Collision
"They had a
collision on the field, just a complete blow-up in that section." The
judge had almost collided with the band member from Marching Colonials of Old
Colonial High School when he barked this into his handled tape recorder. He was trying to maneuver himself into
position to continue his commentary, and not collide with other members of the
band which were scrambling to get into formation during their preliminary Grand
Nationals performance. The gap created by this collusion quickly closed in
their formation and their show remained intact, although mortally wounded.
There were shocked sounds from the crowd -- a lot of people had seen the
marching catastrophe that everyone knew could cost the Marching Colonials
significant points in competition.
High above the bright
field, a man in a dark suit behind the glass looked down and adjusted his tie
and smiled.
"Thank God they
weren't hurt; those kids took a hit to the chops." A parent said this in
the stands and there was a pall over the energy of the band when they played
their last notes, because they knew that the blunder would most likely cost
them their chance at the Finals performance.
Conference
Hours earlier, in a
meeting room with directors from Bands of America -- and several
representatives from Old Colonial HS and other Class A bands -- were in a
heated discussion about some of the qualifying paperwork filed in advance of
the competition.
"Look, they
aren't supposed to be competing in this class, you know this was filed
fraudulently and they should be disqualified, immediately."
There wasn't any
anger in this stating of fact, just a reasoned urgency -- this situation should
have never come to the Finals competition. Someone had deliberately looked the
other way to allow New Philadelphia to compete in the Class A level -- their
enrollment numbers disqualified them -- and those were the facts. And those
were the facts that everyone ignored. For some, winning was far more important
than demonstrations of integrity.
A director of the
Bands of American organization, the man in the dark suit looked through the
paperwork, shook his head in a muted frown and said, "We will have to take
this under consideration."
He took a long drink
of water from a crystal glass at his desk and continued: "The competition
is going to go ahead one way or another, I just don't see how this changes
anything materially in the structure of these classes. And really, we have to
consider intent in this." He smiled smugly because he liked the sound of
his own voice and the amount of power that he exercised over this national band
competition.
Championship
The crowd exploded.
Marlington had just played the last note of the 1987 show and their performance
was their strongest in competition yet. [1]We
had found the internal reserves to do the virtually impossible, which was to
improve on what we had previously defined as excellence. In many ways to
measure our performance on that night, we were stronger musically, better in
marching, more advanced in color guard than the year before when we had won the
national competition in our division.
Everyone fully
expected us to walk away with the 1987 Class A National Championship, just like
we had in 1986. Most of us there that
night, had been there in 1986, had been there by the victory bell in the
sunset, and we still had the taste of that victory in our hearts. Trophies,
championships, accolades, medals, we had them pouring in during the 1987
season. On October 10th, in Morgantown, West Virginia and again on October 31st
in Toledo, Ohio we had taken the Class A divisional championships. What we
didn't know as we left the field that night, and as our competition numbers
were being calculated, was that our most important performance of that year was
yet to come, and it wasn't where we expected it to be.
Collusion
The judge looked down
at this numbers on the evaluation sheets and looked to his side and again out
at the stands filled students, and families, and teachers, and musicians. That cold smug smile appeared on his face,
and he took his pencil, erased the totals, and shaved off a large portion of
Marlington numbers, just enough, he thought to send the finals competition to
another school -- the same school who had mis-enrolled in the competition. He
had been present in the meeting hours before and felt his importance in the
world of musical arts competition, move up as he fulfilled his expanding role.
The smile left his face, and he turned in his evaluation sheets and walked
away, knowing that the power and control he exercised as a judge could be used
for good, and for other purposes. He was
capricious, because he took pleasure, at times, in both. As he walked away, he
looked back and caught the glance from the man in the dark suit, and their eyes
met for a moment, and then they went their separate ways.
Night At Novi: Autobiographical
The yellow band
busses lumbered through the affluent suburban neighborhoods filled with
beautiful homes, and beautiful buildings, and beautiful manicured lawns. It was
dark, but the streets and homes were well illuminated in the night. The
meticulous lawns were moist with dew and reflected the streetlights, and stars,
and the light from the moon. I could see in homes that we passed, quaint
lighting through windows with graceful curtains, and the occasional dark
silhouette of someone out for a walk in the night.
