So the day of the city-wide ninth grade wrestling tournament finally came around and I was the top seed in my bracket. I was winning my first-round match 4-0 and it was late in the last period. I figured I’d make a token effort at a pinning move to satisfy my buddies who had been harassing me all season long about not having a pin to my name. You can probably guess what happened. I screwed up in my half-hearted attempt at the pinning move. The other kid reversed me for 2 points, and in the process of the reversal I ended up on my back giving up another 3 points, and lost 5-4 in the closing seconds of the match. The lowest seeded kid in the bracket beat me, the highest seed in the bracket, and I was out of the tournament.
I was devastated. I was inconsolable. I had lost the one thing I wanted most in the world by making the stupid decision to placate my teammates. I went to the farthest reaches of the gym and cried my eyes out. This is the point at which Mr. Quinn shows up in the gymnasium to find me - great timing.
I was sitting on the floor sobbing with my head between my knees, and my arms wrapped over my head, trying to hide myself from the world. What I could not accomplish was hide what I had done from myself. It was at this moment that Mr. Quinn showed up to ask, “Are you Tom?” At that moment I wished I wasn’t. I wished I was somebody else and just wanted to be left alone in my misery, but I had said I would do this audition, and this man had come into the high school on a Saturday, his day off, as a special favor to Ms. Kauffman (at last, I remember her name now!) so of course I had to do the responsible thing and fulfill my promise.
The choir room was at the farthest end of the high school from the gymnasium, so we had a pretty long walk. We made some small talk along the way, and it became clear that Mr. Quinn couldn’t care less about athletics. Losing the 9th grade tournament, which was the most important thing in the world to me, was the least consequential thing in the world in his mind, and he made that clearly known. Perhaps the architects knew what they were doing when they put the athletic complex and the music rooms at opposite ends of the campus.
I eventually found myself standing next to a piano at the bottom level of the tiered choir room. I was still wearing my wrestling gear under a sweatshirt and sweatpants, all of it ancient moth-eaten equipment from the 1950s. It was wintertime in Iowa, so even though I’d been dripping hot with sweat after losing my match (Did I mention I lost?) 15 minutes earlier, I was now dripping wet and freezing cold.
Mr. Quinn gave me a note on the piano and had me sing a series of 5-note up and down scales working my way up the scale a whole note at a time. Along the way he dictated the vowels and consonants I was to use. “Na” became “La”, which became “Nu”, as he checked my diction and tone. He had me change volume. When he reached the top of my range he worked me back down to the bottom, and eventually quit giving me the note for each scale to see if I could hold pitch reliably over time while singing a capella. Finally, he gave me a piece of music to sight read, which is really tough. When the audition was over I had no idea how I had done.
I learned from Ms. Kauffman several weeks later that I was accepted into the high school concert choir and would need to drop biology from my sophomore schedule. I was one of only two sophomores to make it into the choir, the other being a soprano, Odessa Paulson. Notice how I name her but never name myself? Curious thing, that.
So what’s the point? Maybe there are two points. I can’t say definitively that this ninth grade wrestling loss affected me, but I suspect it did. I was already a cautious kid, and this caused me to be even more cautious. You cannot be cautious and wrestle well. I never accomplished anything great in wrestling. Perhaps it is just as well. I found my way to cross country and track where I was fairly successful, and I’ve spent my entire life happily competing in long distance road races.
The second point is that those three years of high school choral music were the most satisfying years of my musical life. We practiced and performed the most challenging and beautiful pieces of music. We perfected every consonant and vowel of every piece until we were exhausted from the effort. The diction, tone, volume, stage presence, all of it, pursued to the finest detail, pursued to perfection. The music we produced was exquisitely beautiful, and when the sound dissipated in the air there was nothing left behind but our exhausted bodies and souls that had been profoundly touched.
Music is the language of the soul –
Thursday, March 25, 2010
Thursday, March 18, 2010
Concert Choir (Part One)
Back in the 1960’s in my home town the ninth grade was the last year of junior high school, and the tenth grade was the first year of high school. In the ninth grade I was taking all of the usual subjects required of young people, plus orchestra, and ninth grade chorus. I liked music, and I liked singing, and I was pretty good at it. The odd thing was that there were only 12 people in my ninth grade chorus class, and 11 of them were girls.
