Red Dirt Rocker (17 page)

Dad clasps my shaking hands in his large, steady ones, closes his eyes and says a prayer for a great show. For the first time, I notice large calluses on my dad’s hands from years of handling boxes for UPS and working at my grandpa’s farm. His calluses are just like the ones on Coach Bryan’s hands. I respect my dad more than I can say. “Do good!” he says. Dad gives me one last embrace and then walks me toward the stage ramp.

I can feel my heartbeat begin to readjust to a normal rhythm. I’m thankful for my strong father and his faith in me. I repeat my favorite Bible verse in my head:
“I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.” I can do this.

T
here’s no turning back. We’re about to seal our fate. Either we’ll rock hard or fall hard like a rock. The boys and I man our respective rock stations that are marked by silver duct tape “
X”s
. My legs feel heavy. My hands are weak. I take one last swig from my water bottle and toss it to Dad. My mouth immediately becomes sandpaper dry again.
Deep breaths
, I repeat silently to myself.

I make my way to the isolated microphone stand at the front of the stage. I feel dizzy. The crowd of over thirty-five thousand enthusiastic Swedes begins to roar. MTV cameras circle around my head, cords snake at my feet. I hear buzzing, whistling, clapping. It’s all a blur.

I scream, "
Hur
mar du Stockholm
?" the Swedish phrase for, "How
are
you, Stockholm?" into the
mic
and raise both fists in the air to show I’m totally fired up and ready to rock.

The roar is deafening. It literally makes my chest rumble. The old adrenaline kicks in, and the blood in my veins pumps like premium gasoline. I stand for what seems like an eternity, waiting for Cody to click his drumsticks and cue up our first song. All I hear is the noise of the crowd and the thud of my heartbeat in my brain. I turn to face Cody. He’s frozen behind his drum kit like a deer in headlights.

"Let's
rock
this mother, Cody!" I scream over my shoulder. To my great relief, he snaps out of his paralyzed trance. Cody cracks his wooden sticks together and crashes the cymbals.

"Are you
REEAAAADY
TO
ROOOCK
?" I wail into the microphone.

It’s all history from there. My blood pressure regulates, I find my groove. The music flows out of me with ease and liquidity. My vocals are heavy and on key. I feel my fingers tread fast and sure on the strings of my guitar. It’s like an out-of-body experience for me as I draw energy from the massive, partying crowd. We’re all in this together. I can feel the recycling of excitement between the audience and my band. The Swedish fans adore us.

The last song of our set is a cover of Pink Floyd's, “Brick in the Wall.” At least twenty thousand Swedes chant with me, singing along with their hands in the air. I’m commanding a rock-n-roll army—me, a sixteen-year-old kid who, this time last week, had to fight for a chance to get a word in edgewise at my school cafeteria lunch table. In stark contrast to the crazy chaos of the thundering music, a multi-colored hot air balloon drifts lazily over the stage. Surprisingly, as cool as a cucumber, I lift my finger to the clouds.

“Say hello to the people in the
sky
!” I converse with the crowd as they roar even louder. I feel so right at home, here in my thirty minutes of rock-n-roll heaven.

Our last song winds down like the final lap of a NASCAR race in North Carolina. All that’s missing is the smell of burned rubber. I bolt straight up, jetting several feet off the ground. I float with my guitar. The neck slices through the electrified air as I land. I jump two more times as Cody gives the final blow on his drum kit. Randy and Jake squeal out their last note for continuous reverb. My boots land back on stage in perfect, synchronized time to the last metal-tinged crash of Cody’s
Gretch
cymbals. We’ve officially courted the crowd.

And next I utter my final words of the set before the boys and I wander, sweaty and spent, off the stage: “UP NEXT…KISS!!!!!!!” I can now die a happy boy.

There’s no doubt in my mind as I hear the crowd chant, “Cellar Door’s Gone—Cellar Door’s Gone,” this is what I’m destined to do for the rest of my life. The victorious feeling pulsing through my body can’t be bottled. You can’t smell it. You can’t taste it. A million dollars can’t buy it. But it’s real. It‘s palpable. And at this moment, it’s all mine.

The boys and I collapse into our families' arms. Frank is in full meltdown mode. I’m afraid for a moment that we might have to call a paramedic for him as he clutches the brass buttons on his fancy black coat.

“That was
THEEEE
STUFF, boys!” Frank huffs, out of breath from excitement. “Now let’s get you lads to the
merch
tent.”

