A Banner Evening

^{The scariest thing about singing in front of 30,000 people? Not the crowd. BY ROB CARPENTER} If I’m being perfectly honest, I’d say I started my band as a way to get the Cincinnati Reds’ attention. _{As a kid, I wanted to play second base for the Reds. Unfortunately, my Big League Chew–scented dreams were crushed in middle school, when I learned I couldn’t hit a breaking ball. Beyond a guided tour, my only chance to step onto the pristine grass of a big-league park would be to sing the national anthem.}

So I started practicing. Performing for my parents. Singing into a little Sony tape recorder and analyzing the takes afterward. Most guys my age dreamed of girls and, well, more girls. I dreamed of singing “The Star-Spangled Banner” at a Reds game and getting a high five from Barry Larkin. By the time I got to college, I actually started sending demos to the Reds with handwritten notes proclaiming my devotion to the team. And when my band the Muckrakers formed, I slapped a big wishbone “C” bumper sticker on my guitar and began preaching the gospel according to Johnny Bench. Whenever we played in Cincinnati, I pulled out all the stops: I wore a Larkin jersey; regaled the audience with statistics; imitated batting stances. All in the hope that someone from the Reds would notice me.

I got the call on a sunny February afternoon while driving home from a two-week East Coast tour. It turned out that our album Front of the Parade was a favorite in the Reds’ front office. We’d made three albums and performed all over the country, forged a nice little career, but this news still astounded me. When the phone call was over, we pulled the van off of the interstate somewhere in the middle of Tennessee, and I ran around a Steak ’n Shake parking lot like a fourth-grade girl at a Jonas Brothers concert. That September, before a Saturday evening game against the Chicago Cubs, I was going to sing the national anthem.

Here’s the thing about singing the anthem at a Cincinnati Reds game: It’s not that exclusive of a club. Some teams, like the Yankees and the Red Sox, use canned versions or organ renditions, except for special occasions. But in Cincinnati, there’s a live performance at every single home game. Church choirs. Girl Scout troops. Seventy-five-year-old grandmothers. I got an e-mail from an eight-year-old girl who wished me luck and told me that she had done it a couple of times. But that’s part of the charm of the Queen City. I would rather sing the anthem before a meaningless September game in Cincinnati than before Game 7 of a World Series in Yankee Stadium. Heck, I’d choose it over a Grammy.

I spent seven months answering the question, “Are you nervous?” I honestly wasn’t. Yes, it’s a difficult song—opera singers even shy away from it because of its octave-plus range—but the idea that I’d botch it like Carl Lewis did in 1993 and end up all over You Tube never occurred to me. As long as I didn’t change the words like Steven Tyler or grab my crotch and spit like Roseanne Barr, I’d be okay. I practiced, but not a lot. I didn’t need to.

I awoke on the morning of September 23, 2006, to a deluge. The previous night’s game had been called in the fifth inning, and the field was still waterlogged. That evening’s game—my game—was quite possibly going to be rained out, as well.

After standing in the concourse of Great American Ball Park for what felt like an eternity, we got the word that the game was a go. It was at that moment that my nerves decided to show up. All of a sudden, I couldn’t remember the words. I grabbed a few friends and asked them to sing the song for me. They laughed—until they saw the look of absolute terror in my eyes. Then they sang while I furiously scribbled down the lyrics. The moment I took my first step onto the grass, the rain stopped. The clouds parted and the sun beamed down. Somewhere, I heard a choir singing Handel’s “Hallelujah” chorus.

I walked to the microphone set up just behind home plate. I had told myself that under no circumstance was I to look into the Reds’ dugout, but I stole a glance and saw Billy Hatcher staring back at me. Billy Hatcher! The guy who batted .750 in the 1990 World Series and had seven consecutive hits—a Series record—and was now the first-base coach. He gave me a smile and a nod, and I nearly passed out. The fact that there were 30,000 people watching me didn’t even register. I was used to being in front of crowds—comfortable, really. But I wasn’t used to Billy Hatcher smiling at me. And then, over the PA, I heard, “And now, please join Rob Carpenter of the Muckrakers for the singing of our national anthem.”

I sang the first two words…and I couldn’t hear anything. Was the microphone not on? Was I so nervous that no sound was coming out of my mouth? And then I heard my voice booming from the stadium’s speakers. A three-second delay. The hardest thing in music is performing when you can’t hear yourself. I kept singing, but I was panicking. I had intended to get through the song fairly quick—in and out in a minute flat. No one likes a drawn-out anthem unless you’re Marvin Gaye. Later, everyone accused me of milking it. I was scared to death.

But I got through it. I got all the words right, and thanks to a tip from that eight-year-old girl, I didn’t even jump when they shot off the fireworks during “rockets’ red glare.” I hit all the notes. I screamed, “Go, Reds!” when it was over. Of course, I don’t remember any of that. After the first two words, it’s all a blur. The first thing I remember is being back in the stands and a little girl handing me a baseball and a pen for an autograph. I’m not ashamed to admit I teared up a little.

Now I want to do it again. So I can enjoy it. (And maybe get that high five from Barry Larkin.) Time to start making more demos. Dear Reds, I am a huge fan…

Rob Carpenter and his band the Muckrakers will release their fourth album, The Concorde Fallacy (Toucan Cove/Universal), this month. A video of his anthem performance is available on You Tube. As is Carl Lewis’.