Monday, January 2, 1978. The Arkansas Marching Razorback Band was in Miami, Florida. The occasion was the Balaba Bowl, a charming sobriquet euphemistically named for women’s breasts. We eschewed the customary “Orange Bowl” in favor of “Balaba Bowl,” which had a cultured insouciance and a delicate piquancy, and fell trippingly off the tongue in a way that “Booby Bowl” never could.
Just before winter break at the University of Arkansas in Fayetteville, the heavens had bestowed upon us a frivolous layer of snow. Heedless of the climate, we lined up several marching rehearsals. Our intent was to honor Balabas everywhere by keeping our show in tit-top form. We planned to knocker it out of the park.
At the last rehearsal, brass instrument valves and slides were freezing up and the sound grew weak as fewer could be played. I constantly blew through my Sousaphone to keep the valves warm and moving under my fingers. My friend Boyce Lovett asked if my instrument was ok. When I said yes, the valves froze in the time it took me to answer. I don’t know about brass monkeys, but it was almost cold enough to freeze the bell off a brass baritone.
Owning no legitimate footwear for snow, I inserted my Converse hightops in plastic shopping bags to keep them dry. I tied the long drawstrings to my belt to prevent the bags from falling around my ankles. It looked exactly as absurd as it sounds.
The smooth plastic bags provided scant traction on the snow. After executing a slippery 135 degree turn, I had to doubletime my steps as I struggled to regain my position in the formation. Abruptly, my feet slid from under me, and I landed square on both knees.
There is major pain involved in falling to your knees in snow, especially if augmented with 40 pounds of brass, although the discomfort is minor compared to impalement or burning at the stake. Not that I could appreciate the difference when the tears in my eyes were freezing them open.
Our director Mr. Janzen soon called off the rehearsal as a tragically nonproductive endeavor. We were relying on sunny Miami to polish up the halftime show properly. It was unlikely to snow in Florida except in the event of a new ice age, and if that happened, there would be plenty of fucked to go around.
We had arrived in Miami on New Year’s Day via chartered flight from Little Rock. Flying had the added benefits of a) nobody got sick at the rear of the band bus from diesel fumes, and b) unlimited bags of free peanuts occupied the drummers and prevented them from brachiating in the aisle.
After checking into the Sans Souci Hotel in Miami Beach, we discovered that the legal drinking age in Florida was 18. Without fanfare, the trumpet section disappeared with their suitcases into the hotel bar, resolved to abide there so long as there was booze in Florida and a Mason jar to drink it from.
That season, when the band entered a stadium, the twirlers, percussionists, and flag team led the way. Next came the band with your humble narrator at the fore. I was followed by the rest of the low brass section. After that the low brass support team (trumpets and French horns and clarinets et cetera) followed, hoping to bask in reflected glory.
Halftime at the bowl, we played “Swingin’ on a Star,” “White Christmas” – a surreal choice for January in Florida – and a medley of “Blue Suede Shoes,” “Love Me Tender,” and “Hound Dog.”
We concluded our presentation with the rousing Arkansas Fight Song as we formed the large letters ARK. As it had poured buckets, barrels and buttloads of rain before the game, this might be construed as a musical tribute to Noah, but it is widely known he favored water polo over football.
In the third quarter, band members were dismissed to seek refreshments or bladder relief. Strolling aimlessly past the concession area, I spied a souvenir pennant on the ground inches away from a puddle of rainwater. What a stroke of luck! A free memento of my last bittersweet performance with the Razorback band.
I squatted down to pick up the pennant, avoiding the puddle, mindful of my loose white woolen slacks with the spiffy red stripes down the side. I was surprised to hear a suspicious tearing sound. Had I unconsciously “let one rip”? I soon discerned that the answer was yes, but not in the manner of a gaseous eruption.
A quick investigation behind the refreshment stand revealed a crucial seam had disintegrated. My pants yawned open from the bottom of the zipper in front to the belt loop in the back. This was no humble inch long rip. This was the Grand Canyon, the Marianas Trench, Dolly Parton’s cleavage.
I was in a trouser crisis, a pants-centric pickle. A chill hand clutched at my heart just as a chill breeze wafted in and clutched at my … ummm, my heart.
I had to fix this before I led the band marching triumphantly from the stadium. Over the course of my two seasons with the band, TV cameras had occasionally broadcast images of me out to an unsuspecting world. It could happen again, thereby exposing my white Fruits of the Loom with the convenient Y front. It could only be worse had I worn my undies with little red Razorbacks plastered across my ass.
Displaying either a shocking lack of forethought or complete and unconditional indifference, nobody had packed needle and thread to a bowl game. I was desperate for any stop-gap solution. My kingdom for a stapler. I would have been ecstatic with superglue, although I shudder to think what a horror show that could have turned out to be with the slightest slip of the wrist.
Boyce, when confronted with my dilemma, quickly deduced the seat of the problem as well as the solution. With the considered air of Sherlock Holmes, he succinctly stated, “Dude, you need new pants.”
I sought out fellow Sousaphone player Tom Spicer, who was a work crew member. He wore coveralls and set things up instead of marching in and out with the band. Tom agreed to loan me his pants and nobody would be the wiser.
The only complication was that Tom’s legs stretched about 5 inches farther than mine. I reconciled this disparity by folding up cuffs that would impress a 1940s gigolo.
One obstacle with large cuffs on a pair of heavy woolen pants is that when marching briskly out of a stadium, they gradually slide down. No sooner had I begun my act of egression than said cuffs shed all cufflike qualities, reverting to simple overlong pant legs. My appendages now resembled flippers on some strange aquatic bird, escaped from SeaWorld and cruising concession stands for overpriced fish nachos.
I was in danger of stumbling over pants legs now out to my toes. The memory of my recent fall fresh in my mind, I steadied my Sousaphone with my left hand. With my right hand, I grabbed both pants legs at the knee and pulled them up as high as I could, which was about crotch level. It was an absolutely dignity-free moment.
Nobody pointed a TV camera at the band once the game was over, so there was no mortifying photographic evidence transmitted out into the universe. Intergalactic aliens will never spray beer out of their noses at the sight of me clutching my Balzac.
After a swift change, everyone gathered around the uniform van in a disorderly cluster to fork over our uniforms. I handed in my distressed regalia, all bagged tight, damages hidden from view. I neglected to mention that the britches, normally so very warm, now employed cutting edge air cooled technology.
I sometimes imagine that the torn trousers are on display in the Marching Band Hall of Fame over a plaque reading “Steve Hendricks did this and therein lies a Ripping Tale.”