I did not know it until the deed was already done, but in those days an adolescent male didn’t generally choose chorus for a class. That was a sissy choice; a girls choice. Real men don’t eat quiche or choose chorus. I didn’t know that, and I frankly didn’t care. I enjoyed it, so tough beans, but I didn’t exactly announce that fact to the world.
The year of ninth grade chorus was pretty uneventful except for an in-class cello recital that was required. It was either that or sing a solo of my choosing which frightened me even more than playing a cello solo. Anyway, as the year came to a close I had to build my class schedule for the tenth grade. I had room in the schedule for all the standard subjects, but there was no room for choir.
My ninth grade chorus teacher kept pestering me about trying out for the high school concert choir. She spoke glowingly about the director and the quality of the music they produced, but when she mentioned that the choir was a select group of voices chosen through audition, I wasn’t thrilled with the prospect. I really wanted to take biology anyway, and I could not take both biology and concert choir; so I chose biology.
My after school activity during the ninth grade was wrestling, as it was the previous two years. I loved it, and was having a pretty good year. I was undefeated at the close of the dual meet season. That should have been sufficient by anyone’s standards, but my teammates incessantly razzed me about never pinning a soul. Winning on points alone wasn’t macho enough by their standards.
In my matches I’d sometimes get lucky and get a takedown for two points in the first period. In one of the next two periods I’d get two points for a reversal and in the other period I’d ride the guy in such a smothering fashion that he couldn’t move. I didn’t attempt to pin the guy, I just played it safe. I grabbed the near arm and far leg and drove him into the mat for minutes at a time. My brother Al taught me that and other methods of rendering my opponent incapable of movement. The final score was typically 2-0 or 4-0.
As the ninth grade city wrestling tournament approached my choir teacher continued to harass me about trying out for the high school concert choir. She wasn’t sure that a tenth grader had ever been accepted into the concert choir, but she thought I might be the exception. It would be a great honor to be accepted into the concert choir, she said. I kept repeating to her that I wanted to take biology, and I was relieved when the scheduled day for auditions finally passed. She would surely give the topic a rest once the deadline had passed.
Oh so wrong! My choir teacher kept after me with a spiel about how she was a good friend with the concert choir director, Mr. Quinn, and she could arrange for a special audition. She eventually wore me down and I agreed to audition just to stop the nagging. Well, bless her, she scheduled the special audition with Mr. Quinn on the same day as the ninth grade city wrestling tournament! Arggg. Mega-Arggg. Exasperation and consternation! Don’t these arts people have any sense? I didn’t want some sissy audition messing up my tournament. I also didn’t want the guys on the team to know that I was auditioning for the concert choir.
So the day of the tournament finally came around and I was the top seed in my bracket.
(To be continued)
I did not know it until the deed was already done, but in those days an adolescent male didn’t generally choose chorus for a class. That was a sissy choice; a girls choice. Real men don’t eat quiche or choose chorus. I didn’t know that, and I frankly didn’t care. I enjoyed it, so tough beans, but I didn’t exactly announce that fact to the world.
The year of ninth grade chorus was pretty uneventful except for an in-class cello recital that was required. It was either that or sing a solo of my choosing which frightened me even more than playing a cello solo. Anyway, as the year came to a close I had to build my class schedule for the tenth grade. I had room in the schedule for all the standard subjects, but there was no room for choir.
My ninth grade chorus teacher kept pestering me about trying out for the high school concert choir. She spoke glowingly about the director and the quality of the music they produced, but when she mentioned that the choir was a select group of voices chosen through audition, I wasn’t thrilled with the prospect. I really wanted to take biology anyway, and I could not take both biology and concert choir; so I chose biology.
My after school activity during the ninth grade was wrestling, as it was the previous two years. I loved it, and was having a pretty good year. I was undefeated at the close of the dual meet season. That should have been sufficient by anyone’s standards, but my teammates incessantly razzed me about never pinning a soul. Winning on points alone wasn’t macho enough by their standards.
In my matches I’d sometimes get lucky and get a takedown for two points in the first period. In one of the next two periods I’d get two points for a reversal and in the other period I’d ride the guy in such a smothering fashion that he couldn’t move. I didn’t attempt to pin the guy, I just played it safe. I grabbed the near arm and far leg and drove him into the mat for minutes at a time. My brother Al taught me that and other methods of rendering my opponent incapable of movement. The final score was typically 2-0 or 4-0.
