(PART 8) How DCI and Star of Indiana changed my life

(Make sure you read Part 7 before reading this.)

"When one door closes another door opens." Isn't that how it goes? Well, one door opened and here was another door opening at the same time. All of a sudden, I felt like a rockstar! I was in demand. That's what my ego was telling me. I'm THE MAN!!But, I had to remember. I could never DO the "cocky" thing. I tried it several times. As soon as I felt like I had arrived, I wanted to thump my chest like that famous ape that destroyed Manhattan in the movies. Every single time I tried that, God kicks me in the butt. I would always find myself in some embarrassing moment that reminded me that I am just an ordinary human being. Besides, I would never look good in a spandex suit with a cape. Just sayin'... 

As flattered as I was that Dr. F had thought of me, I had to decline. I knew I was about to embark on an experience that was worth more than money. I had leaped tall buildings in a single bound to get to where I was.(Ok, no more super hero references, I promise.) I couldn't turn back on my dream. I just couldn't. I called Dr. Fraschillo and politely thanked him for thinking of me and explained that I had to go with my gut, here. He completely understood. That made me feel better. You know, after that moment, I've never thought about the Disney opportunity until I got to this place in the timeline of writing this blog. 

I met Chris Prather at the Wal-Mart in Greenwood, Mississippi on Thursday, May 21, 1991 on a scorching late-Spring morning. His dad planned this entire trip for us. I am not sure if Chris' dad was ex-military, but this organization had all the earmarkings of a four-star General. The map Chris was wielding was carefully marked. The road route was meticulously traced with fluorescent yellow highlighter marker ink. Every rest area, restaurant, and point-of-interest was painstakingly notated with a precision that would make you toss your Garmin out of the window had it been invented at that time. Everything went as planned. 12 hours later we arrived in Indianapolis and got a hotel for the night. The next morning, Chris went on to Appleton, Wisconsin and my relatives met me at the hotel and took me to their apartment which was not far away.

As I sat in my cousin Annette's car, I longingly stared out the window. I had only met her once at a family reunion many years ago. There was really no connection other than we knew we were blood relatives and that meant everything. She and her husband were very hospitable and accommodating. Looking back on it now, I wonder if in that first car ride they thought I was a bit odd. I didn't say much, which was certainly a rarity in the Lymon bloodline. I mainly gazed at the urban Indianapolis skyline. My dream was being realized. In my mind, I was a dignitary being whisked around this concrete jungle to get to my important engagements. After 18 years of feeling like I had been tucked away in a corner of anonymity, my life was suddenly accruing purpose. I was going to be a part of something that was the best in the world!

We took the exit for my relative's neighborhood. As we seamlessly glided onto the cloverleaf of the off ramp, I could see a never-ending palette of suburban apartment communities. One after the other. Certainly something I had never seen before. All juxtaposed deliberately with a man-made lake as their nucleus. Although it was obvious each division was planned with a mathematicians eye, they each had a certain charm, complexity and originality created by the population of its individual inhabitants. Everything seemed so clean and orderly which was a stark contrast from the visual noisiness of the city streets we'd just escaped from. 

Suddenly, my wistful appreciation for this new territory was abruptly ended. The car comes to a screeching halt! A car swerved into the acceleration lane we were about to occupy. BAAAAAAMMMMM!!!!! My breathe is taken away. My skull is rattled like a giant maraca with boulders for beads. I feel the sudden, yet violent, restraint of my seatbelt holding me in place. We've been rear-ended! The first time in my life I had experienced a car accident; albeit minor in nature. I wasn't hurt. My cousin, Annette didn't appear to be hurt, either. We waited for the police and then we arrived at her apartment. I met her husband, who took me in as his own. He greeted us at the door holding a bulky FedEx package. "Dang, man! You've only been here 5 minutes and you already have mail!" he exclaimed in a joking manner. It was my music binder that my good friend Kevin Rytter had graciously FedExed to me, saving me from certain and sudden death at this camp. 

Eric "Fidge" Thompson in action.

