Friday night. It had rained for most of the day. The football field, a sodden muddy half-acre, could only be recognized as such by the not-so-erect uprights at either end, suggesting something of an end zone. Years later, Mike and I would refer to that game as the "Mud Bowl."
We had met for the first time at his schools home football game. I was impressed with the bands half-time performance, especially since this was 40th and Plum...you know, 40 miles from nowhere plum out in the sticks.
"Excuse me, I said, are you the band director?" A red cheeked, horn rimmed face of wonder turned to greet me.
"Why yes I am." He extended his right hand out towards me in greeting. "How did you guess?" As I shook his hand I quickly took in the fact that he wore the traditional black band uniform: visored hat with lyre insignia, shoulder epaulettes, braided cords and white gloves. Also, the word DIRECTOR stitched across the breast pocket was a clue in itself.
"Oh, I uh..." I stammered
"Mike," he said.
"Frank," I replied. "I'm the new band-man from up north." It took only this awkward moment to know we both liked each other.
"Frank, hmmm. Well, it's certainly nice to meet you."
"Yes, it is, isn't it?"
"Wha...?" Mike began to say.
"Oh, don't mind me," I cut in, "that's just my way. Most people say 'Hi.' I say 'Hi, how are you, not that I care, just thought I'd ask.' People remember that."
"Nothing like making that first impression." he replied.
"Absolutely."
"Well Frank, I have to see to my kids. Why don't you=oi meet me at the concession stand in a few minutes; get a cup of hot chocolate, talk a bit...get to know each other."
"Sure, I said. You bet."
As he turned away from me I saw that Mike and I were of an approximate size. Standing about 5' 10" weighing somewhere around the 240 lb. mark, it seemed to me that he was more of a parent to his students than their teacher. He answered their questions, assured them that the show had gone well, considering the condition of the field. His uniform, I noticed, was as mud-splattered as theirs. Still, nothing seemed to phase his as he herded them into a gathering circle, thanking them for their efforts that chilly night.
Mike's tenor voice was always ready to break into a laugh. I can't remember ever seeing a scowl on his face. As for wrinkles, the only ones I saw framed his mouth in its constant smile. His hair was dark-brown, like mine, sported side-burns that evened up along side of his ear lobes. A moustache, outlining his upper lip, completed the facade complementing the dark-brown of his eyes. To say that Mike had big eyes would be an understatement...wide open, they appeared to take in everything he would see before him.
We became more than friends that night. There were to be times we'd be there for each other. I lent him my ear as he spoke of his divorce. I stood beside him when he remarried. I learned more about my profession from him than I ever had from any class or book I ever attended or read.
At one time or another every school band director dreams of the band they would love to conduct. There is nothing quite so fine as a song-like woodwind section or a brass ensemble that can articulate across the band. For me, the heart of my dream band is the bass drummer. This is the one person no one clearly sees but know is there. This person is never ahead of the beat nor behind. My bass drummer is always exact with the pulse and throb...the life blood of every music ensemble...rather "Felt" more than heard. That was Mike. He was my friend. He was the bass drummer I once had.
Mike died...and I miss him.