As the ninth grade city wrestling tournament approached my choir teacher continued to harass me about trying out for the high school concert choir. She wasn’t sure that a tenth grader had ever been accepted into the concert choir, but she thought I might be the exception. It would be a great honor to be accepted into the concert choir, she said. I kept repeating to her that I wanted to take biology, and I was relieved when the scheduled day for auditions finally passed. She would surely give the topic a rest once the deadline had passed.
Oh so wrong! My choir teacher kept after me with a spiel about how she was a good friend with the concert choir director, Mr. Quinn, and she could arrange for a special audition. She eventually wore me down and I agreed to audition just to stop the nagging. Well, bless her, she scheduled the special audition with Mr. Quinn on the same day as the ninth grade city wrestling tournament! Arggg. Mega-Arggg. Exasperation and consternation! Don’t these arts people have any sense? I didn’t want some sissy audition messing up my tournament. I also didn’t want the guys on the team to know that I was auditioning for the concert choir.
So the day of the tournament finally came around and I was the top seed in my bracket.
(To be continued)
Thursday, March 11, 2010
Bad Shoes
(Un-posting and re-posting in an attempt to foil a comment spammer who has been bedeviling me for a couple years.)
In the fall of 1970 a Coe College football player, John Quigley, challenged the coach’s authority to dictate his hair length. The school president did not support the coach’s position. In an act of solidarity all of the coaches at Coe resigned at the end of the school year. And so it came to be that we had a new cross country coach in the fall of 1971 as I began my second year at Coe.
Cross country wasn’t a major sport back then. It still isn’t. It was typical for a coach of one of the major winter or spring sports to be “stuck” with coaching cross country in the fall. Marcus Jackson, the new basketball coach, got stuck with coaching the cross country team. There are a hundred good things to say about Coach Jackson as a man and a coach, none of which makes a good story. What does make a good story was his lack of knowledge about cross country.
Though Coe was a NCAA Division III school, Coach was allowed to purchase necessary equipment for the team. Running shoes qualified as equipment. One day Coach proudly showed up at practice with new shoes for the entire team. At first we were thrilled. Then we found out the shoes were Beta Bullets. We were dismayed.
Nobody ran in Beta Bullets. None of us had ever heard of Beta Bullets! Anybody who knew the least little bit about cross country or track knew that the only respectable running shoes in 1971 were made by Puma or Adidas. Even with “good” shoes in those ancient times we had to take extra steps to keep them from tearing our feet to bloody shreds. We had to spray our feet with a form of glue called “tough skin”, and then powder the glue so it did not stick to the sock. Nike Waffle trainers, the first decent running shoe in the history of the planet, would not be invented until 1974.
We tried for several days to give the shoes a chance, but they ripped our feet to shreds. When my classmate, Modracek, finished a run with his sock soaked in blood and unable to walk, it was clear that something had to be done. Someone had to talk to the coach. I hoped it was anybody but me, or better yet, a committee.
We had five sophomores on the team: Miller, Ottsen, Robertson, Modracek, and me. The rest were freshmen. I don’t remember how we went about meeting as a team without the coach knowing about it. I assume we talked one afternoon during the warm-up or warm-down for the workout. A victim was selected to talk to the coach on behalf of the team. I was the victim.
I was 19 years old in an era when kids are supposed to be seen and not heard. When a coach said “jump” we had all been taught to ask “How high?” on our way up. In my mind what I was about to say was treason, mutiny, insurrection, rebellion, and sedition, and might get me kicked off the team. This was also back in the day of racial tension and riots in Watts, Newark, and Kansas City. Coach Jackson was a young (he seemed old to us) black man, and I, as a young lily white kid from lily white Iowa, was very much intimidated.
I talked to the coach about how none of us had ever run in Beta Bullets before, didn’t know anyone who did run in Beta Bullets, had never heard of Beta Bullets, and what they were doing to our feet. I explained that all serious runners were either wearing Puma or Adidas shoes. I said that just as Converse All Stars were THE shoe for serious basketball players, Pumas and Adidas were THE shoes for serious runners. To wear anything else was the sign of a rookie coach, rookie runners, or both. We would be the subject of derision if we wore Beta Bullets. More importantly, our workout efforts, and future racing efforts, would be hampered by the shoes.
Coach listened with a serious expression and furrowed brow that was scaring me to death. He positively scowled. In truth, he rarely smiled anyway. I wondered if these were my last moments on the planet. I wondered if he was about to rip into me for my audacity, and the team’s audacity, to question his shoe selection. Instead he asked me where he could find some Puma and Adidas shoes. I told him that the small community of distance runners in Cedar Rapids actively shared information on decent running shoes, and Eby’s Sporting Goods on First Avenue was the only store in the city or the county that carried a token few pairs of running shoes made by Puma or Adidas.
