In the early 1990s, while I was a student at the University of Missouri, I worked security for basketball games and concerts at the Hearnes Center. It wasn’t glamorous work, but it did provide some extra spending money. I didn’t realize it at the time, but it turned out to be a front-row education in American music, human behavior, and the art of standing still while history happened just a few feet away.

The lineup of acts that rolled through the Hearnes Center during those years was diverse. Shows ranged from Conway Twitty, George Jones, and The Statler Brothers to Whitney Houston, Bryan Adams, and Sesame Street Live. One night you were dealing with screaming teenagers, and the next you were helping parents herd toddlers in Cookie Monster shirts toward their seats. All of this happened in the same building, while wearing the same yellow SECURITY shirt.

The first concert I ever worked was New Kids on the Block. The Hearnes Center wanted a visible security presence in front of the stage after teenage fans had crawled over a barrier at another stop on the tour. The solution was simple: eight-foot tables turned on their sides, lined end to end, with a row of big guys in yellow shirts standing between the makeshift barricade and the stage. I’m not sure how intimidating it may have been, but it worked. The fans behaved and I learned on night one that crowd control often has more to do with presence than force.

Most of the shows blended together over time, but one in particular has stuck with me.

The rock band Van Halen played the Hearnes Center, and from the moment the trucks rolled in, it was obvious this wasn’t a typical setup. The stage stood nine feet tall, leaving enough space underneath for audio equipment, dressing rooms, and what was politely referred to as “hospitality space.” There was more equipment under that stage than I’d ever seen in my life. When I asked an audio engineer about the amount of gear, he explained Sammy Hagar could be off-key and the processing equipment would correct it live. Whether that was technical truth or professional bravado, I had no reason to doubt him.

The hospitality area beneath the stage was where the band spent time before, during, and after the show. I didn’t witness anything firsthand, but I heard plenty of stories that fit the band’s reputation and the era. When the band eventually emerged after the show, it was clear they had indulged in more than snacks and soda. That’s all that needs to be said about that.

From a security standpoint, the night was surprisingly straightforward. The biggest offenders we dealt with were people standing on their chairs to get a better view. Van Halen played for hours, and the energy never let up. The band fed off the crowd, and the crowd fed right back. Even in a job where you’re trained to observe rather than participate, it was impossible not to feel the electricity in the building that night.

The Hearnes Center itself deserves a little credit. Opened in 1972, it was built with enough foresight to handle basketball games and concerts equally well. Its biggest limitation for concerts was affectionately called the “elephant tunnel”— a concrete ramp leading from the ground floor to the outside. Tour buses were usually parked at the top of the ramp, and after a show, security would escort the artists up, hand them off to their own team, and take it from there. Van Halen, however, chose a different approach. A limousine was backed down the tunnel, awaiting their departure. As the band made their way out, I found myself holding the limo door open. Eddie and Alex Van Halen were friendly, shook hands, and thanked the security crew. Some artists never acknowledged security at all, but they did, and that stuck with me.

Then came bass guitar player Michael Anthony.

As the last to step into the limo, I swung the heavy door shut so they could be on their way. The only problem was that I wasn’t watching closely. His leg was still outside the car. The door closed as much as it could. Solidly.

There was a brief pause, followed by words that, when translated into familyfriendly language, amounted to: “Would you mind waiting until I’m in the car before you shut the door?”

I felt horrible. That door was heavy, and I’d put some real effort into closing it, knowing it didn’t latch easily. I’m fairly certain there was a knot on his leg that lasted for weeks. We joked later that he was probably in no condition to remember the incident, but I can assure you I never forgot it. Now, more than 30 years later, I sometimes wonder if Michael Anthony still has a knot on his right shin—a knot he still wonders where it came from, and never knew to blame on a college kid in a yellow security shirt.

Tom Brand writes the weekly A Little Bit Like Home column, sharing stories of life, family, faith, and the occasional moment that leaves a mark—especially when you close the door too soon. Find more at ALittleBitLikeHome.
com.