Woody and the Wrestler

As we approach Thanksgiving in a year often offering more grief than joy, we can still all find things to be thankful for; one for me was the opportunity to play in the CCS band, especially when it was under the direction of Harwood Strobeck. Adult friends called Mr. Strobeck Woody, but kids didn’t, unless they wanted to make a normally easy going man mad, something I saw once during a drum lesson, and no, this time I wasn’t the one who crossed the line, but did witness the consequences.

I wonder how many people realize how difficult and time consuming it is to be a high school band director. In terms of required skills and effort, I can’t think of a more challenging position in any school situation. Instruction across the huge musical spectrum is a daunting task alone, and interacting with teenagers prone to all sorts of nonsense without alienating them creates a most trying job along an often emotional high wire. And believe me, Mr. Strobeck had more than a handful of volatile teen musicians to keep in line as he taught skills that went far beyond music.

Having been many times both a chaperone and one who most definitely needed chaperoning, I think the most dangerous and potentially troublesome activity any teacher can become involved with is coordinating and guiding overnight trips, as Mr. Strobeck did with an exchange concert he organized and led. He brought the entire CCS band to Tilton, NH one weekend and then hosted a return trip to Cambridge for the Tilton band. To say that we were excited would be a gross understatement; to say it involved lots of potential trouble dead accurate, but Mr. Strobeck didn’t let that stop him for providing a terrific learning experience and memories that last a lifetime. Knowing how to play a musical instrument is also a lifelong blessing he gave to so many of us in Cambridge.

Just to briefly prove and better illustrate the point about potential trouble, quite a few CCS band members like me were also involved with the Green Sabers, a Schuylerville drum and bugle corps. A very similar overnight concert trip when the Green Sabers played at the American Legion national convention in Syracuse serves as an excellent example of what can happen under less than effective leadership. Our behavior on the bus ride to Syracuse was so bad the bus driver quit upon arrival and the charter company had to fly out a replacement. All I can remember about our hotel stay was ordering two pizzas and three cases of beer, and then emptying the hotel ice machines to fill up our bathtub so we could keep the beer cold. I could add lots more, but I think the case is made, and I’m not talking about beer.

Unlike the drum corps trip, Mr. Strobeck divided our band up in groups of two or three as I remember and we were then hosted by families of Tilton band members. We also weren’t dumb enough to act up on the bus with Mr. Strobeck around. Seems safe right? It wasn’t by a long shot as there are some things no one can predict or prevent.

While sorely tempted to name a good friend, then and now, who was one of my hanging buddies on both the Tilton and Syracuse trips, I’ll protect his good name here and just say we were paired and hosted by the same family.

Now musicians have always been a most varied bunch, running the gamut from ideal citizen to people like me. Like most band members, I had musical idols, people I wanted to emulate both in terms of the music played and also their lifestyles. Being a drummer I could have picked many fine examples but idolized Keith Moon, The Who’s drummer, a man almost every drum fan lists as one of the all time greats.

Keith was also commonly referred to as “Moon the Loon.” For those of you who don’t recognize the name or know how Moon came by his nickname, even though he was and still is highly regarded as a drummer and unquestionably a huge contributor to the Who’s overall success, the band seriously considered replacing him because he caused so much damage to hotel rooms that paying for damages almost wiped out the enormous concert payments the Who earned touring. One of Keith’s teacher’s written evaluations is also most telling: “Retarded artistically. Idiotic in other respects.” Yep, always could pick a real winner to emulate.

However, Mike the Loon met his match and more in Tilton, something I’m fairly certain Mr. Strobeck wasn’t ever aware of and had no way of knowing in advance. As it turned out, our student host for the weekend had just been released from what can best be described as a combination psychiatric hospital and in-patient rehab center. He was, as we often said in Cambridge “pure-d nuts” and were thrilled with the introduction and addition of another kindred soul. We then, as teenaged boys often do, proceeded to live down to the fine standards established.

All this seemed like a grand old time until our host’s mother bid us farewell Sunday morning with this: “I want to let you boys know I intend to write your principal tonight and tell him all about your visit.” We interpreted her sly smile upon delivery and the message itself as bomb about to explode at the speed of the US Postal Service. No kidding, for days we just waited for the guillotine blade to fall and were most certain it would.

