Diary of a Player Read Online Free PDF Page A

said, “Forget about us—
you
sing and play it this week.” So dressed in my Sunday best, which was more than likely pleated pants, penny loafers, and a sweater vest . . .
    I played.
    People clapped.
    And the rest is history.
    If anyone thought I was great, it was probably because I had the major (if fleeting) advantage of being nine. When you’re young, if you’re any good at anything, people tend to think you’re great. It’s all relative.
    That Sunday, in front of forty-seven people at the early service and another seventy-six at the late, my whole performing life began.
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    If anyone thought I was great, it was probably because I had the major (if fleeting) advantage of being nine.
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    Back then in Glen Dale, we didn’t need the social media like Twitter or Facebook to create buzz. We had churchgoers. Someone at church that day came up and said, “Well, if Brad knows a couple more songs, we could have him play at the church picnic next month.”
    By then my guitar teacher had become a man named Clarence “Hank” Goddard. So he put together a little band specifically for the church picnic. It was at this picnic that we would be offered our first big pay date: one hundred dollars to play the Fireman’s Christmas Party. That’s right. The big time. And this same little band would become my music school, my vehicle, and my focus for the next several years. And Hank Goddard would become the second-most important guitar player I would ever know.
    Guitar Tips from Brad
    LESSON # 2
    Practice makes perfect—or at the very least, practice makes you a little less lousy.

3

MORE THAN JUST THIS SONG
    I met this angel with callused hands who let this boy into his band
Under his wing, I learned to fly on these six strings through this life
    â€”“More Than Just This Song,” written by Brad Paisley and Steve Wariner

    M y second guitar hero was one of the finest people I will ever know—Clarence “Hank” Goddard. Hank, as everybody called him, came into my life after one traumatic night when my grandfather realized that to get me where I was going musically, he was going to need some professional help.
    My parents still remember coming home that evening when my grandparents—who also doubled as my lead baby-sitters—were watching me while they went out. They came in the front door just as I was rushing upstairs to bed, in tears. My folks came after me, asking what on earth had happened. I told them, “Papaw and I had a fight,” and said that I didn’t want to talk about it. My father came into my bedroom a little later, but all that he could get out of me was that I had a big argument with my grandfather.
    In any family, you’re going to have the occasional disagreement,if not a whole bunch of them. So my father decided to let the whole matter go for the time being while I cooled down. Then a couple of minutes later, the phone rang. It was my grandfather calling, sounding
very
serious. “Can I talk to Brad, please?”
    My dad grew even more concerned and baffled by what had gone down and asked my grandfather what the heck was going on. “Just let me talk to Brad,” he replied. So Dad backed off and handed me the phone. A few moments later, after hearing nothing, Dad heard me say, “That’s okay, Papaw.”
    Warren Jarvis—a man with a big heart, a hot head, and a great deal of pride—had called to apologize to me.
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    Warren Jarvis—a man with a big heart, a hot head, and a great deal of pride—had called to apologize to me.
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    Just like that, our fleeting family crisis was over, and I handed the telephone back to my dad. Only then did Papaw come clean to my father about the multigenerational musical skirmish that had just taken place.
    â€œI practiced this guitar piece for two weeks to show Brad something,” my grandfather told my dad. “He wouldn’t listen; he kept