Mesa Musings:

I love this time of year.

When fall arrives, inevitably my thoughts turn to those halcyon days when I was a college football star.

OK, that didn’t happen. I never played the sport. But, I did get on the field as a member of a marching band.

As mentioned in this space a few weeks back, I became an Orange Coast College freshman in the fall of 1962. My arrival coincided with that of charismatic head football coach, Dick Tucker, and a young and enthusiastic band director, John Williamson.

Tucker was determined to turn OCC’s football fortunes around, and did so. His almost-all-freshman 1962 squad went 9-1. Fans packed Pirate Stadium.

With virtually the entire team returning the following year, and a host of top recruits on hand, 1963 promised to be even better. Tucker was shooting for the Junior Rose Bowl, and Williamson wanted to field the best JC marching band in the land. Carnett? Well, he just wanted to pull his sorry GPA out of the ditch.

The stars were aligned.

One September morning in ’63, my theater professor, Jack Ford, made a startling announcement in class.

“Anybody need a unit of guaranteed A?” he asked. My arm shot up like a submarine-launched ICBM.

“Mr. Williamson is looking for people for his marching band,” Ford continued. “It means you’ll show up for practice two afternoons a week and march with the band Saturday nights. You needn’t play an instrument; you’ll be like an extra in a C.B. DeMille film.”

Supplementary bodies were needed to fill out the ranks of the “Pride of Pirateville.” Incapable of playing even the most rudimentary instrument, including wind chimes, I had the chops for marching and filling out ranks.

I hightailed it to the Admissions Office.

The band practiced mornings in the band room. Musicians only. We “One Unit Wonders” showed up afternoons at the stadium to practice marching and learn the choreography.

On opening night, I reported to the band room at 5:30 p.m. and was issued my uniform and instrument. I was given a shiny trumpet. I couldn’t have been more pumped.

Fifteen minutes before kickoff we marched into Pirate Stadium to a stirring drum cadence. We were high-steppin’ in our spats and tall hats. I put the trumpet to my lips as we performed the national anthem and pretended to play. The crowd totally bought it!

We marched onto the gridiron at halftime, and the routine we’d practiced for two weeks unfolded majestically in front of the huge crowd.

We did one of those formations where two lines intersect and go through one another. It looks real cool from the 73rd row. We were playing a John Philip Sousa march, and I began to feel it! I suddenly wanted to contribute.

I took a deep breath and blew a long blast into my instrument. It must have shattered the eardrum of the guy crossing in front of me. He took the piccolo from his mouth, put a hand to his bleeding ear and screeched, “Hey, moron! Knock it off!”

There was no holding back. I was en fuego. When halftime was over, we marched back to the bleachers. Waiting for me there was band director Williamson. He was livid.

“Carnett, you twit,” he seethed. “You’ll never do that again!”

The following Saturday night I hung out before the game with the musicians and “posers” in the band room. I was given my trumpet. But wait, something was wrong. It took me several moments to figure it out. No mouthpiece! How was I supposed to…?

Williamson glowered at me from across the room. It was obvious the missing mouthpiece was no administrative oversight.

We marched onto the field with our instruments blaring and the crowd cheering, but I was mouthpieceless. The whole world was watching. I was toting a neutered pseudo-trumpet. The humiliation!

I sulked my way through the performance. As soon as the game was over I turned in my uniform, returned my gelding trumpet and bugged out.

Monday morning I did what I felt I had to do. In pique, I dropped the class, turning my back on a bright career in music. The football team won the Junior Rose Bowl that year and annexed the national title. The band performed on national TV. I sat in the stands.

Looking back on it decades later, perhaps Pirate Stadium was my “yellow wood” — as Robert Frost might say — and, where the path diverged, I took the “road more traveled” instead of “less.” Maybe, for want of a mouthpiece, I’d opted for the wrong fork.

Where was MapQuest when I needed it?

JIM CARNETT lives in Costa Mesa. His column runs Wednesdays.