As I jog with my dad past the chain link fence that separates us from the crowd, a pack of young girls gathers, screaming my name. They tug at my shirt and grab at my hair.

A long line of newly-made fans snakes around until it reaches our
merch
tent. Beautiful Swedish girls blush as they ask for our autographs in their best English.

In the middle of the confusion, Dad looks at me in disbelief. He cups his hands over his mouth, forming a makeshift megaphone. "Hey, bud…if you need a backup singer, I'm available," he jokes, his eyes twinkling.

"Easy there, Mick
Jagger
," I tease. Dad smiles and gives me a Vulcan grip on the neck.

The show promoter comes over to shake our hands. He’s blown away by our performance. I can tell he’s been nipping at the vodka bottle in the green room, as his words are slurred. The tipsy promo man tells us that he would be honored to work with us again anytime.

He grabs my hand and asks his final question. “Are you boys really from
Cowtown
, Oklahoma?
That is
priceless
! I love it!" The promoter howls. He continues to belly laugh as he teeters back and forth, ultimately disappearing into the thick, bustling crowd.

Dad approaches the table as I sign my last poster. He picks up a black Cellar Door Is Gone t-shirt from the disheveled pile and holds it up to his chest.

"Looks like you have my size after all,” he says, as he pulls the hip tee printed with my band’s logo over his orange polo shirt.

"Dad…I couldn't have done any of this without you. I'm so glad you came with me."

I hug my dad so tightly that I think I might pull him right through me. His return embrace is just as strong.

"I wouldn’t have missed it for the world, son,” Dad replies sincerely, "not for the world.”

Knowing that my dad supports my dream lifts a worrisome weight from my shoulders. His words of acceptance mean everything to me. The wedge between us has been chiseled away.

All four of us boys compress ourselves into the van for our return trip to the hotel. We still feel steamy from our rock-n-roll workout. Randy pipes up, and to no one’s surprise, he asks if we can go back to McDonalds for cheeseburgers and fries.

Cody’s monotone voice drifts from the back seat of the stuffy van, as dry as a bone. He jokes that Swedish food is like Chinese food.

O
ur appearance in Sweden is deemed a huge success. Sweden loves Cellar Door Is Gone, and Cellar Door Is Gone loves Sweden. It has been a once in a lifetime experience for us all. Now, it's time to board the jet for the slow ride back to Cow-Town.

Dad and I are both exhausted and exhilarated. Our grueling flight will be touching down in Tulsa just an hour or so before my team’s State Championship game. I’m drained and cranky. The thought of not playing in the game suddenly begins to eat at me. Pangs of regret start to needle me.

Mama is waiting for Dad and me as we make our way through the terminal. She is decked out in her Coweta Tigers orange and black, and of course, her Cellar Door Is Gone ball cap. Tears stream out of Mama’s big brown eyes as she grabs us up in a tight welcome home embrace. From the strength of her grip, I can easily tell how glad she is to have us home.

“We missed you guys so much!” Mama gushes. Her tears melt into a huge grin when she sees that Dad is actually wearing a Cellar Door Is Gone t-shirt. Mama squeezes Dad’s hand and hugs him close in affectionate approval.

Jake, Randy, Cody and I all share a Cellar Door Is Gone group hug and round of
nuks
. They even say they’re going to the game. We all can’t wait to share the details of our trip with our friends at school. But I doubt I’ll see them there. Like Randy says—they’re rockers not jocks.

My emotions are bottoming out from lack of sleep. “This sucks.” I mumble. I realize immediately that it was the wrong thing to say, as Mama snaps her head around.

“Excuse me?” Mama says in a questioning tone as she takes two casual steps back to stand by my side so that all of her words will land directly into my ear.

“I’m sorry, but it’s just not fair that I have to miss playing in the game.” I try to defend.

By the look on Mama’s face I know it’s not sympathy that I’m about to receive. I’m about to get reprimanded big time.

Mama stares straight ahead and begins to speak as though she’s discussing the airport décor. “Young man…where have you been this week?” she asks.

“Sweden.” I respond in a “no duh” kind of way.

“And just what did you do there?” she continues with great annunciation.

“Played a show.”
My answer is not the detailed response that Mama was shooting for.

“And who did you play a show with?” Mama asks through her teeth.

“KISS,” I concede.

“Hmmm…” Mama says. “Well…that happens every day, huh?”

I begin to feel pretty ashamed of myself. “No ma’am, it doesn’t,” I mumble.

“Forrest, we are going to the game as a family, and you are going to be there for your team—okay?” Mama asks.