The EuroTrip

(to follow The Ties That Bind)

Quick Quiz: How do you get two hundred high school students, forty parents, a handful of instructors, and hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of instruments from Los Angeles to Prague?

Well, the correct answer looks like this:

During Spring Break of my senior year, my high school band did a concert tour through Prague, Budapest, and Vienna. Since we weren't able to secure 250 seats on one plane, we were separated into six different groups. Over the course of 24 hours, the La Canada High School Band was dispersed in airports all over the world, with layovers in Minneapolis, London, Paris, Munich, Amsterdam, and Frankfurt. The amazing thing is, we all managed to make it to Prague in the end. Except for one kid...some freshman flute player. He was probably dispensable, though.

Anyway, this may have been the most dysfunctional and disorganized trip ever imagined. Many, MANY mistakes were made. Even though there were forty parent chaperones, there was essentially no actual supervision taking place. Minutes after my group arrived in Prague, I had learned that a group of orchestra girls had already been seen bar-hopping through the Czech Republic nightlife. They returned to the hotel late that night, only to be greeted by several flummoxed parents in the lobby. The 'rents discussed punishing the girls and sending them on the next flight back to California, but decided to let them off the hook. My theory is that the parents were actually more lenient because they themselves were also drunk at the time. Whatevskis. Mistakes were made. Apparently all was forgiven.

Our trip to Prague consisted of a concert performance in a nice auditorium, and then some unsupervised free time in the heart of the city. At our concert, we finished with our arrangement of "America the Beautiful." This was not a good idea. At the time, the Europeans did not look to kindly on Americans because of Afghanistan and terrorism and whatnot. Most audience members grimaced or covered their ears, while a few even stood up and walked out. Yeah...we made sure to suggest removing that song from our repertoire.

That evening, we returned to the hotel to find several 20ish year old Italian guys hanging out in the lobby. It didn't take them long to focus their attention on Amanda. They were blatantly and shamelessly flirting with her, but the language barrier proved problematic. My friend Elena was fluent in Spanish and tried to translate, but I don't think she was too familiar with trashy flirting and raunchy Italian slang. When the girls went back to their room for the evening, the Italians started slipping notes under their door, inviting them to hang out with them. They declined the invite, and after a while, the messages stopped.

While all the kids were loading the buses the next morning, Elena and I walked back into the hotel to grab Amanda, who was returning her room key. I was telling Elena how relieved I was that our experience in Prague had gone relatively smoothly, save for a few small issues. For the most part, everyone was innocent, well-behaved, and stayed out of trouble. Our conversation came to an abrupt halt when we walked through the lobby entrance, only to find Amanda full-on sucking face with one of the Italian Stallions. Elena and I froze, quickly processed our shock, and did what any good person should do when their friend is being macked on by a foreign stranger. We ran away. And, uh...left her there.

A few minutes later, Amanda emerged from the lobby with her hair slightly disheveled, and a strange look of pride slash denial. We made fun of her accordingly. Yes, mistakes were made. But no harm done.

This is where the EuroTrip began to veer off the path of innocence and onto the path of ineptitude. Our next task was to get all of these people from Prague to Budapest. Fortunately, we could all travel together by train. How quaint. How fun, isn't it? To travel through Europe by train? We'd be like wizards heading to Hogwarts! I think everyone imagined it would feel like that. Well...it definitely was not like Harry Potter.

First off, we were herded into a dilapidated Prague train station and basically told to sit and not move for several hours. When we entered the train, we were surprised to see that it did not have roomy cabins with dessert carts and chocolate frogs and horrible young British actresses. Each cabin was about the size of a bathroom stall, and contained six bunk beds. Believe me, once you managed to crawl into your bunk, it was foolish to try to escape. My situation was particularly difficult, because Eric, a nearly-blind freshman, was in my room and made a mess of everything. All I could do was try to fall asleep on my bed (slash wooden plank) and hope to wake up in Hungary.

At some point in the middle of the night, probably just moments after I was eventually able to fall asleep, I was startled by slamming on our cabin door. Suddenly, several men slid the door open and stepped into our minuscule room dressed in camo, with huge rifles, shouting at us in some Slavic language. We all freaked out and stared at the men, absolutely petrified. When they realized that we couldn't understand them, they just asked us, "Passports? PASSPORTS?!!" I told them that we didn't have our passports, and that the parents were keeping them, and then readied myself emotionally to be shot down on the spot. Fortunately, they merely grunted angrily and walked out the door.

