had to be breathing. Broken bones didn’t matter. Tryouts for our school band were relatively simple. You picked up your instrument and blew. If you made a sound anything like what your instrument was supposed to sound like, you were in, especially if your instrument was one of the more unusual ones. Trumpet and clarinet players had it more difficult though. They actually had to know how to play music. But that is another thing.
Not that being in football would have kept me from band. There was no conflict. The band never played at games (We had enough trouble keeping together in our seats much less marching in a field). But being in the band gave me something to do and something to belong to.In high school we all wanted to belong –to something.
And so I began to play the French horn. Well I sort of played it. I mean if you can count hitting a few right notes here and there then you can say I played the French horn. I was part of a group that accomplished something. We made music—sort of. Besides it gave me something to do during first period study hall.
That’s not to say we were not expected to learn some things once we were in the band. Each of us was given the parts of the music we were to play with the expectation that we would learn how to play them reasonably well. However, that took time and practice and my philosophy at the time such was that if it didn’t come easy, it wasn’t worth doing. This explains why I went from first chair to second in a section consisting of two. But that didn’t deter me. I was part of a group that got me out of first period study hall which is what counted (In hindsight I probably should have stuck to the study hall.)
Now, I don’t want to give the impression our band leader just left us to do our own thing. I had private lessons in his office once a week (when neither of us had anything better to do). In addition, perhaps for incentive, I had been entrusted with a brand-new instrument complete with a thumb valve so I could switch keys with one twitch of my thumb (even though I couldn’t play the right notes in the right key). The horn had been placed in my care during that brief period when I was first chair, and I took my responsibility seriously, and so took care to only gently use the instrument, which of course meant limiting my practice hours to when I felt like it. My teacher, however, oddly enough was not impressed. He actually expected support from the rest of us in the band to help the clarinet and trumpet sections sound like more than just a duet.
Things went swimmingly well until somehow there was a dent in my new French horn. When asked how it got there I would answer the standard, “I don’t know”. But in this case I really did not know. Maybe it was from twirling the horn to get rid of spit. You see musical instruments that produce sounds through when blown into gather spit. Most brass instruments which have considerable plumbing have spit valves to enable the musician to get rid of excess spit inconspicuously. French horns have no such valves but have to be rotated repeatedly to eject the unwanted moisture. Perhaps during one of my practice sessions when I was particularly inspired to play more than my usual five minutes I tried getting the spit from my horn and inadvertently his something. Who knows, I certainly didn’t at the time.
I tried to keep the dent secret from my teacher but I was due for a lesson and it was a day neither of us had anything else pressing. I went into his office and got out my horn and waited my doom. The dent was as big as my fist at the spot where the bell of the horn narrowed. It couldn’t be missed. Well, Mr. C. came in and he did not appear to be amused, but the two of us decided that it was what it was and to make the best of things.
The incident might have ended there but adding to my humiliation, the music instrument salesrep chose that day to make an unannounced visit. Mr. C. promptly showed him what this irresponsible kid had done to this brand new horn. To my surprise, the salesman showed little reaction, mentioning he had seen worse. He then asked for a broom. Why Mr. C. had a broom in his office I do not know (perhaps to kill mice—it was an old building), but he quickly produced one and the salesrep stuck the broom handle up the bell to the dent gently pushing it from inside working his magic until only a hint of the damage remained. Then he said, “These things never sound right until they have a few dents in them.”
His words have echoed in my mind over the years and have become a part of my philosophy in life. Dents are a part of life as are bruises. We can’t avoid them. In fact they kind of make things interesting. I’ve learned it’s best to find how to deal with them. This explains why I do some of the things I do. For example I’ve always bought pre-owned cars figuring I’ll let the other guy break it in so when I get it a few new scratches or dents just fit in with the rest adding to the car’s character. Dents and bruises are just do just that adding distinctiveness. If nothing is broken they have the affect of personalization even if unintentionally. And so, whether with things or people, we all deal with bruises and dents.