07-012

I attended a local high school basketball game to see my son and daughter in the band. There were also a lot of tall, angular bodies being flung in various directions on the court and they all seemed to be following an orange striped ball for some reason known only to God and the angels.

My eyes were focused solely on the group that included a certain alto sax player and a flutist and I found the airborne bodies a bit of a distraction. Occasionally those in the bleachers with me would rise as one and shout loudly with deep passion. Apparently, they were, like me, wanting the band to play more often and also wished that the ricocheting objects would leave the room to clear our view.

After about an hour which lasted at minimum, three days, they sounded a buzzer that nearly arrested my heart. Then, much to my delight, the tall, sweaty boys took their smelly shorts and orange striped ball and ran away! Some spectators left as well, no doubt, to complain about the difficulties in hearing the band.

I remained in my seat, trying to decide what to do when a group of young women trotted out on the court and it was announced that they were the Dance Team.

Marvelous! I love dancing. Being a child of the 60’s, there was a time when my life revolved around learning the newest dance steps. Gregory, my 5-year-old boyfriend, had older brothers who knew all of the moves and he would eagerly share with all of us how to do The Dip, The Mashed Potato, The Swim and other such descriptively-named maneuvers. Now, I would get to see how this generation chose to dance.

First, before anyone moved an inch, a large, pounding bass beat echoed through the gymnasium and into the inner recesses of my brain. My fillings were jarred loose and I had to repeatedly shove my glasses back on my face. The vibrations bumped and shuffled me down the row into a stranger’s lap.

Then the dancers went into a collective spasmodic fit. I looked around frantically hoping that medical care was nearby. The girls seemed to be waving for help with their arms flailing over their heads but no one responded.

They stomped their feet as if it were the only means of keeping the flooring attached to the earth. They turned their heads rapidly from side to side, one would assume, to see if the ambulance would approach from the left or right. Their hair flung back and forth with such gusto, I was grateful to be up in the stands and not within target range.

Then, without a single guitar solo, the bass reverb ended and the Dance Team exited. I was left dazed and so deaf I could no longer hear anything, let alone the band. Do you have any idea how hard it is to read the lips of a sax player and flutist?

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