game(s) of the week on CBS television. If I wasn’t out doing yard work on a Saturday (fortunately basketball season usually started after the last leaf had been raked), I would come home from my practice or game and sit down in front of the TV to watch Georgetown and Villanova go at it. If I was lucky, I’d be able to watch a second or a third game. It was like the sun moving from east to west across the country. After a Big East or Southeastern Conference game, it was on to the Big 10 or the Big 12—Kansas versus Oklahoma State—and then out west to the Pacific-10 and UCLA against Stanford.
Naturally, when I got onto the campus of the University of Arkansas that January weekend in 1991, I had to see if the U of A was playing. I was a huge Arkansas fan and by that age was dreaming of being able to play there. Nolan Richardson’s bunch were known for their fanatical devotion to a pressing man-to-man defense and an up-and-down-the-floor game called Forty Minutes of Hell. Somehow, a U of A student who somebody in the band knew got a student ID I could borrow to get into the game. I was almost out of breath from anticipation when I filed in along with thousands of other devoted Razorback fans. This was the last year that the team would be in the Southwest Conference. The following season they were going to join the more competitive Southeastern Conference.
Interest in the Razorbacks that year was at a fever pitch—and that’s saying something because after Nolan Richardson’s style of play took hold on that program, the results were amazing and almost enough to make everyone forget about football. The previous year, they’d gone 25–7 overall and 13–3 in the conference. They’d lost in the second round of the NCAA tournament, but they were on a roll in the 1990–91 season. They’d eventually make it to the Final Four, losing in the national semifinal to a powerful Duke Devils team. I had no way of knowing that I was seeing a Final Four team that day, but the crowd was totally into it, and those Forty Minutes of Hell were devilish on my ears. One reason I wanted to go to the game so badly was because one of my favorite players, Lee Mayberry, was a starting guard. I idolized him and felt that we had a lot in common in our games. He wasn’t flashy and played with a quiet confidence, a humility I admired. He was also supertalented. After the game, I got a chance to meet him. He shook my hand, and I remember thinking, I’m never going to wash this hand again.
I don’t remember how we did in that band competition. Eventually I gave up band to concentrate on basketball for my senior year. I wasn’t exactly crushed to give it up. My mom had gone out of her way to provide me with every possible opportunity to succeed in music. To help me catch up to some of my bandmates who had been playing for years before I began, she hired a private teacher for me to supplement my work at school. This private teacher had an honest—and I think too honest—conversation with me. He was critical of my embouchure, the position and formation of my lips. He told me that I’d never be a good trumpet player as a result. That hurt me. It wasn’t as if I thought I was the next incarnation of Miles Davis, but instead of offering me some corrective tips or drills, he just basically said, “You don’t have it.”
I kind of understand that maybe it was his way to motivate me, to get me into an “I’ll show you you’re wrong about me” mode. That didn’t work. I knew even then that we all have to face harsh criticism in our lives. I knew that I’d only been playing the trumpet for a few years while some of my bandmates had been playing since they were young. Compared to my basketball skills, my musical ability was pretty low. I didn’t get angry, and I didn’t get resentful, but I did feel the sting of those remarks. I loved music and singing in the choir, and playing in the school band helped me to develop a more well-rounded
Naturally, when I got onto the campus of the University of Arkansas that January weekend in 1991, I had to see if the U of A was playing. I was a huge Arkansas fan and by that age was dreaming of being able to play there. Nolan Richardson’s bunch were known for their fanatical devotion to a pressing man-to-man defense and an up-and-down-the-floor game called Forty Minutes of Hell. Somehow, a U of A student who somebody in the band knew got a student ID I could borrow to get into the game. I was almost out of breath from anticipation when I filed in along with thousands of other devoted Razorback fans. This was the last year that the team would be in the Southwest Conference. The following season they were going to join the more competitive Southeastern Conference.
Interest in the Razorbacks that year was at a fever pitch—and that’s saying something because after Nolan Richardson’s style of play took hold on that program, the results were amazing and almost enough to make everyone forget about football. The previous year, they’d gone 25–7 overall and 13–3 in the conference. They’d lost in the second round of the NCAA tournament, but they were on a roll in the 1990–91 season. They’d eventually make it to the Final Four, losing in the national semifinal to a powerful Duke Devils team. I had no way of knowing that I was seeing a Final Four team that day, but the crowd was totally into it, and those Forty Minutes of Hell were devilish on my ears. One reason I wanted to go to the game so badly was because one of my favorite players, Lee Mayberry, was a starting guard. I idolized him and felt that we had a lot in common in our games. He wasn’t flashy and played with a quiet confidence, a humility I admired. He was also supertalented. After the game, I got a chance to meet him. He shook my hand, and I remember thinking, I’m never going to wash this hand again.
I don’t remember how we did in that band competition. Eventually I gave up band to concentrate on basketball for my senior year. I wasn’t exactly crushed to give it up. My mom had gone out of her way to provide me with every possible opportunity to succeed in music. To help me catch up to some of my bandmates who had been playing for years before I began, she hired a private teacher for me to supplement my work at school. This private teacher had an honest—and I think too honest—conversation with me. He was critical of my embouchure, the position and formation of my lips. He told me that I’d never be a good trumpet player as a result. That hurt me. It wasn’t as if I thought I was the next incarnation of Miles Davis, but instead of offering me some corrective tips or drills, he just basically said, “You don’t have it.”
I kind of understand that maybe it was his way to motivate me, to get me into an “I’ll show you you’re wrong about me” mode. That didn’t work. I knew even then that we all have to face harsh criticism in our lives. I knew that I’d only been playing the trumpet for a few years while some of my bandmates had been playing since they were young. Compared to my basketball skills, my musical ability was pretty low. I didn’t get angry, and I didn’t get resentful, but I did feel the sting of those remarks. I loved music and singing in the choir, and playing in the school band helped me to develop a more well-rounded
Similar Books
