On Second Thought
My specific non-talents
With no good news anywhere for me to grift off of, I have decided to free-form and dig into my sordid past for a story.
More to the point, I have two specific non-talents, both with an ironic twist. Also, these are both things that probably didn’t make my mother proud.
Those two things are: I do not understand basketball, even a little; and, I cannot read music with the exception of the middle C.
I said it out loud, but not in front of my mother.
The ironic part is I played basketball for three years in junior high and high school, and I was in band for four years. We are not quitters, my people, not even if we have no idea what is going on.
It was my freshman year at Iowa Park High School, when under the coaching of Theresa Rousseau, I realized I had not one clue what all those lines and circles and X’s meant written on the page attached to her clipboard. I had been taught them for three years, but nothing registered - it never had. It was like I had been coached by Charlie Brown’s teacher.
I had been winging plays since the seventh grade, and I was a starter. I have no idea what a point guard is, or a forward to this day. But I can do a lay-up and a jump shot.
My other non-talent was discovered a few years earlier, when I joined the band in the sixth grade. Since I had taught myself to play When the Saints Go Marching In by ear on the piano, we were all willing to lay odds I was a musical prodigy.
This was found to be false.
On pick your instrument day, I remember thinking, “what is this thing they call an oboe?“, and before I knew it I was the only oboe player in the entire band. I was also the only person in the entire band who could not read music six weeks in, which did not escape the keen ear of the band director, David Mooney, who promptly moved me to percussion.
This turned out to be a good move on his part because I could read the beat and I have good rhythm. I also developed a burning desire to play the tri-toms by the time I was in eighth grade. It was my only goal in high school band.
By the end of my percussion run, which I call my freshman year, I had marched sideways with a bass drum - a nerve-wracking experience. My goal of playing those elusive tritoms was completely overshadowed by my fear of having to relive my freshman year marching experience. I tapped out.
At that point I pretty much had nowhere to turn. Choir was out due to that time I tried out for the seventh grade choir at the end of my sixth grade year, and was the only one among the brave and talented souls who tried out that didn’t make the cut.
I’m not done working it out in therapy yet, but I’m still not convinced singing is one of my non-talents. I have admitted I would fail miserably at music theory, but I love to sing too much to quit.
I don’t tell you any of this so you’ll feel sorry or feel disgust for me - although if you are an enthusiast of any of those things, it’s probably too late.
It’s nice to be able to laugh, especially now, because my mother is the biggest basketball fan I have ever in my life known. She gives all her favorite NBA players nicknames, and we all know who she’s talking about. She also watches college ball like it pays her money.
She and I even went to a Mavericks vs. Spurs game, which was incredible by the way, and saw Dennis Rodman in his early career with the Spurs and his hair was a calm cherry red. I had no idea what was going on, but I knew I had never seen anything like Rodman rebounding. Since I knew what a rebound was, I must have learned something.
I still cannot read music, but I have gotten great comfort from the fact that one of my best friends picked up an accordian at a bar in Juarez a few years ago and she plays it all the time. She can’t read music either, which is probably why we’ve been friends so long. Also, she lets me play tamborine during her concerts.
Be safe out there. Wash your hands. And keep living, loving and laughing.
