The room grew quiet as a girl in a daisy-print dress took the stage, making her way up to the baby grand piano gleaming under the lights. She sat down, took a deep breath, then launched into a near-perfect rendition of Beethoven’s “Für Elise.” When she was done, the audience exploded with applause. Ms. Cindy, the piano teacher and mastermind behind the afternoon’s recital, beamed with pride. This child had clearly practiced for hours — way more than my son. I felt the tiniest tinge of worry begin to bloom as it dawned on me that his performance might not follow the same trajectory as hers.
I had enticed my son to take piano classes with Ms. Cindy earlier that year with a simple incentive: Students got to pick from her candy drawer at the end of each lesson. The promise of neon, sugar-loaded rewards was enough to coax him to her tidy, apricot-colored house every Wednesday afternoon. Getting him to practice at home was a harder sell; convincing a 7-year-old to choose scales over “Phineas and Ferb” required the negotiating skills of a seasoned diplomat — a role for which I was clearly unqualified.
A boy wearing a paisley bow tie was the second to perform. His tiny hands danced along the keyboard, treating the room to a well-rehearsed version of Bach’s “Minuet in G major.” Another prodigy followed, this one having mastered Pachelbel’s “Canon in D,” and then a fourth, who nailed a sonatina by Clementi. Ms. Cindy’s smile widened with each performance. Parents buzzed with excitement, but I had slipped into a full-blown panic. How many pieces of candy had these kids consumed to get this proficient?
I glanced at my son, who looked like a pint-sized stockbroker in his blue button-down shirt and yellow clip-on tie, patiently waiting his turn, completely oblivious to the disaster that lay ahead. My post-recital pep talk began to take form: I’d tell him how proud I was of him for simply getting up there, how there’s always next year to build toward and, yes, how television might need to go on a brief hiatus in favor of a bit more practice.
When everyone else had played and it was his turn, he sauntered over to the piano, pulled out the bench noisily and plunged into Beethoven’s “Ode to Joy.” It wasn’t flawless — there were a few hesitant notes, a moment or two when the rhythm wobbled — but he kept going, completely unbothered. When he finished, he interlaced his fingers, stretched them outward with a loud crack, stood up and bowed.
Everyone cheered as he lingered there, soaking it all in. In that instant, it became clear that I was the one who’d been in need of the pep talk. I had spent so much time bracing for imperfection that I missed what mattered most. It’s not just how you play — it’s how you carry the performance, and how much fun you have along the way.
Still, a bit more practice here and there wouldn’t hurt — something I gently reminded him on the drive home.
Happy reading!
Alona Abbady Martinez
alona@bocaratonobserver.com