Speak Softly and Carry a Big (Drum) Stick

I've told this story before, but who cares? It still gets me. Back in high school the drummers in the marching band would carry a pair of drumsticks in our back pockets wherever we went, both in school and in public. Part of it was to make people think we were cool, but mostly it was so we could get in a few minutes of practice when we had some downtime. The sticks we carried were our 3S marching sticks.

 Those suckers are big. We called them "baseball bats" or "tree trunks." They're the biggest production sticks made, and anything bigger is novelty stuff. Back in the day you needed big sticks so that the sound would carry in big stadiums, or on the battlefield too for that matter. Early drumheads were made of skin, and weren't nearly as loud or crisp as modern plastic heads.

 The reason we carried those with us is because after swinging those babies around for a while, normal drumsticks felt light as a feather. It's like when a batter is in the on-deck circle and he's swinging a weighted bat. After football games on Friday night and playing with the tree trunks for a couple hours, I'd go home and pick up my regular sticks and just wail away on my drum kit like it was nothing. They weighed 2-3 times what regular sticks weighed. You'll see why the weight is important in a minute.

 So one fine day my friend John Nuckols was going to a music store in Ensley. Ensley was once a wealthy and safe part of town, but as happens all over the country much of it is in ruins and crime-ridden. When this happened it was still relatively safe in the daytime, but the bad guys had been creeping in for a few years, and Nuckols ran into one.

 A guy was approaching on the sidewalk and aside from the fact that he looked a little ragged and high on something he didn't think much about it until the guy pulled a knife and demanded his wallet. It was probably a typical situation where the guy needed money for a fix. John said he was sweating and bug-eyed, and he appeared to be very serious in his demands. "Gimme your wallet or I'll cut you" he said, or something like that. 

 I always stress that staying as calm as possible even in a dangerous situation can mean the difference between life and not-life, and Nuckols kept his cool. He was just like that. He had an ace up his sleeve...or rather in his back pocket- the 3Ss, and the bad guy couldn't see them from the front. If he hadn't had them I'm assuming he'd have handed over his wallet and ran like hell, but he decided he didn't want to lose his wallet. The guy was twitchy so John put his hands out to try to calm him down some, and said he was reaching for his wallet. The guy dropped his guard just a bit, which was all John needed.

 He held one hand up and slowly reached into his back pocket with the other, but instead of grabbing his wallet he grabbed the 3Ss. In one swift move he brought the sticks around and over his head and slammed them down in the middle of the arm that was holding the knife. In the next second the guy was screaming in pain and holding his elbow. Half his arm was dangling down. The bone had been broken clean in two. The classic line of the whole story was when John said "I didn't mean to hit him that hard." 

 John had only meant to hit him hard enough to knock the knife out of his hands and disable him, but it's understandable considering John's Adrenaline had kicked in, not to mention the weight of the sticks. Whatever plans the guy had made for the rest of the day had pretty much changed. He was on his knees and begging for an ambulance, which John called for him. He didn't press charges or even file a report. He figured he'd fucked the guy up enough for one day. He started to kick the knife away but it was a really nice one so he kept it as a souvenir. I would too. 

 In a way I have to feel for the bad guy, 'cause I know he was in brutal pain. I've hit myself with sticks quite a few times, and those were normal sticks. When I switched from Traditional (Jazz) Grip to Matched Grip, my left hand was several inches higher and more in the way, and sometimes I'd forget and whack the fuck out of myself. I'd have about three milliseconds to think "Oh, FUCK" before the pain kicked in. It was the kind of pain that affected your whole body...my scalp would be buzzing and my ears would be ringing and my toes would be curling and my nutsack would shrink down to Size-1. 

 I did it several times on a gig, and I don't know how I kept playing. My vision would flash white for a second and I'd get light-headed, as if my mind was trying to leave my body, which I'm sure it'd have done if it could have. Somehow I'd keep playing with my right hand while my left hand would hang limply and uselessly in my lap. I'd want to curl up in the fetal position on the floor and wail and moan until the pain went away, but I couldn't do that, so I kept playing with one hand until the wounded one could shake it off and rejoin the party. I hit my hand enough times that there's a big dent in the bone. No pain no gain, right? That shit hurts. 

 If there was a bright side for the guy, I reckon they gave him some pretty serious pain meds for a few days anyway. Who knows...maybe he was a heroin addict, but the pills took the edge off enough for him to get clean and start a new life, so possibly John helped turn his life around. Or maybe he just decided to bring a gun next time. We'll never know. The moral of this story? "Don't mess with 3S." 

                                                                          The End