NOTE: this is MUCH longer than the suggested 750 word count; We're weighing in here at just a hair over 1700 words. Unfortunately, I really don't think much can be cut from this. If anything, I feel as if there are a few more things that I should really expand upon. So, I don't really know what to say.....deal with it?
Only the Lonely can Play the Blues
by Patrick Reilly
I had never been to a workout room before, and I felt a little lost. I was in a school I wasn't familiar with yet, but was expected to act like I was. I was in an unfamiliar school, at an unfamiliar time of the day. It was 3:45, and Wissahickon High School was devoid of its usual inhabitants; in their stead were some 20-odd eighth graders, concentrated to one focal point: the workout room, in which I was standing. I was an eighth grader, and a baseball player. I had come to the 8th grade workouts. These after school meetings were designed to smooth the shock from being transplanted, not unlike a bulb of a Lily or a Tulip, into high school. Eighth graders could experience the regimens that the high school baseball team performed every week. These workouts would help a prospective player decide whether he wanted to commit to a serious, high school sport. And I was one of perhaps 20 mulling about in the high school workout room. Names swirled through my head, names of people who were damn good at baseball; Randy Frankenfield, Tommy Kline, Will Ligus, Jake Fischer….and me. I was being put in the same pond as these big fish. Could I hold my own? I was lost in thought, until the shrill, unique tone of a high pitched whistle brought me back to reality.
I was excited, ready to work hard, but as the tall, intimidating head coach went through his obviously well-rehearsed speech, something caught my attention. I couldn’t figure out what exactly it was then, and I sure can’t remember now. However, my attention was caught nonetheless. What I saw shocked, then terribly upset me. I saw unspoken anger being stabbed at me, silent insults swarming through the irises of many. I saw body language. I noticed the scrunched brows, the crossed arms; it was amazing how so many people could communicate with each other, then organize together to convey their feelings, all without a sound. As someone who was completely aloof of how he would interact with others, and unknowingly push them away, the fact that I even noticed these quiet objections meant that it was plain and obvious for anyone to see; I was not wanted anywhere near these people, much less working with them on a team. My aspirations for high school baseball would be fought tooth and nail, by my own teammates.
Every minute I spent in that workout room reaffirmed the decision I had just made more and more. This was the decider, this animosity diverted the path I was to take, and reshaped who I am and how I define myself. I Ignored the feelings of others for the rest of the workout, something I was unknowingly good at, and left when I was told to. The spring day gave me a great backdrop to walk home; I walked on a blacktop path, slightly yellowed by the overaccumulation of pollen. The path became covered in woodland, its sides swallowed by the forest. I noticed, not for the first time, how beautiful the scene was. However, even the beautiful day couldn't deter the feelings of dismay and hurt that swarmed me, attacking my thoughts, usurping my ability to think clearly, and pointing out something that I was only beginning to understand at the time: my only company for many, many years would be my thoughts, and I had no one to blame but myself. I mulled over the events of the day, preparing to make the decision that would affect my life the most of any decision I've ever made, all unbeknownst to me at the time. As I crossed the main road into my development, the decision became set in stone. The memory of this moment is so vivid, it's sort of weird for me to relive it nowadays. But, I consciously remember telling myself, "Grandpa deserves better, and I deserve better than dealing with those...plebeians." Those were my exact words, they ring in my head so clearly, like a bell that which has been perfectly cast, thus allowing the bell to reverberate for an amazingly long amount of time.
Later that night, I took my trumpet out of its case.
The decision had presented itself to me not two months prior, when I heard my 8th grade science teacher, Mr. Gunby, talk about high school baseball. He happened to be the head coach of the team; a name recognition benefit for me. I had been playing ball for 5 or so years beforehand; I really liked the sport. I was above average at it. But not by a ton. The picture he painted was a very serious one. One quote of his that comes to mind to sum it all up is, “If you aren’t interested in playing College Baseball after you graduate from here, I don’t need you on my team.” He made his point clear; if you think you can play baseball on my team, get decent grades, and have any other interest or hobby, you are a fool, even by the standards of another fool. And thus, my dilemma had reared its ugly head; I had a hobby that I enjoyed that was something other than baseball.
Albert St. George didn’t give a housewarming present to his daughter or his son-in-law when they moved into their new house in the summer of 2004. However, he gave a housewarming gift to his first, and favorite grandson: a bright, but impulsive child named Patrick. He had played this instrument for many a year, but it had been gaining far too much dust. Emphysema and the loss of part of his lung had retired him from playing 9 years ago, and it was past time for someone to play it again. I had been excited to start playing an instrument in 4th grade, the first year you could play in band. I just didn’t know which instrument to play. When my grandfather gave me his trumpet, my problems deciding were reduced to dust, carried away by the sweet brassy sound waves. I loved playing it for about 2 years, keeping interest for longer than most, but I grow bored of it around 6th grade. In 7th and 8th grade, I played, but not well, and only out of habit. I never practiced at home. But in the spring of my 8th grade, my grandfather caught pneumonia, and died after a 2 week battle. According to the doctors, he should have died the year I was born. I, however, had the pleasure of experiencing his love for 13 long years. I chose to give his eulogy. I talked about everything he had done for me. I talked about the trumpet. As I paid homage to my grandfather, I realized that everything I had talked about was something I barely even cared about anymore. I felt like the world’s biggest hypocrite as I stepped down from the podium, even as the choked sobs and the thunderous clapping of hands echoed across the cathedral, congratulating me on my speech. I owed him a great debt, and I felt honor-bound to repay his memory at least partially.
I was very much aware that the two choices that were laid out in front of me would lead me down very different paths. I didn’t really know which choice would make me happier, though. On the surface, it may seem like the obvious choice was to honor my grandfather by continuing to play the trumpet. Things weren’t that simple, though. I wanted to play a high school sport for more than just fun. If I were on a sports team, I knew I would be seen in a much more positive light socially. That opportunity would be a sorely needed respite from a deluge of harassment that was directed towards me in everyday school life. I did not yet understand why, or what I was doing to cause all of this, but I knew it would help if I were on a sports team, surrounded by popular and generally well-liked guys. “Maybe it would rub off on me,” I told myself. It wasn’t so easy to just let an opportunity to be more accepted among my peers go like that. However, while I was mulling over these thoughts, I had yet to go to the workouts. When that day came and passed, the right choice presented itself to me, appearing like a ray of sunshine through the dark and heavy rainclouds.
I don’t find it healthy to dwell on might-have-beens and things like that, but you end up doing it every now and then, sometimes before you even realize what you are doing. If I made a different choice, I would probably look different than I do today. I am by no means out of shape in any way in my current state, but if I pursued baseball, my body would be more defined, toned, and stronger, not to mention more aesthetically pleasing to the eye. I probably wouldn’t have made the team in freshman year; I knew the people in my grade whom I was competing against. They were an exceptional bunch. I’m sure I would have made the team eventually, however. But in retrospect, I’m not sure if it would have helped my social situation. Just joining a sports team alone wouldn’t solve my problems from the source, it would only treat the effects, and to an unknown degree at that. I still would have been impulsive, and ignorant of social knowledge; I just would have been in better shape. There were so many risks, and so many uncertain rewards, that I will never, ever think that I have made the wrong choice. I still had to plow through derision and contempt, but I was doing something that made me happy. I was honoring my grandfather’s generosity and kindness, which could never be battered out of me. Only I could have changed that, and I chose not to go down that path. Only the lonely can play the blues, but at least the music sounds nice.