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Giving It A Twirl
By Susan Matthews
The odds of breaking something inside the house were 100 percent, so I took my act to the sloping front lawn of our suburban split-level. Every day after school and for many hours over the weekend, I spun that shiny silver stick over my wrists, through my fingers and up in the air. Clunking myself in the head several times didn't dent the dream.
My hands ached and my fingers twitched in my sleep. But it was worth it. Practice did not make perfect, but it made for less awful.
Then, the day of reckoning arrived. Nervous and excited, I mentally prepared to perform in front of the marching band moderators and my unforgiving peers. This would be the first time I tried out for anything. My Mom pulled our station wagon up in front of the school doors to drop me off. She turned to me and solemnly said, "Don't feel too bad if you don't make it."
What? Clearly she thought I didn't stand a chance. With motivational words like that, what kid wouldnąt want to take on the world? Where the heck was my, "You can do it!" pep talk?
Instead of slinking back in the car to go home and avoid certain humiliation, I remember feeling sorry for my mom. I knew right then I'd rather suck at baton twirling than be that pessimistic about taking a chance. I was already ahead of the game. And with that, I kicked baton butt. Well, sort of.
I made the team, anyway. Our debut was the Thanksgiving parade through the center of Hatboro, a small nearby town. This would be the first time we performed for a crowd. I hoped the cold wouldn't be an additional impediment. Numb fingers and baton twirling didn't seem like a good combo.
Things went surprisingly well until fate conspired against me. Just when we reached the top of a steep, practically vertical hill, the routine called for us to throw our batons in the air. Upon descent, my baton slipped through my hand, hit the ground and rolled.
It rolled downward through the bands stomping feet. My quick pursuit caused pandemonium. New formations were created in my wake as I wove in and out of the trombone and trumpet section. Patrick stumbled. Matt and William bumped into each other. Horns clashed together instead of cymbals. Mimi's eyes were wide above her flute. In the mayhem, the once harmonious music hiccupped and sputtered. Right before my baton rolled directly into the drum corps, I grabbed it. With it safe in hand, I was finally able to laugh at the scene I'd created.
As I ran up the sidelines to regain my place and my dignity, I caught a glimpse of my parents. Always able to find the humor in a situation, my father was smiling broadly. Beside him, my mother was pale with grave concern. It was a look I'd see in years to come every time I took something new for a twirl.
Don't misunderstand. My mom was tremendously supportive about the things she was certain I could do such as write. She is just a risk-averse English teacher who doesn't like to fail and was never a baton twirler. It was unknown territory and she was worried for me.
What was the worst that could happen? I had a vivid imagination and exhausted all the possibilities by that November day. There was the ubiquitous warning attached to almost everything fun. I could lose an eye. I also concluded that if a baton hit me on the head at just the right angle with enough force, I could be paralyzed from the neck down. Statistically, both of these situations were unlikely. The most plausible scenario was that
I would somehow embarrass myself and ruin the parade. It was worth the risk. I would get to wear a sparkly costume, perform with my friends and twirl.
Rather than miss the fun, I was willing to fail. I was willing to drop my baton.
And so I did - spectacularly. No one died, got hurt or needed life-long therapy. Judging by the crowd reaction, I inadvertently made the parade much more entertaining. My mom's face softened when she saw me laughing practically peeing myself, in fact.
Instead of sitting at home, I had marched. It wasn't pretty, but I was a baton twirler.
Susan Matthews recommends giving new things a twirl. She is a published writer who twirls two kids, a guest host position on QVC, a decorating business and a husband who is running for Congress. Her cat prefers not to be twirled.