We pulled into the
large shadow of the massive new school building in the dark. It was a gorgeous
facility, newly constructed only the year before with wet paint still on some
of the interior walls of the campus facility.
"I need you to
come off in single file, we aren't going to have time to warm up, but you
should still be alright." He said this while standing as tall as he could,
so that he could be heard on the lead bus in our caravan. He darted out of the
bus and into the cavernous school building looming in the moonlight before us.
Most of us had kept
their instruments after our preliminary competition and walked off the bus
ready to march and play. In very short order, we formed a single file line and
moved together into the school, and without being directed; a lone snare drum
to our rear began an austere tap, tap, tap -- that enabled us to synchronize
the placement of our left foot, simultaneously.
If we were going to be seen by anyone, we wanted to show them how a band
should always move together. If our
uniforms were on, we were performing -- whether we were on the field under the
lights in front of judges, on parade, or walking in between on our own. Our uniform meant something to us. We took wearing it seriously. And there was
no lesson or training in this, specifically, it was the entire band culture
that we were a part of. This was more than music.
"They are ready
for us." Mr. Frenz said, and Mr. Angeloni, Mr. Koontz, and John Zuppe
stepped aside and together, they watched us pass by them in our long train of
tartan, burnished orange, and black. They wore matching blue blazers, white V-neck
sweaters, all with the same tartan ties. They never had to say that they were
proud of us -- of what we had become together --because the way they looked at
us that night, declared it very clearly.
We walked into a
flood of lights, and on to a stage in front of a packed auditorium in Novi High
School[2]
on Saturday night, November 14th, 1987. We filled the stage in our uniforms,
with our instruments, with our presence and the audience grew hushed as our
field commander dressed in white moved to our front. Only hours before, we had
played our show and exerted our efforts to the edge of what was possible for us
physically. But there was something
different about this crowd, about this auditorium, about this environment. Why we were performing there, our field show
on that stage, most of us were not clear. But if there was anyone willing to
listen to us, we were going to give them everything we had -- that is what we
were always motivated to do, go another inch, hold that difficult posture for
another moment, always reach for a straighter line or a cleaner and more
powerful balanced note -- that was what it meant to be in the Marlington band.
His hands moved into
a director's posture, and I noticed that everyone's feet began to mark time,
because it was now impossible for us to play this music and stand still. This music had become the anthem of our
collective soul and it reverberated through every cell of our bodies and it was
the expression of everything powerful and sublime and beautiful; it was
everything beautiful we had to share in the world up to that exact moment in
time. Our instruments snapped into position with exact precision, and
everything we had learned, everything we practiced and drilled and repeated and
felt and could fathom in terms of power and justice and purity and love was
present there that night, and we began to play, and we played together.
I felt the volume of
our sound move through my body and with every note, and every breath, and with
every expression, and with every pause and rest and melody -- we were taken
away, and I know that we held nothing back; we were again, giving it away. We
had mastered the balance and subtlety of every musical phrase, and we knew how
to make the hot points blaze with intensity.
From the moment we were handed our music packets in the August humidity
of Camp Muskingum months before, we had been working up to this point, aspiring
to reach this pinnacle, striving to give flight to this music -- and soar away
with it into the heavens, carrying our audience along with us during those ten
minutes and four movements of performance.
There wasn't a piece
of our sheet music within a mile of us on that stage -- our music had all been
impressed into our hearts and minds in that year, and from memory we played
this concert, marking time with our feet -- pushing our every drop of blood and
sweat into this expression of our music. We moved through all four movements of
our show and exploded in a finale fanfare at the end. With a sharp command, our
instruments were snapped back down into position and many of us were wet with
perspiration, and breathing hard to recover, but we kept our heads straight and
our eyes focused on a single point in the distance. That was our discipline guiding us,
empowering many to work toward a singular goal.
And then, there was a
stark silence of shock in the auditorium for seconds. Complete silence.
Suddenly, a massive
explosion of cheering and applause literally vibrated the wooden floor that we
were standing on together. Everyone in the auditorium shot to their feet in an
unplanned, completely spontaneous reaction to the passion of our performance.
