Fiction | December 01, 2005
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The truth is I never saw the plane.
It was just before ten in the morning and we were in the S formation across the middle of the football field when, on the first note of “76 Trombones,” the unmistakable squack exploded from my clarinet. Split reed. Nothing to do but make the long walk back to the field house and get a new one from my case. I swore, broke ranks, trudged toward the squat building that sat fifty yards behind the end zone.
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