(PART 9) How DCI and Star of Indiana changed my life

(Make sure you read Part 8
before reading this.)


Well... there I sat. I sat there at Dave's Convenience Store that was right across the street from Indiana University stadium. I had walked away from it all. All of the adversity I had faced to get here has ended in this pitiful manner. I sat at Dave's on this rickety old bench awkwardly cemented on the narrow walk space to the front door. I could tell this bench's domicile was once in a community park or a church playground. It once had a more pleasant existence. A more purposeful existence. But now here we both were strangers in an unknown environment. Very carefully painted on this bench were the words: "Liar's Bench." That's what I was... A liar. I lied to myself that I could face down my demons. I had done it for 18 years! "Remember the equipment moving in the rain at the first camp?" I told myself. I had almost let that derail me. That incident seemed so insignificant to me now. It was so meniscule in perspective to my journey thus far. Could this be the same?

 A little determination and a "clear and present" lack of transportation options got me off that Liar's Bench. I was no longer going to lie to myself. I drew from that same well that helped me get through that and every other adversity I had faced. I pulled it together. I stood up and stared at that Goliath of a stadium. It served as a metaphor for all I had to face upon entrance. I felt as if I were the Roman soldier that had to enter the Coliseum to the Circus Maximus to face whatever fate Ceasar had prepared for me. As I gazed over the sun drenched asphalt, I couldn't help but notice the preliminary construction stages of a midway carnival on the parking lot. For a moment, I watched those workers diligently place every piece where it belonged like obsequious soldier ants. It temporarily served as my motivation to cross the street and head back to rehearsal. As I passed the construction site, I saw orange cones sectioning off the area for the carnival. Each cone was linked with string and little hand made signs that said, "Reserved for Fun Frolic." Fun Frolic?!? Hahaha! That was the funniest thing i'd seen so far as a new temporary citizen of Bloomington, Indiana. With that, somehow, I knew things weren't so bad.


I could hear the pounding of the percussion section as I entered the stadium. I was nervous. What was about to happen to me? I was not sure, but I was prepared to take my "medicine." As if I were in a play and the script called for the next actor to enter the stage, I hear the voice of Eric Lund, the equipment manager! Crap! Well, so much for easing back into this thing. I didn't see him, but I heard him. "That xylo took a helluva tumble, eh?" he said jokingly. Jokingly! Huh?! "I braced it up there and put some DW-40 on those wheels. It should be stronger than when they built it," Eric continued. He whipped around the xylophone that I thought I had totaled. He had done a 180 on his attitude and a 180 on this instrument! This xylophone looked as if nothing ever happened to it. That's how good he was. It was at this moment I gained a whole new level of respect for Eric. He was the best at his craft. The guy I once feared, suddenly had a heart. I could hear forgiveness in his voice. I could hear him making a conscious effort to seem comforting. That's when I learned how to relate to Mr. Lund. This, I found, was a rite of passage in Star of Indiana. You make right with Eric Lund, you are good.


The funny thing about this entire ordeal was not much was said about it. I began to see that most of my problems were much greater in my head than in reality. I descend down the ramp road of terror that claimed my xylophone as its first victim. The percussion was in ensemble rehearsal, sans my parts. As soon as I got to my position, Thom Hannum was making comments on the last repitition over the PA system. Thom ended his comments with, "Yo Tone... Welcome back... Pit, let's celebrate... Gimmie fifty," he said in his signature brand of sarcasm that was well impersonated by everyone in the percussion section throughout the season. "Fifty" meant fifty push ups. Push ups became the very core of the pit's existence. Every offense from playing out of time to not moving fast enough was punishable with death by push ups. I assumed the position. The pit had a unique way of faking push ups (from camp until now) by hiding behind an instrument and jerking your neck violently like a Thanksgivng turkey trying to escape the chopping block. That was soon caught on to by the staff and eliminated. By the end of tour we were up to at least 1000+ per day. I did the pushups and so did everyone else. Oddly enough, nothing else was ever mentioned about this incident.