Coach said, “Let’s go.” In a moment of great eloquence I displayed my intelligence by saying, “Huh?” He stands up and says again, “Let’s go. You just made a case that the shoes we need are Puma or Adidas. You said that those shoes are at Eby’s. You said that I don’t know the right shoes for running and you clearly do. You are going to pick out running shoes for the entire team.” At which point I am thinking “Oh Crap!” I am not the coach. I am just a kid. I generally know what shoes I want, but I don’t want the responsibility of picking shoes for the entire team!
Coach was not a man to be put off. We immediately went out to the parking lot, got in his car and headed to Eby’s Sporting Goods. He hovered over me as I looked at this shoe and that shoe (there weren’t many running shoes in those days), and generally dithered and fretted whether the guys would agree with my choice. Eventually I picked a shoe, and we bought a pair for every guy on the team.
I recently had an email exchange with Trimble, who was a freshman at the time and now is in the Coe College Athletic Hall of Fame. Ed said, “That is a neat story about the shoes. I recall being very surprised to open a box and find these very cool Adidas that were just my size. Ya done good! I don’t remember the rest of the story, but you were our leader so that makes sense.”
Those are kind words, but as Forrest Gump says, “I don’t know anything about that.” I do know that the responsibility weighed heavily on me at the time. I dodged another bullet, so to speak; a Beta Bullet.
In the fall of 1970 a Coe College football player, John Quigley, challenged the coach’s authority to dictate his hair length. The school president did not support the coach’s position. In an act of solidarity all of the coaches at Coe resigned at the end of the school year. And so it came to be that we had a new cross country coach in the fall of 1971 as I began my second year at Coe.
Cross country wasn’t a major sport back then. It still isn’t. It was typical for a coach of one of the major winter or spring sports to be “stuck” with coaching cross country in the fall. Marcus Jackson, the new basketball coach, got stuck with coaching the cross country team. There are a hundred good things to say about Coach Jackson as a man and a coach, none of which makes a good story. What does make a good story was his lack of knowledge about cross country.
Though Coe was a NCAA Division III school, Coach was allowed to purchase necessary equipment for the team. Running shoes qualified as equipment. One day Coach proudly showed up at practice with new shoes for the entire team. At first we were thrilled. Then we found out the shoes were Beta Bullets. We were dismayed.
Nobody ran in Beta Bullets. None of us had ever heard of Beta Bullets! Anybody who knew the least little bit about cross country or track knew that the only respectable running shoes in 1971 were made by Puma or Adidas. Even with “good” shoes in those ancient times we had to take extra steps to keep them from tearing our feet to bloody shreds. We had to spray our feet with a form of glue called “tough skin”, and then powder the glue so it did not stick to the sock. Nike Waffle trainers, the first decent running shoe in the history of the planet, would not be invented until 1974.
We tried for several days to give the shoes a chance, but they ripped our feet to shreds. When my classmate, Modracek, finished a run with his sock soaked in blood and unable to walk, it was clear that something had to be done. Someone had to talk to the coach. I hoped it was anybody but me, or better yet, a committee.
We had five sophomores on the team: Miller, Ottsen, Robertson, Modracek, and me. The rest were freshmen. I don’t remember how we went about meeting as a team without the coach knowing about it. I assume we talked one afternoon during the warm-up or warm-down for the workout. A victim was selected to talk to the coach on behalf of the team. I was the victim.
I was 19 years old in an era when kids are supposed to be seen and not heard. When a coach said “jump” we had all been taught to ask “How high?” on our way up. In my mind what I was about to say was treason, mutiny, insurrection, rebellion, and sedition, and might get me kicked off the team. This was also back in the day of racial tension and riots in Watts, Newark, and Kansas City. Coach Jackson was a young (he seemed old to us) black man, and I, as a young lily white kid from lily white Iowa, was very much intimidated.
I talked to the coach about how none of us had ever run in Beta Bullets before, didn’t know anyone who did run in Beta Bullets, had never heard of Beta Bullets, and what they were doing to our feet. I explained that all serious runners were either wearing Puma or Adidas shoes. I said that just as Converse All Stars were THE shoe for serious basketball players, Pumas and Adidas were THE shoes for serious runners. To wear anything else was the sign of a rookie coach, rookie runners, or both. We would be the subject of derision if we wore Beta Bullets. More importantly, our workout efforts, and future racing efforts, would be hampered by the shoes.
