One Last Show written by Chloe Stegman, Senior 2016
Do you realize that we never have to do another box drill? We’re so close to the end…” Even though the question isn’t directed to me, the words make me pause in the middle of stretching my left leg. I straighten up, surprised. Somehow, that hadn’t yet occurred to me. But it’s true; in an hour my career in marching band will be over, completely finished. No more Monday night practices starting after sunset; no more Tuesday mornings back on the field before sunrise. No more desperate prayers that my frozen fingers won’t drop my flute. No more slipping on the frosty turf in my tread-less drill master shoes. Only one hour left to determine this entire season.
A shiver of nervous excitement slips down my spine as our lines begin to move. Arms clamped tightly around my stomach as if to hold in my nerves, I follow. My feet stumble every few steps because they’re far away and seem to be disconnected from my brain, as if they had been replaced by two wooden blocks. I look down at my uniformed self to make sure they haven’t, but no, I still have two feet attached to my ankles. Hopefully they’ll warm up before the show, as I don’t know how I’d march with feet so cold I can’t feel them. Having marched on unfeeling feet in practices, I know I wouldn’t be able to do well in a competition as important as this one.
We form five uneven lines behind three drum majors and one director, wending through the traffic. Detroit has been expecting us, so our path across streets is almost completely trafficfree. Just outside the stadium, we halt because there isn’t yet space for us in the tunnel. Shaking in the cold air, we wait on the alley sidewalk. As the numbness in my fingers spreads to my wrists, I remind myself that last year was far worse. Downtown Detroit at night is not typically a destination, and last year I understood why. This alley was distinctly frightening, and I was thankful to be in a crowd of nearly two hundred people.
“Keep air through the horn!” Our director calls, rubbing his hands together in an attempt to keep warm. “It’s deceptively chilly out here.” I glance around, wondering if anyone else is curious at his word choice. I’d hardly call this deceptively chilly - it’s just cold. Midafternoon or not, Michigan Novembers are cold. With my arms still firmly crossed, I twist around so as not to expose my hands in their fingerless gloves to the air, press my mouthpiece to my lips, and blow the warmest air I have through the cold metal. While this position is certainly neither easy nor comfortable to reach, necessity has given me enough practice over the past four years to master the contortion.
As the tunnel empties of the last band, our lines begin moving again, shoving the front people out of the sharp wind. The tunnel slopes steeply downhill, and I need to concentrate on balance so as to stay upright. Numb feet, it turns out, are difficult to maneuver down a hill. We press forward, letting as many of our number out of the wind as we can. Right away, a few people warm up and laugh at how cold it was, how wimpy we are, since it’s still technically above freezing. But I don’t feel wimpy for shivering; our uniforms do so little to alleviate the cold. With long black sleeves and long black pants, they’re torturous ovens in the August sun, yet still can’t manage to protect us from November winds.
We compress and file into our warm-up room: the Lions’ locker room. My eyes widen as I take in the shiny wood of the open lockers, each with a fold-up chair on the bottom shelf, and the ample size of the place. We’re normally assigned a cramped underground garage, but this is far superior. In here it is pronounced “positively roasting” and the once-prized hand warmers are tossed around like hot potatoes. I’m glad when one reaches me. Although the others seem to have thawed, I still can’t feel my toes. Why did I decide to wear only one pair of socks? Another shiver shakes my body as feeling tingles into my fingers, and I squeeze the hand warmer tighter. It stings in a wonderful way.
Our warm-up is, well, warm. Once my fingers thaw out, the rest of me heats up until I agree with the “positively roasting” assessment. After playing a few scales, the staff wanders through our midst with tuners. For the first time all since August, my flute is sharp; I can’t help grinning as I pull out. It’s splendid to be inside. As the drum major moves on, I am not the only one who takes advantage of the break and sits on the floor. I want to save up my energy for the show. An internal clock has started a countdown, ticking ever onward toward 1:45. As we wait, our director runs through the explanations one last time – professional football fields have different markings than high school ones; remember to mark off your steps from the tape, not the paint.
