As obsessed as I was with the new band, plenty of outside influences intruded on what might have been band time. For one thing, at least for three members of the band, there was school. Now except seeing girls and my friends every day, I hated every moment of school. I could never reconcile the rights the school system took to require anything of me. I did as close to nothing as I could get away with, but that didn’t stop the prodding and complaining by the minions of the state charged with turning out workers bees, or better, grist for the mill. Let’s be honest, the schools aren’t teaching anybody how to get rich. For all the mythology this country spreads about how anyone can be anything, school systems mostly prepare students to be proles (as Orwell called them): unquestioning labor resources for people richer than them. A look around Madisonville will plainly illustrate that the wealthy of the town are the offspring of the previous generation’s wealth. Some of the legacies are as tight-fisted as their parents, who built their businesses with their hard earned capital, but did not feel obliged to spread the profits around to those who provided the muscle and time to assure the business’ success. When people worth millions pay employees no more than eight or nine dollars an hour, even to long term employees, without regular raises, then something is wrong with the system. The schools are on board with that nonsense, and do no more than feed it. Educators tamp down any individual impulse, while at the same time touting the greatness of a country that allows unfettered individualism. I wish I’d gone to school in that country.
To me then, the only worthwhile activities the schools offered were music and sports. I wasn’t really interested in the marching band, which the junior high didn’t offer anyway, so I gave sports a go. CEP was playing on the high school team while I played with the junior high. Madisonville had a new high school coach. He had played football at UT, and I think he coached there as a graduate assistant. I was surprised to find that he had been a wingback in college because he was so big. The man stood about 6’3” tall, and I don’t know about his playing weight, though he looked pretty fit to me, but he must have weighted 210. That’s nothing now, but the players were smaller across the board then, and he was big for a back. His wife was my 8th grade art teacher, and was among the most beautiful women I had seen.
Practices on both levels were miserable, though I wouldn’t trade our practice for what CEP endured. The high school team ran through its fundamental drills at a good clip before taking a run around the huge practice area. Two freshmen never seemed to make the entire run and ended up walking about a third of the way each day. After that the team did form tackling and some block and hit exercises. It looked brutal to me.
The junior high team started a few weeks behind the high school team. Our practices weren’t picnics either, but at least we didn’t have to risk getting creamed by a mean senior. The ring finger of my left hand was permanently damaged after repeated injury. Football’s a rough assed game, but a person can get nailed in any sport. A fellow in my class broke his arm in 6th grade football and again in 8th grade basketball. He had never been seriously injured playing baseball. Injury, like everything else in life, is beyond control.
School and football sucked up a lot of time, and we were trying to put together a band. Three nights a week the band, and sometimes even the manager, squeezed into my family’s spare (bedless) bedroom to work on crafting a gig. The noise quickly drove my parents crazy. I can’t see how they were able to enjoy life with us around. After some wrangling, Billy D was able to procure the room where Tig’s band had played, and where The Boy Scouts had formally met, as a practice space. The freedom was good for everybody.
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