It was a warm Saturday at War Memorial Stadium in Little Rock in late Summer, 1974. The McClellan High School Marching Lion band was lined up side-by-side just a few steps off the sideline of the AstroTurf field awaiting an afternoon performance.
We were bedecked in our hot, black woolen uniforms in the blazing Arkansas sun, wearing white cotton gloves that made holding instruments securely trickier than you might think, with ridiculous Busby hats of fake bear fur towering over our heads.
Elaine McGee, my new French horn playing girlfriend, was on my left. We were still in the early, flirty days of our relationship and my attention was at least divided, if not outright diverted.
Richard Manson, fellow tenor sax player, longtime bud and co-conspirator in the Cloverdale Communist Underground Railroad (a story for another day), was on my right.
We awaited a whistle from the drum major, when we would all march the few steps to the actual sideline before the show would start. We marched “ankle-knee,” an energetic, high stepping style where your foot went up to the level of your knee and your thigh was almost parallel to the ground.
After the whistle blew, we enthusiastically started forward. Richard’s left knee forcefully hit my saxophone, sending it flying out of my hands up into the air. Fortunately I caught it about face level.
I was surprised, so I furtively – we were supposed to be at attention – reached into the sax to check it out. I found there was a circular dent in the curve at the bottom of the instrument exactly the shape of Richard’s kneecap (I am glad to report that Richard’s knee sustained no damage).
I no longer own the sax, but I would often think of Richard when I took the instrument out of its case and saw that concave reminder of happy days.