When our warm-up time is over, a proctor comes to lead us on and we follow our previous lines out of the locker room. Butterflies awaken in my stomach and begin to flutter around as I catch a glimpse of the light at the end of the tunnel. Thin strands of music float out to us, carrying the thrill of a final movement on its back. We file into the open stadium, careful to face away from the field so as to avoid distraction, and the freshmen blink in the light. I remember the overwhelming awe. Ford Field is so huge, completely surrounded by sixty-five thousand blue seats. Walking out onto the field for the first time, it suddenly hits you how much is riding on this one show, and how many people will see if you fall, if you mess up, if you fail.
Marching band is not like anything else. Although it meets the dictionary definition of a sport, since it involves physical exertion, rules, and competitions, band is different from any other sport in that there is no bench; every single member marches the entire show. Every fall, we spend months creating art, rehearsing the same sets over and over and over. Marching band is exhausting and exhilarating. We strive for excellence, but not individual excellence. Our uniforms don’t have our name on the back because our goal is to look exactly like everyone else. We truly are only as strong as our weakest marcher. If one person is wrong, we all are wrong.
“Focus on your show,” our director whispers as he passes down our lines. “Don’t watch. Focus on your show.”
A final chord, a bump note, thunderous applause - and it’s our turn. Our turn. It’s actually time. This is what we’ve been working toward for so many weeks; this is what was so unbelievably distant during band camp. All the sweat, shivers, and sore muscles were for this. All the practices, all the lost sleep, all the exasperation were for this. This is state finals.
“Three things,” he holds up three fingers, grinning. This is a tradition, and I can’t help but realize that I’m going to miss this next year. “Stay focused,” and one finger goes down. “Have fun,” two. “Love you guys.” He raises his closed fist in a salute, and we disperse to opening set.
“Joining us from Grand Rapids, please welcome the Northview Wildcat marching band,” the voice penetrates my bones as I mark off twelve steps from the front hash on the fifteen yard line. The voice rattles and echoes deep inside me, resonating throughout, starting a chorus of lasts: last time I hear the Ford Field announcer, last time I mark off opening set, last time we run this show, last time I march.
I tune everything else out, focus on our drum major, and mentally run through of my show. Now is the time to focus. Hold. Move sixteen, twelve, turn-turn-lock. Okay. Sixteen, sixteen, hold eight, out, up, down. Take a deep breath. Hold six, move six, twelve, and close. I’m ready, ready for my senior year marching band state finals. This is it; one final show, and then it’s all over. The announcer’s words cut back into my thoughts as he announces our songs, drum majors “…and the Northview Wildcat marching band, you may take the field in Flight II competition!”
We’re on.
A shiver of nervous excitement slips down my spine as our lines begin to move. Arms clamped tightly around my stomach as if to hold in my nerves, I follow. My feet stumble every few steps because they’re far away and seem to be disconnected from my brain, as if they had been replaced by two wooden blocks. I look down at my uniformed self to make sure they haven’t, but no, I still have two feet attached to my ankles. Hopefully they’ll warm up before the show, as I don’t know how I’d march with feet so cold I can’t feel them. Having marched on unfeeling feet in practices, I know I wouldn’t be able to do well in a competition as important as this one.
We form five uneven lines behind three drum majors and one director, wending through the traffic. Detroit has been expecting us, so our path across streets is almost completely trafficfree. Just outside the stadium, we halt because there isn’t yet space for us in the tunnel. Shaking in the cold air, we wait on the alley sidewalk. As the numbness in my fingers spreads to my wrists, I remind myself that last year was far worse. Downtown Detroit at night is not typically a destination, and last year I understood why. This alley was distinctly frightening, and I was thankful to be in a crowd of nearly two hundred people.
“Keep air through the horn!” Our director calls, rubbing his hands together in an attempt to keep warm. “It’s deceptively chilly out here.” I glance around, wondering if anyone else is curious at his word choice. I’d hardly call this deceptively chilly - it’s just cold. Midafternoon or not, Michigan Novembers are cold. With my arms still firmly crossed, I twist around so as not to expose my hands in their fingerless gloves to the air, press my mouthpiece to my lips, and blow the warmest air I have through the cold metal. While this position is certainly neither easy nor comfortable to reach, necessity has given me enough practice over the past four years to master the contortion.
