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By the time I was in the fifth grade, I was tall, thin and quiet. I did nothing to draw scrutiny and was ridiculously consumed with the possibility of doing something wrong.

In October, I was chosen to play trombone in the newly formed school orchestra. Not that I showed an interest, or even any talent; no sir. It was only because I had long arms.

And far be it from me to object, so there I sat every Tuesday and Thursday after school, on a metal folding chair on stage in the auditorium along with 25 other fifth graders. My mother thought it was “wonderful!”

I was happy that she was happy.

By January I had gotten pretty good. Our teacher, Mr. Langjar, thought I had “great tone.” Plus I must admit I thought the trombone slide was pretty cool.

But what really fascinated me about the instrument was the spit valve. Each time you blow into a brass or woodwind instrument, some saliva will inevitably leave your mouth. Eventually, it will have an effect on the sound quality coming from your instrument; therefore, it must have a means of escape.

On the trombone, there is a small valve located at the very end of the slide. You press down with your finger, remove the mouthpiece, then blow hard.

Out comes the spit.

Problem solved.

Inquisitive lad that I was, I often wondered what would happen if I were to fill the entire trombone with water, then patiently wait to be asked to clear the saliva. Not that I would ever actually consider doing such a thing.

As I was walking through the hall in school one day, three fourth graders pointed at me and said, “Look at how tall he is! He must have been left back! He must be an idiot!”

This was not the first time something like that happened. All through school I was made fun of because of my height, by the older kids. Now younger kids were doing it? Something snapped. I had finally had enough! Time to show some personality. Take a chance. No more sitting around and behaving.

I got to band early the following day, went behind the curtain at the rear of the stage, then down a flight of stairs to the basement. . Mario, the janitor, was inside his office with the door shut. Mounted to the wall a few feet from his door was a metal nozzle, approximately four feet from the ground.

I still do not have a clue as to the reasoning behind its location. But I sure gave it a reason that day.

I carefully positioned the trombone’s mouthpiece under the nozzle, then pulled the slide out two feet, until it touched the basement floor. Turned the handle on the faucet counterclockwise, until cold water came streaming out and into the trombone, its mouthpiece acting as the perfect funnel.

Then I got panicky. What was I thinking? I could get thrown out of band! Worse than that…my mother could find out!

And yet I forged ahead.

When the water reached the top of the mouthpiece, I turned the faucet off, took a sip of the overflow from the trombone, then carefully carried it upstairs, slide extended, and took my seat. The orchestra was already assembled, awaiting my arrival.

Mr. Langjar sarcastically thanked me for joining them, then tapped his music stand twice with his baton, and the orchestra began playing “She’s A Grand Old Flag.” (I never said we were hip.)

I just went through the motions, making believe I was playing.

Everything had a surreal quality about it, almost as if I were dreaming. But there was no backing out now.

Twenty seconds in, Mr. Langjar put a halt to the action. He stared at me. “Philip,” he said, “something’s off with you. You’re sounding muffled.” Actually, I wasn’t ‘sounding’ at all.

Then tap tap and we began again. And were soon halted again.

“Philip,” again. “Let out some spit.”

I stared at him, but did not make a move; I was like a deer stuck in the headlights.

“Go ahead, Philip. Spit valve.”

I thought of those insulting height jokes, paused for another moment, then, for dramatic effect, stood up. Arm outstretched, I opened the spit valve.

Water came out of my trombone in a steady stream. The other kids sat there shocked, not understanding what was happening nor how to react. Mr. Langjar’s mouth dropped open.

I was standing in an ever-deepening puddle, water splashing back onto my ankles. Then I decided to blow a note; it was a gurgling F flat. As water came blasting out of the trombone, the silent witnesses on stage finally began to laugh.

Louder. Then louder still.

When the deed was done, I took my seat and proceeded to play a few notes on my now dry instrument. I must say, I sounded pretty good.

Mr. Langjar tapped his music stand three times. The laughter subsided, and I stopped playing.

“You can leave now, Philip,” he said.

I was taken aback for some reason, but then packed my instrument in its case, and slowly descended the stairs to the auditorium’s floor. As I nervously walked up the left aisle, the other students began to laugh once again. Not so much for what was done, as for who did it.

A few even applauded.

Historically, the incident is regarded as the first documented case of a boy acquiring school cred…