Trumpet vs. Tight End

I first knew I was going to be a musician when I started high school. I had played in school bands since the 5th grade and was enjoying it quite a bit. My father was a thirty-year bandsman in the United States Air Force, so I was around music and musicians my entire life. I knew very early that being a professional musician was a real thing. But I never felt pressure from my parents to follow that path, so I had other interests—mainly sports like baseball, football, and wrestling.

In Little League, my baseball team actually won the championship. We all got trophies—back when you actually had to win something to get one. But I’ll be honest: I was a bench warmer. I didn’t have any particular talent for hitting, fielding, or pitching, so they taught me to keep score. They put me in for the last few innings because they had to, usually in right field where I could do the least amount of harm. I didn’t like playing catcher because I was afraid of getting hit by the bat, and I wasn’t a consistent enough catch to be entrusted in the infield.

I got to shine at one of the few games my dad was able to make. There I was in right field, hoping nothing would come my way. But here it came: a fly ball to right. I got under it, somehow managed to catch it, and threw it in to the cutoff guy. Then, the very next batter hit another fly ball right to me. I got under that one, knowing the odds of me catching two in a row were slim—but I caught that one, too!

I was so excited I started jumping up and down, but it wasn’t the third out. I quickly realized I had better calm the eff down and throw the ball into the cutoff guy, which I did. When I got back to the dugout, I asked my dad if he saw it. He said, “Yeah, but you were so excited you almost forgot to throw it back in.” We had a laugh, and I consider it my greatest baseball triumph—even greater than winning the championship. I didn’t know it then, but that was the end of my baseball career. I guess I had a feeling I had more aptitude elsewhere.

In middle school, I took up wrestling. My 8th-grade English teacher was the coach, and he would walk down the rows in class tapping his fist on the boys’ stomachs to see if anyone had a six-pack. Looking back, that would be considered a little creepy these days, but it was innocent enough at the time—it was just his way of recruiting for the team.

I guess I passed the test because he invited me to try out. I was no whiz at it—I think I lost a lot—but I had one moment of glory. At one meet, the coach said, “Ok Swartz, you’re going to go up against that kid over there.” I looked over and thought, “I know I can beat that kid.” I started warming up on the sideline, stretching and fanning my arms wildly like a kid does to get ready for battle. I was pumped! I must have had a look of crazed determination in my eye because the next thing I knew, the kid forfeited. I didn’t even have to wrestle him. I psyched him out with my crazy warm-up.

By the 8th grade, I was also playing flag football as an offensive guard and on special teams. Our team was a powerhouse; I think we went undefeated at 8-0. During the one game my dad was able to attend, I probably got a concussion—though nobody checked for those back then.

We were scoring so many touchdowns that I had to run down on the kickoff team over and over. The whole game, I was squared off against one player I couldn’t get around. Finally, I managed to break free. As soon as I got past him, the ball carrier appeared out of nowhere at full speed. We hit each other literally head-on. We bounced off each other and both landed on our backs. Since it was flag football, there were no pads or helmets; we pretty much just banged foreheads. I stumbled off the field to my dad, who said, “Well, you got him.”

When I got to high school, wrestling and football hit a different level. The wrestling team was intense—one kid had a tattoo of a cross on his calf in 1981, which was wild for a high schooler. But the biggest deterrent was the running. I hated running. The coach wanted an insane amount of laps. I realized they didn’t make me run in marching band; it was just a lot of walking. I could handle that.

Then came the football tryouts. I was stocky but quick, so they wanted me at tight end. I took the pads and helmet home, talked my mom into letting me play, and spent the day dreaming about catching game-winning touchdowns. The next day, I went to practice with my trumpet case. It wouldn’t fit in my gym locker, so I went to the coach’s office to ask if I could leave it there.

He said, “What? You’re in the band? You can’t be in band AND football because the band plays at the games and practices at the same time. You can’t do both.”

I didn’t hesitate. I said, “Okay, I get it,” and I walked out. Nobody was going to tell me that I couldn’t play the trumpet.

Football fantasy over... absolute dedication to music begins. The realities about wrestling and baseball had already set in, but in retrospect, that 9th-grade football tryout was the moment I truly became a musician.

In the band, they made me feel like a star. I didn’t mind practicing the trumpet; nobody had to tell me to do it. I would just do it, sometimes at the expense of all else. I realize now how lucky I was to get such a clear message so early. Many people drift from job to job until they settle on something, but I knew what I wanted and nobody could tell me not to do it.

I once had a student’s parent, a very dedicated and successful attorney, tell me that I was one of the few people they knew who actually was what they did. I am a trumpet player. All day long, since 9th grade.

Nearly 50 years later, I still love practicing the trumpet. Nobody has to tell me to do it, and it’s still hard to get me to stop.

May 8 - Oingo Boingo Former Members - Cornerstone, Berkeley, CA

May 9 - Oingo Boingo Former Members - The Canyon Club, Agoura, CA

May 22 - The Brian Swartz Quintet - LA County Museum of Art, Los Angeles, CA

May 29 - The Azar Lawrence Experience - The World Stage, Los Angeles, CA