We were given an
ovation that literally shook the foundation of that entire building. We may not
have completely understood why we were performing that night at Novi, but we
did understand that there were no trophies, no medals, no titles to be won
there. This performance was strictly about the love of the music, love of the
performance, and the love and passion and striving for greatness. We played like we did because we loved this
music, and our reward was in giving it away to those who would listen. I know
my heart swelled as I marched from that stage that night because I knew that we
had never played so strong, so powerfully, so balanced, so intensely before -
ever.
Over the cheering and
applause, one of the many directors from Novi High School forced his way
through the crowd to reach out to our director.
"How did you do
that? That was incredible, I'm serious, what is that about?" One of the
many directors from Novi High School had asked this over the intense din of the
crowd.
He smiled, watching
the Marlington band march off the stage in single file, while a lone snare gave
them a discreet cadence of a single tap, tap, tap.
"They just know
their music." Mr. Frenz replied, and walked along with his band, and
looked back at the other director and called back, 'We'll talk, there is a
little more to it than that.'
We loaded back into
our busses in the night and made our way back to the Pontiac Silverdome where
we had assumed we would be crowned the 1987 Class A National Champions. Our spirits were high, we were filled with
anticipation and an excitement that was electrical.
And The Winner Is...
The man in the dark
suit handed the final points totals to the announcers, but he didn't smile, he
walked away from the press box, sat down and waited alone in the shadow of an
empty conference room.
It wasn't Marlington
that had medals put around their necks on this night, those medals were placed
over stark white tricorn hats, and upon the necks of the Marching Colonials of Old
Colonial High School.
Question
"These scores
make absolutely no sense. What exactly did you see that was so different,
because the other judges weren't anywhere near your numbers." He said and
there was strength in his words, and he was clearly agitated, and was
scrambling to get any kind of answer that might help him explain this to the
devastated Marlington band members waiting for him in the stadium.
The judge who had
presented the outlier scores looked back at him, and his subtle smile was
mostly a sneer as he walked away not saying a word in response.
Commiseration
We sat on the
carpeted floor in an area inside the labyrinth of rooms inside the Pontiac
Silverdome in our uniforms, many of us were openly weeping. Some of us were
angry. All of us were confused, and
hurting, and shocked. The man in the dark suit seemed to slither up to us from
behind a curtain in the shadows on the other side of the room. He walked
confidently up to us and nodded to our directors who were standing with their
arms crossed behind us. There was tension in the room, but that didn't seem to faze
the man in the dark suit. He smiled compassionately, but his eyes were not
smiling; his eyes were projecting other emotions that were not exactly clear.
"I'm certainly
surprised, as you are at the outcome of the competition tonight." He lied,
and we sensed that he knew more than he should about the outcome of the
competition that night. His voice was smooth and slippery, like artificial silk
because it was cheap and felt, fake.
"Marlington has
a very bright future ahead of it. I can see your school competing here for
many, many years to come. I can see just
a great future for all of you." He paused, looking at the room and even
when he made eye contact with you, it didn't seem to touch you in the way that
it should.
"I understand
that Old Colonial has had school levy problems, and this will probably be their
last year here, so don't think that this is the last time for Marlington."
And he said other words that fell upon completely deaf ears. In a few tense minutes he walked away again
and into the shadows, and we never saw him again.
Mr. Frenz came to the
center, and we looked to him for what we knew he could say to make this feel
better, feel more logical, to make this feel like less like a complete rip-off.
"I don't know
what that was about, I really don't." He was looking at the point in space
where the man in the dark suit had departed from us. He cleared his throat, and
said abruptly, "Let's get out of here." And we followed him to our
busses and away from the Pontiac Silverdome.
Now You Know
On the middle school
gymnasium floor, across town in Novi, Michigan, where we had slept the night
before, we reassembled in a circle around Mr. Frenz. He spoke clearly, and what he said helped us
to regain our perspective. He couldn't take away our pain, and he didn't try to
-- but he could help us to see beyond those temporary circumstances.
"How many of you
were here last year?" He asked and scanned the room carefully. Most of everyone there was raising their
hand.
"Then you can
well remember the feeling of 'that' winning." And he scanned the room
again, making eye contact with us, and we could tell that he was hurting like
we were -- it wasn't an act. He actually felt what we felt.
"We were never
in this for the trophies."
