My hands were trembling and I fought to steady them, knowing that I must be calm and I must concentrate to prepare for my first piano solo. If I made myself too anxious, I would stumble through the Silent Night Suite and ruin the entire concert. I pulled up the nylon stocking that was beginning to bunch around my slender ankle and looked around nervously.

I peered out from behind the faded theater curtain as the girl ahead of me gathered her sheet music and prepared to begin the concert. My piano instructor was addressing the crown in a very excited manner, describing the night's performance as being “breath-taking,” and telling them about eh peaceful joy that they would receive by paying attention. She babbled on for ten minutes about how the next two pieces, Greensleeves and then mine, would allow them to contemplate the mystery of the Christmas season. She bobbed he head, and her gray hair was already beginning to escape from the bun that she had pinned specifically for the occasion. She was wearing a new sweater-dress that made her look even more matronly than she did at my practice. She was a rather large woman and she always smelled of lavender. I called her Mrs. Duckworth. My parents called her Diane.

As Mrs. Duckworth addressed the audience, I checked out the crowd. The room was about halfway full, which was a large crowd for a juvenile piano concert. The other performers' parents were dressed well, and I noticed my father and mother had not yet arrived. Their absence brings back memories of my own absence from the piano concert last year. That night was the first time I had ever spoken against my father; it was definitely the turning point in our relationship.

“Hurry up, Karen!” Dad screamed. I swept my piano books off the bench and shoved them into m new blue L.L. Bean backpack, hurrying out the garage door. Dad stood impatiently next to his Jeep with his arms crossed against his chest. It was December, but he was still wearing his favorite khaki shorts and a gray t-shirt with “The Leighton Companies” emblazoned across the chest. I jumped into the car seat and he slammed the door behind me. As I buckled my seatbelt and adjusted my ugly polyester uniform skirt, he hurried around the Jeep and slid into the front seat. He changed his radio to the sports network, turned up the volume, and backed out of the garage.

“How's it going, kiddo?” He asked. “How's softball practice going? Is Coach Hank working y'all as hard as I work my boys?”

“We work hard enough, Dad,” I said, remembering how he used to wake my brother and his teammates up at 6 am to run, and how he used to work them until dark every afternoon preparing them for baseball season. My coach was not as persistent as my Dad, nor was I as eager as my brother was to play.

As Dad pressed the gas pedal, I noticed that is calves were about the size and approximate shape of footballs. Dad had always been an athlete, and he claimed that his “excellent muscle tone” was left over from his days as a high school football player. My Uncle Jake had been tired of hearing him brag about this, and had pointed out last time that his belly must have been left over from his college football spectating days. I smiled, remembering the insulted look that crossed my father's face when he had said that.

“When is your recital again?” Dad asked.

“Thursday,” I muttered. I was planning t play a very ambitious piece for this recital, and I had been practicing since October.

“Don't you have softball practice on Thursdays?” he raised his eyebrow. “Because you aren't going to skip to bang on a piano, Karen. You need practice anyway. You haven't scored all season and you even dropped the ball last game. We've got to get you out of right field and we can't do that if you don't go to practice.”

Insulted, I adjusted my glasses. “Dad, please,” I pleaded, “this is a really important night for me and I've been practicing the Silent Night Suite since October. One practice is not going to make the difference for the team. I hardly ever play anyway.”

“I wouldn't let you play, either, if I were coaching you,” Dad declared.

“Thank God you aren't,” I mumbled under my breath.

“You just don't know what's important for you, Karen,” Dad continued. “Banging on a piano only teaches you to be pretentious and snobby. I want you to learn how to be a team player. You need to learn how to be dedicated to your team, and you cannot miss practice. I'll tell Diane tonight.”

I turned to stare at my Dad, openmouthed, but realized that any arguing that I could do would be useless. Dad didn't care about he feelings of the team, or about my feelings for that matter. He worships athletics more devoutly than God. He even goes so far as to cheer, “Go Green Wave!” following the Amen of our diner blessing.

I sat staring at my knobby bony legs that stuck out awkwardly from my saggy knee socks. One of the socks was covered with grass stains. I examined one of the stains and realized that it looked almost like a bass clef lying on its side. By the time I was finished picking out what notes the other stains on my socks represented, we were at the piano hall. I quietly got out of the car, looked up, glared at my dad, and picked up my backpack.

Thursday afternoon I laced up my cleats, wistfully humming strains of the Silent Night Suite. I adjusted my shin guards, stood up and checked myself out in the mirror.. My pale, freckled face stared glumly back at me. I tucked a loose strand of thin blonde hair behind my ear, and placed my hands on my hips with my feet spread apart, imitating my father's proud athlete's pose. I looked fragile.

The sky was overcast when we reached the practice diamond. As I jogged over to where our team was beginning to assemble, I checked out he stands. The only person sitting in them was my father, who was wearing his headphones trying to catch the end of t Tulane's basketball game.

Coach divided the team into two halves and sent me to the outfield, as usual. For the first few pitches, I followed the plays closely, but the ball never came my way. By the third inning, it had started to rain and my patience had worn thin. I placed my hands on my knees and squatted, trying to appear to be preparing for the next play, when I noticed that my left cleat was untied. I knelt down to tie it, then jumped up when I heard the crack of bat connecting with ball.