About mid week at dinner Dad informed me that Ed Murphy, CCS high school principal at the time, showed him a letter from our Tilton host. I recall thinking if I had a chance of running beyond Dad’s immediate reach before the explosion, but also wondering why Dad didn’t seem outwardly mad. He seemed more confused, actually, as the letter’s contents weren’t what he’d normally expected with my involvement in anything as a teenager.

As it turned out, the letter was full of glowing praise for our behavior and said things like “Cambridge should be proud of producing such fine young men.” Dad sensed there was more to the story, he was really sharp that way, and even I understood in my teen dimness that our host’s mind game was deliberate, our consequence for being idiots became the four days of dread followed by complete surprise at the outcome. It was one of the cleverest consequences for stupidity ever provided me, a life lesson I never forgot. As for the two concerts, I remember nothing, but I can still picture that woman’s living room and an expression that said “OK boys, now it’s my turn” as if this just happened yesterday and not when I was an actual character on “That 70’s Show.”

This is not to say I don’t remember being given many wonderful gifts directly by Mr. Strobeck; it’s just, I think, as a dumb kid I didn’t appreciate them nearly as much at the time. Today I can say if if weren’t for Mr. Strobeck forming a jazz band and helping me to lobby Dad for a drum set, I would have missed out on much, again not just the music and how to play a drum kit, but so much more. Of course, it never occurred to me that our practice times, in the evenings way after school, were made possible by a man who gave much of his life volunteering for students for free just to impart a love of music as well as help screwballs like me stay out of trouble. I just didn’t fully appreciate those gifts until I became a teacher myself.

There was one gift Mr. Strobeck gave me personally I did deeply appreciate at the time it was given, and I’d bet Mr. Strobeck remembers it even though it was one of what I guess were many thousands he dished out annually. Again, this had nothing to do with music and this is where the title “Woody and the Wrestler” comes in.

Like a lot of boys, I got a bang out of pro wrestling and can’t recall all the times we imitated the many stunts we saw on TV, which we knew were fake, but tried anyway. From flying drop kicks to body slams, we frequently gave each other rug burns and bruises, but I don’t ever recall anyone getting seriously hurt, clear evidence of God’s protection I’m firmly convinced today. But I’d never been inside of a real pro wrestling ring and certainly never performed before a large crowd. Then came my big chance.

A Cambridge pal of mine who was actually a very good wrestler on the CCS varsity team invited me and another varsity wrestler he knew from Hoosick Falls to catch the pro card one weeknight in either Albany or Troy, far enough from Cambridge for me to think I’d just be another nameless face in the city crowd, or so I thought. Ernie “Big Cat” Ladd headlined the ten bout card held not long after Ladd retired from the NFL, a fairly common transition at the time for fading athletes.

About halfway through the wrestling show, an intermission left the ring vacant, prompting my brilliant Hoosick Falls buddy to say, “I’ll bet we could put on a good show too.” Being my usual clueless self and seeking fame and fortune I agreed. As we made our way to ringside, we developed a very short script.

The Hoosick Falls kid went first. He hopped into the ring, stood on the middle corner turnbuckle so that he was elevated and most visible and then yelled something like “I am the Master of Disaster! I’ll take on anybody who has the guts to challenge me,” my cue to enter the ring and our show to begin. I remember little about what we did, but do distinctly recall we managed to get the crowd clapping and cheering, my wrestling debut a big success, but a very brief one.

At some point we looked up to see cops coming from two different directions. We shot out under the ropes in the opposite direction and disappeared into what was a pretty big crowd. I remember nothing at all about the rest of the night, but the following afternoon left an indelible impression.

After a routine band rehearsal Mr. Strobeck dismissed us for lunch and as we passed by he called me over. “Mike,” he said as he displayed a wide grin, “I didn’t know you wrestled professionally.” I was stunned and I think speechless, never thinking for a second Mr. Strobeck would attend a wrestling match. I was also very worried he might pass this information on to higher powers, but he never did. Since we never talked about this again, I never thanked Mr. Strobeck for his discretion, but in his honor I do want to say thanks now. Much more important, I want him to know I’m most grateful I had the chance to spend a lot of quality time with a fantastic man of many talents who taught us much.