As the tunnel empties of the last band, our lines begin moving again, shoving the front people out of the sharp wind. The tunnel slopes steeply downhill, and I need to concentrate on balance so as to stay upright. Numb feet, it turns out, are difficult to maneuver down a hill. We press forward, letting as many of our number out of the wind as we can. Right away, a few people warm up and laugh at how cold it was, how wimpy we are, since it’s still technically above freezing. But I don’t feel wimpy for shivering; our uniforms do so little to alleviate the cold. With long black sleeves and long black pants, they’re torturous ovens in the August sun, yet still can’t manage to protect us from November winds.
We compress and file into our warm-up room: the Lions’ locker room. My eyes widen as I take in the shiny wood of the open lockers, each with a fold-up chair on the bottom shelf, and the ample size of the place. We’re normally assigned a cramped underground garage, but this is far superior. In here it is pronounced “positively roasting” and the once-prized hand warmers are tossed around like hot potatoes. I’m glad when one reaches me. Although the others seem to have thawed, I still can’t feel my toes. Why did I decide to wear only one pair of socks? Another shiver shakes my body as feeling tingles into my fingers, and I squeeze the hand warmer tighter. It stings in a wonderful way.
Our warm-up is, well, warm. Once my fingers thaw out, the rest of me heats up until I agree with the “positively roasting” assessment. After playing a few scales, the staff wanders through our midst with tuners. For the first time all since August, my flute is sharp; I can’t help grinning as I pull out. It’s splendid to be inside. As the drum major moves on, I am not the only one who takes advantage of the break and sits on the floor. I want to save up my energy for the show. An internal clock has started a countdown, ticking ever onward toward 1:45. As we wait, our director runs through the explanations one last time – professional football fields have different markings than high school ones; remember to mark off your steps from the tape, not the paint.
When our warm-up time is over, a proctor comes to lead us on and we follow our previous lines out of the locker room. Butterflies awaken in my stomach and begin to flutter around as I catch a glimpse of the light at the end of the tunnel. Thin strands of music float out to us, carrying the thrill of a final movement on its back. We file into the open stadium, careful to face away from the field so as to avoid distraction, and the freshmen blink in the light. I remember the overwhelming awe. Ford Field is so huge, completely surrounded by sixty-five thousand blue seats. Walking out onto the field for the first time, it suddenly hits you how much is riding on this one show, and how many people will see if you fall, if you mess up, if you fail.
Marching band is not like anything else. Although it meets the dictionary definition of a sport, since it involves physical exertion, rules, and competitions, band is different from any other sport in that there is no bench; every single member marches the entire show. Every fall, we spend months creating art, rehearsing the same sets over and over and over. Marching band is exhausting and exhilarating. We strive for excellence, but not individual excellence. Our uniforms don’t have our name on the back because our goal is to look exactly like everyone else. We truly are only as strong as our weakest marcher. If one person is wrong, we all are wrong.
“Focus on your show,” our director whispers as he passes down our lines. “Don’t watch. Focus on your show.”
A final chord, a bump note, thunderous applause - and it’s our turn. Our turn. It’s actually time. This is what we’ve been working toward for so many weeks; this is what was so unbelievably distant during band camp. All the sweat, shivers, and sore muscles were for this. All the practices, all the lost sleep, all the exasperation were for this. This is state finals.
“Three things,” he holds up three fingers, grinning. This is a tradition, and I can’t help but realize that I’m going to miss this next year. “Stay focused,” and one finger goes down. “Have fun,” two. “Love you guys.” He raises his closed fist in a salute, and we disperse to opening set.
“Joining us from Grand Rapids, please welcome the Northview Wildcat marching band,” the voice penetrates my bones as I mark off twelve steps from the front hash on the fifteen yard line. The voice rattles and echoes deep inside me, resonating throughout, starting a chorus of lasts: last time I hear the Ford Field announcer, last time I mark off opening set, last time we run this show, last time I march.
I tune everything else out, focus on our drum major, and mentally run through of my show. Now is the time to focus. Hold. Move sixteen, twelve, turn-turn-lock. Okay. Sixteen, sixteen, hold eight, out, up, down. Take a deep breath. Hold six, move six, twelve, and close. I’m ready, ready for my senior year marching band state finals. This is it; one final show, and then it’s all over. The announcer’s words cut back into my thoughts as he announces our songs, drum majors “…and the Northview Wildcat marching band, you may take the field in Flight II competition!”
We’re on.