The next thing I knew, my father, Coach Hank, and the girls from the team were hovering over me. I blinked and watched them come into focus and then closed my eyes again. The rain was still pouring down and landing on my face creating an oddly numbing sensation. I realized that I was lying on my back and the wet muddy grass itched the backs of my knees. I was becoming quite cold and quite uncomfortable. I noticed a dull, aching sensation developing in the direct center of my forehead. I groaned and slowly sat up, realizing that my father was screaming at me.

“Why weren't you watching the ball, you idiot?” His face flushed. “Are you okay?” I rubbed the back of my hand against my aching forehead, where a large painful lump was beginning to grow.

As I sat in the mud, groaning, Coach Hank directed the other girls to go ahead home. Then he asked Dad if he wanted him to take me to the emergency room.

“She'll be fine,” Dad replied. We drove past the concert hall on the way home. I bit back tears, but my attempts to avoid getting emotional were futile. Dad looked over at me and rolled his eyes.

“Don't be such a pansy, Karen,” he said. He had always called me his pansy. He called my brother a pansy when he acted like a wimp. I guess I was always acting like a wimp.

“I'm never playing one of your stupid sports again!” I declared furiously. And I didn't. That was almost exactly a year ago, and in the past year I had thrown myself fully into piano practice. Pretentious or not, I enjoy playing piano. My father and I constantly get into arguments about the value of music in my life, and in society, but I now found I was winning more often. I wondered if I would have another victory tonight, when the Tulane game was playing during my concert. Hopefully, my mother would exert some influence over him in my favor.

Halfway through Greensleeves, Dad came bustling into the building. I was preparing to approach the stage. Mom must have had trouble getting him to dress for the occasion. He was wearing his favorite khakis and his Tulane windbreaker. The other fathers were wearing suits and ties. I tried not to start blushing, knowing that I was about to have to sit in front of an almost full audience and make my debut, but I felt my face tart to get hot. I hear Dad making his way up to the front of the concert hall and picking two empty seats, one for himself and one for my embarrassed mother, in the center of the second row. As the girl playing Greensleeves curtsied and exited the stage, the hall fell silent, and I thought I might faint. I wasn't using sheet music and I had nothing to fidget with to ease my sudden apprehension. I took a deep breath, and walked to center stage, curtsied, and took my seat.

I began playing, stumbling once on a chord in the first measure, but I recovered form the error without flinching. My heart faced and my fingers flew over the keyboard. I hummed little strains of the melody to myself to keep my place in the song. I glanced over my shoulder at my family and noticed that, to my delight, my father seemed unusually excited about he piece, which he must have heard a million times. I continued playing with even more enthusiasm and the music swept over me.

As I reached the climax of my piece, I heard a noise like a truck engine backfiring. My father was in his chair applauding, but I wasn't finished playing.

He leapt up and whooped with joy. I lost my place in the music. I turned to see why my father was going crazy, and noticed his earphones danglineg form the walkman attached to his belt. The rest of the audience turned to stare at my father, who was now pumping his fist in the air, screaming, “How about that Green Wave, huh! A three point core from half court in overtime to win the game!”

He continued hooting and hollering for a few seconds until my mother, with her proud face turning crimson, grabbed him by the arm, pulled him down from his chair, and escorted him out of the concert hall.

I turned back to the keyboard, stared at it for a few minutes, straightened my black velvet skirt and prepared to begin again. I refused to let my father prevent me from finishing my performance of this piece for the second year in a row. The audience was giggling and staring at the door, wondering if my “biggest fan” was going to return to watch me finish. Mrs. Duckworth gave me a pitiful look from behind the curtain. Her expression begged me to start over. I took a deep breath, attempted a smile, winked at her and turned to the piano.

Then, a hush. The audience was silent as I began the piece with more passion than my father must feel when he screams at his favorite athlete at a critical moment in the most important game of the season. I played the angriest, most emotional Silent Night ever heard. I could hardly see the keyboard through the tears.

I rushed through the piece, and when I was finished, the crowd was stunned. Then the applause began. I felt redeemed. One by one, the well-dressed ladies and gentlemen of the audience rose to their feet and gave me my first standing ovation. Mrs. Duckworth came out from behind the curtain and hugged me, her warm fat arms and lavender scent protecting me from the feelings of hurt that invaded my pride every time I saw the two empty seats in the second row.

As she let go, I took my bow and hurried off the stage. A familiar dull ache was developing in the direct center of my forehead. Backstage my dad stood to the side holding a potted pansy wrapped in purple cellophane. He looked at me apologetically, earphones nowhere in sight.

“Your mother told me to give you this,” he mumbled, staring at his feet. “She made me come back here to apologize for the distraction I caused. I'm sorry I ruined your concert, sweetheart. I was thinking I could make it up to you by getting us tickets to next Saturday's game.”

“That's okay, Dad,” I replied, sniffling. “I'm not into basketball.” I took the potted plant and pulled back the purple cellophane. Apparently my father had knocked it over in his excitement. There were three blossoms, but two were crushed and the third had a broken stem.

“Let's go home,” I said, while Dad put his hand on my shoulder.

“There will be other piano concerts, Karen,” he said. I knew he was right. There would be many more piano concerts and no more “Silent Nights.”