Snapshot: Boston in 2007
For the last few years, I've been a singer. There were several groups in my town dedicated to singing; everything from Bands and Orchestras to Barbershoppers and Duet groups. Upstate Vermont was a hive of musical activity, and I plunged myself into the middle of it. At the worst point, I was in six groups at one time, each one meeting once a week. I'd go to Boston with one of them, the one that met Thursday nights after Choir practice at our local church. Led by Bill, a charismatic singer who often sang with his wife on Church Street in Burlington (the center of local nightlife), the Men at First was a collection of several men, ranging in age from 27 to around 75. Mainly volunteers- several of them sang in the church choir anyway, so staying around for an hour afterwards wasn't too bad, provided the coffee was hot at the end of rehearsal.
I was invited to join them at seventeen, lowering the age ration of the group by a few years (I can't remember if it was ten or fifteen, someone worked it out on a chalkboard during my first appearance), and immediately I got the black binder and the red tie that was the staples for the singers. Rehearsals were lighthearted, but grueling- you worked for that binder.
About a year ago, we made a tape on a small recorder to be sent in to the Boston Red Sox to try to get in singing the National Anthem on Vermont Day- a tape were the audio sucked and the balance was off. We sent it in knowing that another group- Counterpoint- had sent in another attempt to earn the slot. We kept rehearsing and planned over the July 11th game day.
On July 6th, I came home from a day slinging bottles at Central Beverage- the local convenience watering hole- to find a message from Bill waiting in the inbox. Another damn rehearsal announcement. But instead it was a gig announcement- we had just been selected to sing at Fenway Park for a game against the Chicago White Sox. Grease the wheels, our Pontiac had to get ready for a decent trip.
Mom called up her sister Ina, who had a house just on the outskirts of a Boston Suburb, and put in reservations for the living room floor.
On the night of July 9th, I was packing up my bag for the trip down when my brother came into the room. He's the family Red Sox fan- I'm big, but I'm noting when it comes to his fanaticism about that particular ballclub. He'd been growling at me for the last few days for being able to walk the fields before he would, but he came up and asked me, all serious- "You go out there, I want something. Schilling's autograph, a baseball, anything." It was the least I could do.
More coming on later.
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Versa271
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