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- In sixth or seventh grade, a time of life when most guys my age were trying on their swagger, I was walking back home from a practice session at a buddy’s house that was furnished with a piano. Along the way, my instruction book clutched under my arm like any average nerd, I passed some classmates who asked with simple curiosity and no malice, what was up, where I had been. “Practicing my music,” I said, probably looking serious, deep in my thoughts, and studiously absent-minded, as some people say they remember me. “Cool. What do you play?” somebody asked. Before I knew it, the word “sax” fell out my mouth.