At 5:30 yesterday, the kids played their concert – five girls ranging from about 7 to 13. I know three of them because their Thursday lesson starts after mine ends. Liara always gives me riddles, most of which I have no idea how to solve.

I loved watching them play, and applauding them at the end of each piece. I started the cello when I was 12. Makes me smile.

Liara, Luna and Ana played “Latin Nights” – the same as I would an hour later. I watched them move to fourth position, extend the first finger back to make the sound a half-tone lower, soar in volume and speed as the piece rushed to the end. I was proud of them, imagining myself as grandpa.

As the kids and their family members left, I gulped. Soon my friend Rani would be arriving to cheer me on. I didn’t want to disappoint her.

Cellists kept opening the door, with their instrument sturdy on their back. More gulping. Then it hit me … the audience would mostly be made up of cello players, people who could see my every little mistake. Sweat insisted on covering my forehead.

Rani arrived. I admitted that I was far more nervous than excited. Hadn’t expected the volume of terror. She was with me.

A half-hour before concert time, players took turns coming up onstage to rehearse with Frederick, the piano accompanist.

Lieven, my teacher, kept saying things to us in Dutch, which I didn’t understand. Finally I asked Rani what he was saying. “He’s asking who wants to rehearse.” Oh. I thought he was calling certain people to the stage.

I put up my hand before the dread completely took over. Soon I was dipsy doodling (a technical term) between bodies, chairs and cellos. The stage was getting closer.

And there I was, facing a small sea of professional musicians. Yes … that was completely inaccurate – we’re all cello students. But my rattled mind couldn’t tell the difference.

Frederick started his piano introduction and my left index finger was poised to extend backwards on the A string. My heart was similarly poised – in my throat. If you had asked at that moment, I probably couldn’t have remembered my name.

I played badly. Wrong notes, squeaky on the strings, the timing off. But mostly I kept the passion I had promised. Keep your word, Bruce! And I survived. As I worked my way towards the back of the room, I noticed I was still alive. The musical Gods had not struck me down.

Rani was kind. She heard “musicality”in my playing. But I barely heard her. I was overwhelmed. I so wanted my playing to reach the audience, in a tender and expansive way. And it hadn’t.

At some point in the proceedings, as I tried to get my head and heart together, my right hand started shaking.

Don’t let Rani see that!

But she did, and apparently didn’t consider it a problem.

And then the concert. My two cello classmates and I were invited up onto the stage. Brend and Sarah are my buddies. We want the best for each other.

Brend played. I (and all of us) applauded. Sarah played. Thumbs up to you, my friend. And then … moi!

I looked out at the audience with a wee smile. I saw cellists willing me on. I saw Rani at the back, sending me support. I heard Frederick starting his intro …

I played pretty well – far better than the rehearsal. My notes were mostly right. I let vibrato appear in my left hand. I went soft and very slow when that’s what the music wanted. I let the crescendo come and I matched Frederick pretty well as we sped up to the finish.

And the passion was there. Also the smile that showed up about ten bars from the end.

The audience applauded. Inside, so did I. I had kept my word.

I told Rani this:

Just that I’m doing it may inspire people. If I can be brave enough to do my thing, maybe they can be brave enough to do theirs

***

I did it

We twenty cellists did it

We got a glimpse of the stage as our friend