The Tuba Man died last month. More honored in death than life, he got front page stories (local section) in the Times and P-I, as well as a national tribute from the NY Times. 1500 people showed up next to the Seahawks stadium to honor him, including a dozen or more tuba players, all together on stage. I’m sure hundreds of thousands of people took a moment of reflection when they heard the news.
People gave him money before and after most every major Seattle sports event and opera performance. He played the tuba, but was not really a street entertainer. He had a coffee can for coins and bills, true, and he did provide music in the public square; but his purpose never seemed to be about pleasing the public. He seemed to be trying to provide a purpose to his life.
For twenty years, I was a season ticket holder to the Sonics, and often passed by him before the games. He set up camp outside the East entrance, under a tree across from the fountain. A little folding chair, his tuba case, and his set list – he would write down the songs that he wanted to play. If you stopped to listen to him, he would mostly be doing snatches of songs, or conversing with passers by in a slightly disconnected, oh-so-slow monologue through his poorly tended beard. Though easily distracted, he had an eclectic and encyclopedic repertoire. Once, before a Minnesota Timberwolves game, I asked him for “Peter and the Wolf”.
“Peter and the Wolf”, he mused, drawing out not only each syllable, but also elongating the spaces between the words. The man appeared to be very slow. Eventually, after a couple of puffing false starts, he started in – very slowly, in the basso register – and out came the familiar refrain from Tschaikovsky.
There is something deeply ironic about his passing at just this time. The teams he played for have all – ALL – foundered on the hardest of times this year. The Mariners are as bad as the early expansion years; the Seahawks have barely won two games, the Huskies none. And the Sonics … the Sonics have vaporized. Gone. Non-existent.
When I first started going to the games, I was amazed at how close we were to the players and the action. Not only close to the field of play, but close to the ins and outs of the players. In the mid-eighties, you could walk right into the tunnel where they came and went before and after games, and stop them for a chat or autographs. Then, one year, a table appeared, and we lined up on one side, the players on the other, The next year, I went to a Chicago Bulls game, and found myself (we sat about 6 rows back, near the corner where the tunnel was) surrounded by a male version of Beatlemania. I felt the fervor – the unalloyed emotional ecstasy – that Michael Jordan’s early teen-age fans had for him. That adoration, and the money that came with it, brought the folding of the tents for informal contact. The friendly confines became a gauntlet, the players a grudging lot, who no longer seemed like street kids (very tall street kids) who loved to play, but pressured businessmen, most of whom learned that millions awaited them as long as they remained fast and accurate. Sort of like the difference between Rocky Balboa when we first see him on the street with Adrian, prepping for Apollo Creed, compared to one of the later films, where Rocky is a multi-millionaire, and has to fight of the effects of a life of ease if he wants to win again.
We – the Sonics fans – never really accepted that change, although we paid for it with the rising ticket prices. We wanted our athletes, and their home court, to be accessible, informal, and a little goofy. Just like the Tuba Man. When they couldn’t deliver that, when they insisted on a vast and sterile palace in which to play, we parted ways. When they won their lawsuit with the city, and left town, they stopped writing, as if I (and they) never existed. Just like Obama after he won. What’s up with that – I used to get sometimes 2,3 email a day from him and his team. Since the election – nothing! But at least he hasn’t left town.
The Tuba Man was always true to himself. I think that’s why we liked him so much.