I was in the middle of a bitch beater when the shrill sound of my cell phone weaseled through the pounding of drums. I should have turned it down or off. I ignored it and continued. The wood in my hands rolled through my fingers. I flipped with my left playing backstick. Sweat rolled from my hairline down my face and dripped down my torso. This wasn't music-it was rage and drums were the only way, at the moment, that I could process the burn and clear it from my system.

The ...