A Tail of Woe
Monday, January 2, 1978.
The Arkansas Marching Razorback Band was in Miami for the Orange Bowl, affectionately called the Balaba Bowl by band members. Perhaps because of their similarity to oranges, balabas was a band-coined euphemism for breasts, which coincidentally were my primary goal in life at that time.
Heedless of the snow that had fallen, we held a Saturday morning halftime show rehearsal in the stadium the week before Christmas. Our intent was to honor balabas everywhere by keeping our show in tit-top form. We planned to knocker it out of the park. (Sorry, but breast-based puns also come in pairs.)
Owning no legitimate footwear for traipsing in snow, I inserted my Converse high-tops in plastic shopping bags to keep them dry. I tied the long drawstrings to my belt to prevent the bags from falling around my ankles. It looked exactly as absurd as it sounds.
The smooth plastic bags provided scant traction on the snow. After executing a slippery 135-degree turn, I double-timed my steps struggling to regain my position in the formation. Abruptly, my feet slid from under me, and I landed squarely on both knees.
The discomfort involved was augmented by the 40 pounds of brass Sousaphone resting on my shoulder. With tears freezing on my cheeks, I experienced a momentary-but-intense envy of piccolo players.
Our director Mr. Janzen called off the rehearsal as a tragically nonproductive endeavor. We were relying on sunny Miami to polish up the halftime show properly, since it was likely to snow in Florida only if Hell froze over first.
We arrived in Miami on New Year’s Day via chartered flight from Little Rock.
Checking into the Sans Souci Hotel in Miami Beach, we discovered that the legal drinking age in Florida was 18. Without fanfare, the trumpet section disappeared with their suitcases into the hotel bar, resolving to abide there so long as there was booze in Florida and a Mason jar to drink it from.
Halftime at the bowl, we played “Swingin’ on a Star”, “White Christmas” – a surreal choice for January in Florida – and a medley of “Blue Suede Shoes”, “Love Me Tender”, and “Hound Dog.”
We concluded our presentation with the rousing Arkansas Fight Song as we formed the large letters “ARK”. As it had poured buckets, barrels and buttloads of rain before the game, this might have been construed as a musical nod to Noah.
In the third quarter, band members were dismissed to seek refreshments or bladder relief. Strolling past the concession area, I spied a souvenir pennant on the ground inches away from a puddle of rainwater. What a stroke of luck! A free memento of my last bittersweet performance with the Razorback band.
I squatted down to pick up the pennant, avoiding the puddle, mindful of my loose white woolen slacks with the spiffy red stripes down the side. I was surprised to hear a suspicious tearing sound.
Investigation revealed that a crucial seam had behaved rather… unseamly. My pants yawned open from the bottom of the zipper in front to the belt loop in the back. This was no humble inch long rip. This was the Grand Canyon, the Marianas Trench, Dolly Parton’s cleavage.
That season, when the band entered a stadium, the twirlers, percussionists, and flag team led the way. Next came the instrumentalists with your humble narrator at the fore. Over the course of my two seasons with the band, TV cameras had occasionally shown images of me marching, playing, or calling the hogs. I feared it could happen again, broadcasting my Fruits of the Loom to an unsuspecting world!
I really needed to fix my wardrobe malfunction before I led the band from the stadium. Without needle and thread, a stapler or even superglue, I was desperate.
Doing his best Sherlock Holmes, Boyce quickly deduced the seat of the matter. “You need to trade pants with someone.”
As a work crew member, fellow Sousaphone player Tom Spicer would not march out with the band. Tom agreed to loan me his pants. My trace amount of remaining dignity was saved!
Since Tall Tom’s inseam was 5 inches longer than Short Steve’s, I folded up deep cuffs in his pants legs. One obstacle with large cuffs on a pair of heavy woolen pants is that when marching briskly out of a stadium, they rapidly shed all cufflike qualities.
I was in danger of stumbling over pants legs now stretching to my toes. The memory of my recent fall fresh in my mind, I steadied my Sousaphone with one hand. With the other, I grabbed both pants legs at the knee and pulled them up as high as I could, which was about crotch level. It was an absolutely dignity-free moment.
We changed out of our uniforms at the band buses and everyone gathered around the uniform van to fork over our uniforms. I handed in my distressed regalia, all bagged tight, damages hidden from view. I neglected to mention that the britches, normally very toasty, now employed cutting-edge air-cooled technology.
I sometimes imagine that the torn trousers are on display in the Marching Band Hall of Fame over a plaque reading “Steve Hendricks did this and therein lies a Ripping Tale”.