Sunday morning was here. Except, unlike every Sunday morning I'd experienced with Star, I wasn't going home. I was here for the Summer. I made my first phone call home. In the early 90's this task was accomplished via pay phone and a dreaded calling card. My Aunt Stine answered the phone. "Hey, I was just letting everyone know that I was ok, alive and having fun!" I exclaimed.  I was raised by my Grandmother and my Aunt. My mother had a lifelong struggle with a drug addiction that was slowly taking her away from me. My Aunt and I exchanged niceties for a few more minutes and then she dropped the bomb. "Well, I don't want to ruin the good time you're having, but I just wanted to let you know that your mom is in jail and will be there for a while." The news cut me right to my soul. I knew this day was coming based on the life my mother was leading. Here it was. "What happened? What did she do?" I asked, not apologizing for the obvious lump in my throat. "They said she was involved in a ring of people breaking into cars," my Aunt filled me in. She didn't elaborate. I could tell it was just as hard for her to tell me as it was for me to hear it. We ended our conversation. Both of us affected for the worse.


Devastated and broken, I made my way back to the cafeteria for breakfast. I didn't feel much like socializing. The news had just made everything I was doing seem so insignificant. As bad as the relationship I had with my mother was, she was still my mother and now she was not a part of the free world. That made me ill. A sudden comotion of staff members entering the room immediately drew my attention. Dubie was leading the pack. I could see a flash of "rememberance" come to Dubie's face. He bee-lined over to me. "Oh, Tony, I forgot to tell you we do a little devotional outside at the pavilion on Sundays for anyone who is interested. I thought I'd let you know since you seem like the type," he said. Dubie was a devout Christian and we had brief conversations about our faith in passing. "I'll be there! When is it?" I asked. "Uuuuuuh, right now!" he realized looking at his watch.


I followed Dubie out to the pavilion. Star hall was a former elementary school. In fact, locals still referred to it as "The Brown School"; as in, Thomas Brown Elementary. From the outside, if you didn't know a world class drum and bugle corps had invaded the place, you would think school was still in session. The ball fields and playgrounds were meticulously manicured. The pavilion was freshly painted and cleanly swept. I was disappointed at how poorly attended the devotional was. There were maybe 12 of us gathered. It played into the old Southern perception that God "lives" down South. It was a great devotional. It was just what I needed. It was there that I gained an even deeper respect for Bob Dubinski. I already respected him in the highest regard for his mad arranging and teaching abilities. Now I had seen the man that would serve as my spiritual guide throughout my journey in drum corps. To this day, I owe a great deal to this man.


I now had a means to center myself. I now felt as if I had settled into a routine. Rehearsals were rolling along fine. Star of Indiana was getting better fast! Occasionally, Bill Cook, the owner, would drop in with a cadre of corporate "big whigs" to show them what a wonderful thing drum corps was for kids. He was very good friends with John Cougar Mellencamp. Mellencamp's dad even came by once to watch rehearsal. I sat behind Mellencamp in a movie theatre in downtown Bloomington. I was going to see "Encino Man" with some friends of mine from the corps and we were tipped off by a ticket clerk that John Cougar was in "Thelma and Louise." I snuck in and sat in the seat right behind him and his female companion. I'm sure this is the dorkiest thing I have ever done. Famed Indiana University basketball coach Bobby Knight came to one evening rehearsal. I still remember being underwhelmed by his presence. These cameo appearances by important people made me feel special. It made me feel like I was a celebrity among celebrities.

Things were happening fast. We practiced loading the semi truck. We were issued our uniforms. We took a group corps picture. We chose our seat partners and bus seat. My seat partner was Kim Pass from Andover, Massachusetts. She was a "cool chick" kind of girl with a very East Coast flair. She wasn't my girlfriend, but I was not going to sit by a dude for three months! If it turned into something more... fine. If not... That was fine, too. There is one detail I've left out. Kim was in the pit too. This was not a good idea. It turns out that we wound up fighting like George Castanza's fictitious aging parents on the show "Seinfeld." As fate and irony would have it, she wound up kicking me out mid tour and I sat with Brent England... a dude. Where did we sit? Next to the bathroom on the bus. Crap. Literally.

We were all set for tour. We were on the bus. Star of Indiana 1991 was on the road. We were ready to conquer the world. I must admit, I was pretty geeked out. It was a feeling I hadn't experienced since my very first Christmas.


(Part 10 - Coming Soon...)