What It Feels Like to #TakeTheField: Point of View piece
Nothing compares to a gameday sunrise. Soft oranges and pinks that brighten into yellows and blues that reflect off the silver instruments. It's already starting to get warm. I hear the person next to me cracking their knuckles. It's their first game; I give them a nod of support.
Rehearsal goes slowly but rushes by at the same time. Last minute cleaning over, finally nailing down that one move that we had worked on at last night's rehearsal.
We are dismissed for a break. The parents have put together another wonderful meal; they never disappoint. Some alumni are visiting and they tell us how excited they are to see our first show of the season, promising to heckle us while we exit Revelli (get those knees up!).
In the blink of an eye, I am tightening the strap on my shako. Little anxious thoughts come and pass.
Do you have your spats? (I check my shoes to make sure).
Hair tied back? (I double-check the knot and tuck in a few flyaways).
Buttons done? Gloves set? (check and check).
It's warm in the rehearsal hall. Everywhere you look you see excited faces, bedecked with Maize and Blue accents.
We sing through pregame together, allowing our guest conductor to have a practice round. Conducting in front of a class you have known for the whole semester is one thing, conducting in front of the 400-strong Michigan Marching Band in the middle of the Big House is quite another—but we know they'll do great.
The parade to the stadium helps me shake off a few nerves. We get to see how excited little kids get when they see the shiny instruments, polished carefully the night before.
Soon we are loading the tunnel, filing into lines for pregame. We send fist bumps up and down the rows, wishing everyone luck. We sing "Eye of the Tiger" and link arms for a rendition of "The Yellow and Blue." The sound echoes off the tunnel walls.
We pass around waters, careful to make sure everyone has one. It's hot out, and, in thick polyester, we make sure to take care of one another.
Then, we hear Carl's voice.
"Baaaaaaaaand take… the field!"
The drum cadence starts and my heart is pounding, but even that beat is in time with the tempo.
LEFT LEFT LEFT we shout, internalizing the tempo before we spill out into the light. My line lurches forward, and soon we are sprinting into the daylight. I quickly map out everything that is going to happen next.
The director gives the signal and we yell our cue and jump out in coordinated lines to form the famous block M. In the few seconds before we must play, I focus everything on relaxing my breath.
I fight to sustain the notes of M Fanfare, savoring those few counts of rest that I have to steady my breath. As we march down the field I am concentrating everything on each step, toes pointed, perfectly in line, because even the slightest discrepancy will be noticed. My fingers move on their own, as we march back down. I tune out the cacophony of the crowd, the layered clapping, and singing that has been distorted over the distance.
The exhaustion doesn't kick in until I have to climb the steps back into the stands. The drill looked good, someone says. We are drenched in sweat, yearning for water. We did it. Another great start to the season, and it feels incredible.