The final camp went fine. At that point, I knew so many people that I felt like a vet. I was one of them. The transition from "guy off the street auditioning" to "member of Star of Indiana" was seamless for me. I ventured outside of the front ensemble and became good friends instantly with Eric Thompson, aka "Fidge", a tenor drummer from Cedar Rapids, Iowa. Eric was THE first biracial person I had ever met. Remember, I grew up in the Mississippi Delta. Black people and white people did not live in the same neighborhoods. We still had segregated proms at the high school I had just graduated from. Here was a guy with dual ethnicity that seemed to thrive unscathed. This fascinated me! This was a great social experience for me. After getting to know him, his race became insignificant to me. What meant more to me was how much we were just alike. Eric was a comedian, just like me. Eric seemed to have all of my quirks and idiosyncrasies. He was... ME! It was like I had a brother in another part of the country!

Everyone in the percussion was here. The Snares: Matt Stein from Westerville, OH. This was an easy-going guy who could have dropped his snare drum and modeled for GQ any day. Scott Walker a 2 year vet from Greenwood, Indiana. Scott was a pretty stoic and stern talking dude. He seemed very intense, but very likable and very cool once you broke the ice. Joel Poinsett, from Bedford, Indiana. Joel could easily be mistaken for any small town's paperboy. He was on the end of the snare line and caught the most crap from the staff. I always felt sorry for him. Dave Carbone from Cape Coral, Florida. Dave was a cross between a beach/surfer guy and a Jersey shore Italian. Brian Coley, a red head from Poland, Indiana. Brian was a jokester in the style of Beavis and Butthead before they were introduced to the world. I always called him "The Red Scurvy." He was affectionately known as "Rogue." Stacey Duggan, a third year member from Knoxville, Tennessee. Stacey was a bit of a rebel. He had a Southern accent so thick that EVERYONE (including me) made fun of it. Victor Gomez, from Whichita Falls, Texas. Victor was a go-getter that had no enemies as far as I could tell. He had a twin brother, Vincent, that was in the horn line. 

The Tenors: They were the 4 Stooges of the drumline. These guys were incredible players and incredibly funny. Eric Thompson. You've already met him. Dave Nirchl from Newburgh, Indiana. Dave was the smartest person in the corps. I wouldn't be surprise if he hasn't invented something we all need by now. Chanler Bailey from Morgantown, West Virginia. Chanler was our Yoda. He had been in the corps for four years. He always seemed to have this "old soul" aura about him. Dave Reeves from Greenwood, Indiana. Dave was fresh out of Center Grove High School. In fact, he missed part of move in to go to his prom. 

The Bass Drums: This was the first time I'd been introduced to bass drum "unity." They did everything together. They were in the lunch line in order. They wore the same hats. They slept with their heads together. I thought this was cool! So, I'll introduce them as a group. Jay Dunlap from Wayne, Michigan, Ron Dawson from  Marion, Indiana, Judd Strickley from Erlanger, Kentucky, Jonathan Barr from New Philadelphia, Ohio, and Alan Compton from Memphis, Tennessee. Alan came into the corps for the first time to play bass 5 at move in. Talk about a trial by fire!!! Alan became known as "Otto." On his first day at move in, John Corley the bass tech, asked what his name was. Alan, being nervous and having a mild but, noticeable Southern accent said, "Alan." John replied, "Otto?!?!, what kinda name is that, bruh?!" And, so it stuck. To this day my dear friend Alan Compton is known as "Otto." Over the course of tour, it became: "Otter", "Ottorino", "Otteaux" "Ah-Ah-Ah-Ah-tto... (sung in Gregorian chant)." No rest for the weary.

While in Rome, I had to do what the Romans did! A big tradition during move in was to go to the quarries. "Hey, Tony, you going to the quarries?" "Yo man, we're going to the quarries today!" "Hey, when are we going to the quarries?" This was the talk of the day. What the hell are "the quarries"?!?! "The Quarries" was an abandoned and defunct rock quarry site on the outskirts of Bloomington, Indiana. It was filled with natural rain water, rocks, trees, and old car. Yes, there was a car at the bottom of this water. The cliffs of this quarry had to be about 50 feet high. The water: about 20-30 feet deep. There was a big party there, led by veteran pit member Jeff Briney. He seemed to be the social chairman of the corps. If there was a party to be had, Jeff could have it organized in about 10 minutes!

