Leonard played second trombone in the orchestra for thirty-seven years. He liked second because it allowed him to participate in enormous things without necessarily being blamed for them. The first trombone got the heroic entrances. Leonard kept the roof from falling on Mahler. Then he developed asthma. At first it an inhaler appeared beside the valve oil. Conductors continued waving their arms and Leonard continued supplying appropriate quantities of Mozart. Then one evening there was a passage he couldn’t finish. His mind knew what to do. His lips knew. His hands knew.

But there wasn’t enough air. This seemed particularly cruel. Air was everywhere. The concert hall was full of it. People in the expensive seats were breathing enormous quantities for free. Leonard simply couldn’t get enough of it to pass a brass tube. For another year he negotiated doctors, medication, breathing exercises, various mouthpieces. He became an expert in appearing musical while almost suffocating.

Eventually his doctor said what Leonard knew. He retired. Everyone expected him to be devastated. But he didn’t make devastation his publicist. At his retirement party he stood, “For thirty-seven years I blew air through a metal pipe and people paid me. This is not a tragedy.”

Everyone laughed. He refused to describe himself as someone from whom music had been taken. He began attending concerts. That surprised everyone. Some retiring musicians never wanted to see the orchestra again. Leonard bought tickets. He sat close enough to watch the trombone section breathe. He began teaching. When students complained about long tones, Leonard smiled.

“Enjoy them.”