The little windowless practice room was jammed with nine students - violinists, violists, cellists and a bass player. It was crowded and hot as I stepped up to share a stand with another violinist. Whoa. A very black page -- a lot o’ notes! After a couple of early train wrecks, we managed to stumble our way through a few phrases. Hey, this is pretty cool! A couple more goes and it’s sounding something like a jaunty, regal dance or gears of a busy Swiss clock.  

It’s the first movement from the Brandenburg Concerto No. 3. A tune that I would sing to my first born son, Jack, 15 years later as I held him, fresh out of his mother.  

Mr. Spellman wasn’t so keen on our prospects of pulling this off. The poor guy had seen a lot of disappointment in his day and was trying to temper our expectations. With a little help from the teacher assistant, who I later took my first lessons from, our little ensemble was sounding pretty damn good.  

We survived our competition performance relatively intact and anxiously awaited our ranking. My sister’s boyfriend (who she would later marry and then divorce) played in a high school band his father conducted. He caught our gig and was a little blown away. The omens were good. A “1” was the highest ranking, which meant superior. Spellman told us that a “2” was probably what we would get.