Buzz, buzz.  I glanced at my phone.  One new email.  I opened it and smiled.  It was from the best teacher in the world.  As I read, the tears staining by my face fell ice-cold from heartache.  I'm sorry, nothing is going to change.  I am never coming back.  I wish you the best.  I hope you stay strong.  That marked the end of one of the most joyful chapters in my life.  Henceforward, I was to move on and embark on a whole new journey.

Leaving a promising foot in the door at the end of my sophomore year, I felt like I was on top of the world.  I had the privilege of studying the art of percussion under one of the most amazing teachers ever, and I anticipated all the lessons he would give me throughout high school.  His lessons were as much life-enhancing as they were percussive.  With him, if felt as though I became a better person with each note and rhythm I performed.  He was the Mickey to my Rocky, always pushing me to fight with the eye of the tiger.  Sadly, my anticipation was too soon; he would eventually leave my corner.  He was losing his father, and ironically, I had felt like I was losing a fatherly figure as well.  How was I to ever find a replacement for the irrepalceable? 

My junior year of high school was supposed to be "THE year."  I was supposed to accomplish this, I was supposed to accomplish that.  I was supposed to achieve a lot of great things.  Well, I let my melancholy attitude knock me out for the season and achieved little to nothing.  Still bitterly scarred from the loss of my old instructor, I refused to give my new one a chance.  Don't get me wrong, I played nice, but everything he told me went unlearned and unpracticed.  His method of teaching was more relaxed and suggestion-oriented, and I was used to intensity and structure -- the polar opposite.  I thought him far too soft because of his calm and laidback demeanor, and I had felt like I needed a blatantly strong man to be successful.  Therefore, I went through my first semester with no instruction.  Thinking I was qualified to teach myself, I was reluctant to request any lessons.  What a foolish apprentice I had become. Due to that mindset, I missed out on All State tryouts and failed my drum corps auditions.  Clearly needing someone in my corner, I finally realized that I couldn't go the distance alone.

During the second semester, I decided to give my new instructor a chance.  From that point on, I began to learn in abundance while getting to know him as well.  He was a dedicated and blessed man, rising from a dirt-filled foundation into a graduate student pursuing his doctoral degree.  A man of faith and wisdom, he understood the concept that blessings happen with patience.  Based upon these characteristics, I came to realize that my new teacher wasn't soft but, in fact, a very strong man with every reason to be in my corner.  Without a doubt, while I was down for the count, he was the one who would get me back on my feet.

My junior year of high school will always be remembered as the year I temporarily left the ring.  As a young adult, I needed to learn to adapt to the hand I was dealt with and to look in-debth at the people in my life instead of making false accusations based on immature assumptions.  Sadly, it took the loss of great opportunities to realize, but I deserved every bit of punishment.  I held myself back because of my selfish reluctance to give a great instructor a chance and to let a great instructor go.  I take this as an ultimate life lesson, because, in reality, the world waits for no one -- you either get back up before the referee counts to ten or remain knocked down.