The lights
reflected off the wall of glass into his eyes.
“What am I doing
here in front of so many people?” he wondered.
The noise of people
buying concessions and taking their seats was so loud he almost
couldn't hear himself think.
“I've done this
on so many different nights. Why am I still terrified every time?”
He looked around
for someone to answer his thoughts, but his colleagues were engaged
in their own rituals before the moment of truth; some praying, others
going through the plan step by step in their mind, still others
laughing and joking, trying to ignore the fact that thousands of eyes
would soon be on them.
“Why do I keep
getting myself into this mess?”
It had been five
years since he first was standing in this very spot, about to swallow
his insecurities and do what was necessary for the good of the group.
“What if I screw
up and everyone laughs at me?”
He knew that he'd
recover from a chorus of thousands laughing at his incompetence, but
there would be one among that chorus whose laughter would cut him
deep, so deep that he'd rather crawl in a hole and die than face her
afterward.
“Please don't let
her see me screw up.”
It was no use
though, he was the most easily recognizable person there tonight,
even from a hundred yards away. He had a huge target on his chest
and any mistake by him would not go unnoticed by anyone. The weight
of it on his shoulders seemed to grow heavier by the minute.
“I wish I hadn't forgotten my bandanna.”
The lights bearing
down on him were making him sweat, and the sweat was running into his
eyes—each drop a stinging wasp—and mouth, giving him that all too
familiar taste in his mouth. It was an unpleasant flavor for sure,
but the familiarity was strangely comforting.
“I should get
lined up. It's starting soon.”
As he made his way
to his position, he noticed the advertisements surrounding him and
the new logo bearing down. It wasn't much different than the last
logo, but it brought thousands more spectators eagerly awaiting to
see what merited a revamp of all that had gone before.
“Somewhere among
those thousands of tiny faces, she's watching me now. Please don't
let me scr-”
His thought was cut
short by the announcer's voice over the PA , “LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!
The associated students of Utah State University, the Caine College
of the Arts, and the Department of Music are proud to present the two
thousand and twelve AGGIE! MARCHING! BAND!”
Three sharp blasts
from the whistle brought them to attention, followed by the tap off
from the center snare drum. Terrified and exhilarated, his veins
surged with adrenaline. Another marching season was finally here.