Many eyes drifted to
the floor, away from him, because we had somehow forgotten this, and this was
our reminder, and he was right -- and we knew it.
"This is the
other feeling of success that you will never forget. It's when you have given it your all, held
nothing back, but you didn't get recognized for it. It is like when you are doing very powerful
'right' things and you don't get noticed, and no one seems to ever know the
good that you did." Many more eyes lifted off the gym floor and began
connecting with him again.
"Now you
know." And he paused, letting those three words penetrate us.
"Now you know
that 'giving it away' isn't about what you 'get.' 'Giving it away' is about what you give. And
what you gave tonight was, frankly, awesome." And he smiled just a little,
adjusted his glasses, and continued looking at each of us, looking across the
room attempting to make a connection with every one of us that he could. There
was moisture in his eyes and his voice had a catch in it when he said:
"You are all
champions in my book." And with this, he walked away.
Abandoned Medals
She had collected
several of the Bands of America Gold medals from her fellow band members when
they returned to their band room at Old Colonial High. Several band members were happy to hand them
to her, because they knew that their championship was tainted with something
that they didn't want any part of.
"It's not right,
and you know it. There is no way that we should have taken that title last
night." And her voice echoed in a room where many felt the same way.
She had planned to
collect the medals and take them to Marlington, but her indignation collided
with the resistance of other band members, and with the disapproval of others
in leadership there.
She threw her medal
in with the others she had collected and tossed them into the bottom of her
equipment locker. Those medals were
there years later after she had graduated, because she never touched them
again.
Call From Novi
Everyone had left the
building after their late Sunday afternoon arrival from the Nationals
Competition. Instruments had been put back into storage lockers, uniforms on
wardrobe racks had been rolled back into place. Parents and band boosters had
worked tirelessly to put everything back into place for school the next day.
Hundreds of cars had come and gone. The busses had pulled away from the
building and drove off along country roads skirted with broken and dried
harvested corn stalks. A cold wind had come in with the early night. He was
alone in his office and was reaching to turn off the lights on his way out when
the office phone rang. He reached for
the receiver and quickly said:
"Marlington band
office, this is Terry."
"You want to
tell me now how you did that?" It was one of the directors from Novi High
School calling.
"Pretty good
stuff last night." Mr. Frenz replied, and his voice was filled with a
smile.
"We've got a
maintenance crew here right now reattaching some of the sound tiles your kids
blew off that stage. I'm not
kidding!" And in the background, he could hear power tools buzzing in the
distance.
"What do you
have there? Brand new school. Triple A division, right?" Mr. Frenz asked,
setting his brief case back down on his desk.
"Going to Quad A
once they get it all sorted out Frenz."
"Well, resources
shouldn't be an issue for you then."
He heard the Novi
director take a deep breath on the other end of the receiver.
"Our kids were
on right before yours. And look, I think we have 350 in our program. And they didn't sound anything like
that. I mean, I've got some super
talented kids here, but they don't play like that. They don't understand that kind of music and
sound and I'll be honest with your Terry, I don't know what to tell them."
Mr. Frenz picked up
his briefcase, turned out the light because he knew that this conversation was
going to be short, and to the point.
"All I can tell
you, is what I learned years ago." Mr. Frenz paused again for effect. He
looked out of his office window into the night and calmly said: "You can't
buy that kind of music; you can only give it away."
[1] This was my last MBA
competition. Although I could have
participated in the 1988 season, I succumbed to the allure of the minimum wage
job. I chose to work after school
instead of participating in marching band in my senior year at MHS. Unfortunately,
many of us made the same mistake. Some
by necessity, others by choice. I had to work to afford the car insurance to
drive the car I needed to get to work – my first taste of a real-life negative behavioral
feedback loop: working for the money you need to afford to keep working – or
working harder and harder for more of what you don’t want. The opportunity cost
of losing my last year in band was far greater than the little bit I could earn
after I paid for my working expenses. A life regret that I’ve had to learn to
live with. Hopefully other band seniors
will learn from my mistake.
[2] Renovations had just been
completed at Novi High School auditorium. Our band performance that night was an
arrangement between Marlington and Novi band directors. Marlington could have
free use of the Novi middle school gym floor, as our Hotel for the MBA Finals
weekend, in exchange for this performance in the new Novi High School
auditorium.
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