Coach listened with a serious expression and furrowed brow that was scaring me to death. He positively scowled. In truth, he rarely smiled anyway. I wondered if these were my last moments on the planet. I wondered if he was about to rip into me for my audacity, and the team’s audacity, to question his shoe selection. Instead he asked me where he could find some Puma and Adidas shoes. I told him that the small community of distance runners in Cedar Rapids actively shared information on decent running shoes, and Eby’s Sporting Goods on First Avenue was the only store in the city or the county that carried a token few pairs of running shoes made by Puma or Adidas.
Coach said, “Let’s go.” In a moment of great eloquence I displayed my intelligence by saying, “Huh?” He stands up and says again, “Let’s go. You just made a case that the shoes we need are Puma or Adidas. You said that those shoes are at Eby’s. You said that I don’t know the right shoes for running and you clearly do. You are going to pick out running shoes for the entire team.” At which point I am thinking “Oh Crap!” I am not the coach. I am just a kid. I generally know what shoes I want, but I don’t want the responsibility of picking shoes for the entire team!
Coach was not a man to be put off. We immediately went out to the parking lot, got in his car and headed to Eby’s Sporting Goods. He hovered over me as I looked at this shoe and that shoe (there weren’t many running shoes in those days), and generally dithered and fretted whether the guys would agree with my choice. Eventually I picked a shoe, and we bought a pair for every guy on the team.
I recently had an email exchange with Trimble, who was a freshman at the time and now is in the Coe College Athletic Hall of Fame. Ed said, “That is a neat story about the shoes. I recall being very surprised to open a box and find these very cool Adidas that were just my size. Ya done good! I don’t remember the rest of the story, but you were our leader so that makes sense.”
Those are kind words, but as Forrest Gump says, “I don’t know anything about that.” I do know that the responsibility weighed heavily on me at the time. I dodged another bullet, so to speak; a Beta Bullet.
Thursday, March 4, 2010
Arrogant Sprinters
Continuing my earlier thoughts about sprinters, who deserve to be picked on some more, permit me a moment to comment on their arrogance. As a class of athletes, and I am using the word athlete generously to include sprinters, they are the most conceited, egotistical, and pompous group of asses I have ever observed. These guys and gals wouldn’t know what good sportsmanship was if it bit them in the ass.
The latest sprinter to tick me off is Usain Bolt, the world record holder in the 100 meters. At the 2008 Beijing Olympics there were 91,000 paying track fans in the stands to watch him run the 100 meters. He ran really fast, and was clearly ahead after only 50 meters. He could have continued to run hard for the entire distance. He could have smashed his own world record with a time that would not be touched for decades. It could have been a famous moment of athletic history, like Bob Beamon’s long jump in Mexico City in 1968.
Instead of achieving greatness he instead chose to celebrate his impending victory 20 meters from the finish line. The act of self-glorification was typical for sprinters. I am sure you are familiar with sprinters chest pounding, fist pumping, arms raised in victory while staring into the stands in an attempt to generate additional applause from the fans after a race. Usain Bolt began his boorish routine before the race was even over, and robbed the 91,000 fans of a truly great performance.
Usain Bolt’s behavior showed a lack of respect for the sport, for the fans, and especially for his fellow competitors. I have no respect for Usain Bolt.
The latest sprinter to tick me off is Usain Bolt, the world record holder in the 100 meters. At the 2008 Beijing Olympics there were 91,000 paying track fans in the stands to watch him run the 100 meters. He ran really fast, and was clearly ahead after only 50 meters. He could have continued to run hard for the entire distance. He could have smashed his own world record with a time that would not be touched for decades. It could have been a famous moment of athletic history, like Bob Beamon’s long jump in Mexico City in 1968.
Instead of achieving greatness he instead chose to celebrate his impending victory 20 meters from the finish line. The act of self-glorification was typical for sprinters. I am sure you are familiar with sprinters chest pounding, fist pumping, arms raised in victory while staring into the stands in an attempt to generate additional applause from the fans after a race. Usain Bolt began his boorish routine before the race was even over, and robbed the 91,000 fans of a truly great performance.
Usain Bolt’s behavior showed a lack of respect for the sport, for the fans, and especially for his fellow competitors. I have no respect for Usain Bolt.
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