Lyrics, schmyrics

 They stuck me down in a room where they keep the between-innings promotions equipment, so it was just me, a bunch of giant balls and my flop sweat. The door closed. The minutes began to crawl past on their hands and knees.

Welcome to a certain June night seven years ago, and my first (and only) public performance of the National Anthem.

Which is to say, I kinda feel for poor Eric Burton this morning.

Last night, see, the lead singer for the Black Pumas sang the anthem in Houston for Game 1 of the World Series. And kind of, well, messed up.

"What so proudly we hail'd, at the twilight's last streaming," is one thing he sang.

Then he sang the same incorrect line again when he should have been singing "O'er the ramparts we watched were so gallantly streaming?" The rare forgot-the-words double error.

Now, Eric Burton is a professional. He's been nominated for a Grammy. And so, this was in essence a sort of life-affirming moment, like when a pro golfer flubs a six-inch putt: Hey, these guys are human, too.

They are. And having done it myself, I can sympathize, because our anthem is a bitch to sing to begin with, and I can absolutely see forgetting the lyrics while you're concentrating on starting in the right key. Because, trust me, if you start the anthem in the wrong key, you're screwed.

"Is that what happened to you, Mr. Blob?" you're saying now.

Well, no, thankfully.

To begin with, I wound up in that room in Parkview Field because I have a singing voice I'd best describe as serviceable, and because I got it in my head to write a piece for a local magazine on how the Class A Fort Wayne TinCaps select their anthem singers. And so, that March, I went to the tryouts. 

Talked to some folks. Tried out myself, just to see what it felt like. Didn't think another thing about it.

Until, that is, I got a letter from the TinCaps informing me I had been selected to sing the anthem the night of June 10.

"Hey, wait," I said, or something like it. "This wasn't part of the plan."

But I didn't want to look like a weenie, so I said "OK." Started singing the anthem in my car, in the shower, whenever I was alone and it wouldn't look weird. And the night of, waiting back there with all the promotions paraphernalia, I sang it again, over and over.

Pretty soon the door opened and they were escorting me down the tunnel to the diamond, like the warden escorting a condemned man to Old Sparky. I was as nervous as a Vespa owner in a biker bar. But then I was walking out into the sunlight and standing in the on-deck circle and the microphone was staring me down, and -- here we go -- I opened my mouth and sang.

And it went OK.

I didn't forget the words. I started in the right key. It was, well, a serviceable performance.

"Hey, you need to do this again," one of the TinCaps promotional folks said when it was over.

"No freakin' way," I said, or something to that effect.

Fast forward to last night, and proof I made the right decision. And also proof that omens do exist.

Because after Burton botched the anthem, the heavily favored Astros botched a 5-0 lead and lost 6-5 in ten in Game 1.