1 My uncle Mitch has had a job as an insurance agent for many years now, but he still plays keyboards in a jazz band on weekends. He even plays fiddle in a country band sometimes. We used to joke that Uncle Mitch had a different hat for each different style of music he played.

I once asked Uncle Mitch who his biggest musical inspiration was. I thought he would name some famous sax player. Instead, he said, "I always remember Fred. Fred Gribbe." Seeing my uncomprehending look, he laughed and told me the story.

"Back in the day, Fred was always on the scene. If there was a jam session, Fred was there. If my band had a gig, Fred was in the front row. He would even come to someone's rehearsal if he could. Fred was always listening.

"Now, back in those days, everyone wanted to be a hot shot. People tended to look down on Fred a little, simply because he did so little to promote himself. He would play his guitar at the jam sessions, very sweetly, but other players tended to blow him away with their fancy licks.

"One day, a famous soul singer came through town. As bad luck had it, his regular guitar player fell ill. Now, the singer's manager was a cousin of someone in Fred's family; when he started calling around for a replacement, Fred's name came up.

"Everyone in town had tickets for that gig. We all got there, ready to be blown away, and sure enough, the singer put on an amazing first set. The bandstand was on fire, everyone was jumping, and the soloists were hot.

"We collected backstage at the end of the set to see if we could get a look at the star. Imagine our surprise when out of the dressing room came Fred Gribbe, guitar in hand.

“‘Fred’ I said. ‘I had no idea it was you up there! And I had no idea you could play like that! You should let people know you've got the stuff.’”

“‘Thanks!’ Fred said. ‘But I always play like that. I just listen to the music, and that's what comes out.’

"It was then I realize that Fred had it over all of us show-offs. While we were absorbed in how we looked and sounded, Fred was there, solely and completely, for the music—listening, and giving back what he heard.

"I've always remembered that, and ever since, I have always done my best to listen with that kind of humility, too."

2
I have always looked up to my oldest brother, Dion. He is great at basketball. The trophies lined up on the bookcase in our home are almost all his.

When I was real little, I followed him around everywhere. When I got older, I tried to imitate him. Eventually, Dion went to college, and left me behind in junior high school, trying my level best to be like him.

During freshman year, though, my game tanked. No matter how much I practiced, I was missing easy baskets. Eventually, I started overthrowing passes, even tripping over my own two feet.

By the holidays, I was feeling pretty bad about what now seemed like a permanent slump. Dion was back from school, but he was usually out with friends, so I hadn't seen him too much.

One day, I went out back behind the apartments and started shooting hoops. The ball went up, arced, thudded off the backboard. Miss after miss. Finally, I tucked the ball under my arm and turned to go, my eyes fixed on the pavement. A friendly hand dropped on my shoulder and stopped me right there.

"Hey, bro," said Dion. "Don't leave yet. Let's get a game."

"Naah," I said, still looking down. "I don't feel like it."

"How are you going to get any good if you don't practice?" Dion said. I could tell he was kidding, but I didn't really feel like it just then. I guess he could see that, because he kind of squatted down (he's a big guy), draped a hand over my shoulder, and looked me in the eye.

"Sometimes," he said, "the way out of a slump is to take your mind out of the equation. Get back inside your body, and let it flow. Here." Dion passed the ball to me, then motioned me to pass it back. We got into a slow rhythm. Then, next time I passed to him, he effortlessly banked the ball, recovered it and passed to me. Pass, shoot, pass, shoot, pass. "Now you shoot," he said passing it to me. "It doesn't matter whether you make the basket. Just think about getting the ball back and passing it to me." I did as he told me, missing the first three shots badly but recovering in time to pass. Soon, I was hearing the net swish when I shot.

"How do you know about this?" I asked him.

"What," he said, "you think you're the only one ever been in a slump? C'mon, let's get dinner."

Just then, I decided that the thing I admire most about Dion is not his superior shooting abilities. I admire his big heart. That's the thing, I decided, that's most worth imitating.

Write a Nonfiction Narrative Write a brief nonfiction narrative about an experience of your own or of someone you know. As you write, clearly describe the situation and event or events you are writing about, making sure to include a reflection on their significance.