Our high school Christmas concert wasn’t a big deal to anyone except those of us in band, our parents, and most of all, our teacher, Mr. Turnbull.

To say Mr. Turnbull was wound a little tight would be like saying atomic bombs are a little destructive. With his horn-rimmed glasses and mildly satanic goatee, Mr. Turnbull wasn’t someone you wanted to cross. And that was part of the thrill. 

In band, players are seated according to their ability. First chair, most talented; second chair, second best, and so on. I played trumpet, and was last chair out of 10. My best friend, Doug, sat right beside me. Friends since third grade, he and I shared a near identical sense of humor and band was the perfect place to refine it; with all the students, instruments and music stands, we were well hidden and could engage in a lot of under-the-breath wisecracking with a goal of always getting the other to bust up laughing without getting busted by Mr. Turnbull.

To him, joking around was the ultimate sin, and it made cutting up a serious game. If caught, his shrew-like eyes would glare at you as he thundered: “WOULD YOU LIKE TO STAND BEFORE THE ENTIRE CLASS AND SHARE YOUR REMARKABLE HUMOR WITH US?” If you were lucky, that would be enough to snap us out of our suicidal reverie. Bad day? You’d end up in front of the class, and then possibly locked in the drum closet. The danger made every wisecrack at least five times funnier than it actually was.

So, fast forward to the Christmas concert. Our band, the concert band, was in the bleachers of a parent-packed gym, waiting our turn. The orchestra, which was basically varsity band and featured the most talented students, including a large, lumbering tuba player named D’Lane, was on the floor and about to launch into “Sleigh Ride.”

Earlier, at final rehearsal, Mr. Turnbull had gravely warned that any band members caught misbehaving while the orchestra performed would—yes, be brought down to the floor to introduce themselves. The risk of that punishment in front of a bunch of parents made it even more terrifying and tempting to screw around. So, seated at the top of the bleachers, we were hard at it, trying to make the other lose it first…and our walk along the fine, tense line between hilarity and terror was going well, too, until Doug took the mouthpiece from his trumpet. 

It was the nuclear option, our version of a last comedy resort: One would rap the knuckles of the other when they weren’t looking. But that night, Doug’s grip wasn’t good and in the poised, delicate silence before the first downbeat into “Sleigh Ride,” the mouthpiece slipped from his fingers and tumbled into the abyss beneath our seats. CLANG. BANG. BING. DING. CLANGITY CLANG CLANG. BANG. THUD. The clatter that arose from Santa’s reindeer in “‘Twas the Night Before Christmas” was nothing compared to this. A collective gasp rose through the gym and all eyes snapped in our direction, none quicker than Mr. Turnbull’s. I remember trying to swallow and being surprised I’d forgotten how.

But then, at that precise moment, at the expense of large, lumbering D’Lane, a little Christmas miracle occurred: He had set the legs of his chair too close to the back edge of the top riser, and, already top-heavy with his tuba, had chosen the wrong direction to shift his weight. He and his instrument crashed over backwards and into our beautifully decorated concert Christmas tree, which collapsed into a shimmering green heap on the polished gym floor. Another collective gasp, and eyes snapped again, but this time away from us—including Turnbull’s. Doug and I glanced at each other in disbelief. Of course, we were concerned for D’Lane, so we too craned our necks to make sure he was at least moving his limbs. He was, and Mr. Turnbull was right beside him, probably more worried about the tuba but, no matter—we were no longer his focus. After a few minutes, both D’Lane and the Christmas tree were upright again, and the Christmas concert commenced. 

And to this day, “Sleigh Ride” remains my all-time favorite Christmas song.

by Tom Mailey  //  illustration by David Norby © Style Media Group

Catch Tom on the Pat and Tom Morning Show on New Country 105.1, email him at [email protected], or follow him on Twitter @kncitom.