I had my first sidelong brush with drums when I was in the fourth grade. I don’t remember the exact circumstance, but there was a music teacher who I recall was also our gym teacher. His name was Mr. Stinner, and he came into class to teach us an hour of music each week. On this particular week, he brought with him six practice drum pads, circular rubber pads on a wooden base used to practice drum rhythms without making much noise, and six pairs of drumsticks. We went up in front of the class in random groups of sixes and had to try and play a series of rhythms on the drum pad while counting, “one, two, three, four,” over and over. He had written the rhythms on the board, and we practiced by chanting them aloud.

When it was my turn to go up and play, I felt my anxiety skyrocket, but I didn’t know why. Stage fright? I never had stage fright. In fact I was always pretty good at getting up in front of people and doing whatever I had to. It was something about keeping the beat and playing a steady rhythm, despite the fact that it seemed really easy when I first heard it.

I stood at my drum pad and held my sticks at my side as the first kid played through the rhythm. Then the second kid. When it was my turn, I started right in, counting aloud as expected. But I was so nervous that I started having trouble breathing, as if I was doing some strenuous physical exercise instead of just hitting the pad with the sticks. Finally I finished. Mr. Stinner said, “You kind of got out of breath there. I didn’t know if you’d make it to the end without passing out from lack of oxygen!” Everyone in the classroom started laughing, except for me. When they stopped laughing, the next kid started playing the drum pads. I stood there, sweating and angry, wondering what went wrong.

I didn’t pick up a drumstick for the next forty-one years.

Next week--Drumming: My History, Part 2.