What I'm about to tell you is one of these moments that every mom fears. Every mom hopes they have raised their child to have enough common sense and judgement to NOT do this. The MAIN event at the quarries was to jump off of this cliff into the water. A cliff that is 50 feet high! I WAS NOT DOING THIS!! I watched member after member get a running start and jump to what I knew was their impending death. Everyone started pressuring me to do it. I looked down at the water. There is NO margin of error! There is just a small window of clear water. In your decent, if you drifted slightly to the left you would meet a giant boulder. If you drifted slightly to the right, an even BIGGER boulder. If you drifted too far forward, you would hit the Chevy that was dumped at the bottom. Jeff Briney wasn't going to stand for this. He took the pressure to a whole new level. He took the psychologist approach. I felt like my manhood was a stake. 


I wish I could make this more heroic. I wish there was a way I could lie right now and make myself seem more macho. The truth of the matter is, I was terrified. I watched everyone jump off that cliff. Many times. Now, if I didn't jump, I would be known at the lamest dude ever. I had to do this now. The good thing was; no one was dead. So, my chances of survival were quite good. I walked up to the edge. I looked down into the stone-cradeled abyss. I had point men around the bottom ready to pluck me out of the water if I had a heart attack in mid air. 

I still can't believe I did this!!

"You'd better take a picture of this, man!" I squeamishly belted as I prepared for my runway taxi. I took a running start and... I jumped. I can still hear the wind whistling past my ears. The sudden feeling of weightlessness made my heart feel like it was separating from my chest. I stayed in the air for what seemed like an eternity! Just when I started to panic... Splooooooosh! I hit the water. It seemed as if I never stopped falling. I was falling at the same rate of speed, but the sensation changed. Suddenly, my decent stops. I'm not going back up. I start fighting my way to the surface in this surreal silence. As soon as I surfaced, I hear the cheers of everyone at the quarries. I did it. I did it! And, I was never doing that again. And, I didn't. 


The next day was the first full rehearsal at Indiana Univeristy Stadium. We had the privilege to rehearse there every day. The pit normally began rehearsals in the parking lot, then we moved to this parking garage under the stadium we affectionately referred to as "The Bat Cave." It was very dark and cave-like, and there were bats. Real bats that didn't care for the music of Resphigi being pounded out on mallet keyboard instruments. We were done with our morning block. It was time for us to do a percussion ensemble rehearsal in the stadium. The path to the field that was nestled at the stadium's floor was a steep hill that had not been paved since the 60's it seemed. There were serval potholes, cracks and crevices that served as a obstacle course. The horn line was in the end zone warming up as the pit caravanned down the slope like Nomadic desert travelers on a daily trek. The goal when you move as a drum corps pit is for no one to know that you are moving. We moved silently and stealthily. 


All of a sudden, my xylophone that I was assigned to move stopped moving. I, however, was still in motion. I heared a very distinct, "craaaaaack!!!!" The xylophone wheel was stuck in very tight crack. The instrument started to lose its balance! Just as I scurried to stabilize the out-of-control keyboard, it tumbles away from me. I have to tell you, we are at the top of this steep hill. The xylophone proceeded to roll over down this hill -end over end over end over end. It resembled a car accident in a 1980's cop show. I still can hear the dissonant glissandos of the keys as they clanky banged against each other. The horn line stopped playing and finally at the bottom of the field was a pile of wood, splinters, metal and xylo keys. A total loss.


I didn't know what to do. This was the worst thing anyone could do. Here it was in front of EVERYONE!! There was nothing I could do! I just ran down the hill as if someone else had committed this crime. I had a lump in my throat the size of a beach ball. I felt every emotion I'd ever had: fear, anger, disbelief, denial, sadness. I picked up the pile of splinters like a pet that had been run over by a car. I looked up and charging towards me was Eric Lund, the equipment manager! He is rushing towards me like a tornado or anger and profanity. In efforts to keep this blog "clean" I won't write his exact words. I remember him being restrained by some staff members. He was really going to kill me if they weren't there. I was feverishly trying explain my story. I had no story. I was careless and destroyed this instrument. 

It has taken me 20 years to admit to myself that I was about to cry. Not just cry, but hysterical "girl who was broken up with right before prom" kind of cry. I couldn't do that! I had just jumped the cliff!! I had been vindicated! I was a made man! I can't cry. So, I turned around... and I walked away. I left. In my mind, this was not to be. I was not supposed to be in this group. I was going home. I kept walking. I walked up the hill. I walked to the parking lot. I walked across the street. I walked down that street. No one knew where I was. I was giving up. This was too much for me. I saw a pay phone at a gas station. I was calling a cab. I was quitting. 


(Part 9 - coming soon...)