After a while, students began to filter out of their cabins to figure out what all the commotion was about. No one knew what was going on, but the soldiers seemed to have come and gone. The only thing we knew was that it was unlikely that anyone would be getting any more sleep.

As we were departing the train, I could tell by everyone's faces that no one had slept much. Everyone looked beaten up and downright miserable. On top of that, the Budapest train station was the trashiest structure I had ever seen, and I feared it would collapse on us at any moment. As I maneuvered my way through the Hungarians and their MASSIVE HANDS, I heard one of our chaperones yelling behind me.

"Eric?! Where's Eric?!" Yes, apparently our quasi-blind freshman friend had wandered off alone in the crowded train station, and his mom was spazzzzing out about it. She grabbed my arm and scolded me for not keeping a watchful eye on him, and then sent me to find him. After about a minute, I saw him standing by himself on one of the nearby walkways. I asked him where he wandered to, and he said he just felt like walking around. Odd. Meanwhile, his Mom was screaming like a psychotic witch, and could be heard clearly from our walkway.

"Why didn't you walk back when you heard your mom screaming?" I asked him.

"I dunno. She screams all the time." Um...Weird. Were these people always this dysfunctional, or was the absurdity of this trip just amplifying it? Meh. It was just a simple mistake, I thought. All was soon forgotten.

Our performance in Budapest was by far the most disastrous. It was in an elegant indoor theatre, with a large backstage area. All of the students walked backstage to put their instruments together. I was in charge of setting the stage for each group, but I noticed that although I was placing the correct number of chairs, there didn't seem to be enough butts sitting in them. I checked the rooms backstage, only to find dozens of high schoolers sleeping on the floor. So, not only did I need to set up the stage, but I had to physically wake up each student and push them on stage.

On top of that, merely being on stage did not necessarily solve anything. Sure, the chairs were filled, but it doesn't do any good if everyone is falling asleep while performing. Each time a student had more than four or five measures of rest in the music, chances were they'd be fast asleep halfway through them. I even saw Amanda nearly drop her flute while dozing off on stage. Apparently, when that Italian sucked all the saliva out of her throat, he sucked out all her energy, as well.

To make matters worse, we still continued to perform the National Anthem, despite my admonishments to forgo the piece. Not only that, but one of our bus drivers insisted that she sing along with us, and her raspy American voice resonated painfully throughout the theatre. As I glanced from the stage to the audience, I saw the woman wailing "the rockets red glare," then saw the band members looking quite irritated that her cacophonous howling was interrupting their naps, then watched as the European locals once again produced angry faces and walked out of the theatre. The worst part was...I was so tired that I couldn't even roll my eyes anymore. Oh well. Mistakes were made. Hungary probably wasn't the most important political ally anyway.

We left for Vienna the next day. After the train debacle, we were glad that we'd be traveling by bus. Still, the ride got off to a strange start. Since we had left the city, we had been caravaning in dirt back roads alongside old and abandoned houses. After about an hour, we lost sight of the bus in front of us. The road started to narrow into one small lane, and the dirt road gradually transitioned into, well, just dirt. We came to a halt when we saw a large vehicle driving in our direction. This was a little worrisome, since there was no way it could get around a huge double-decker bus on such a small road. Nevertheless, it continued toward us, until it stopped just a few inches in front of us. When I looked inside, I could see all of my classmates - literally just inches away from my face. They looked as shocked as I was. Now, two buses in our caravan were stuck facing each other on a dirt road in Middle-Of-Nowhere, Hungary.

After some evasive and impressive maneuvering, the buses all turned around and we headed in the direction from which we came. After another hour, we were once again driving through downtown Budapest. What happened? Did we drive to Vienna in the completely wrong direction? Why were we in the same place we started TWO HOURS after our initial departure? Mistakes were made...and who knows what caused this one? BUDAPEST: You can check out whenever you want, but you can never leave.

We finished the three-hour drive to Vienna five hours after we first left Budapest. That evening, we had our first meal that didn't consist of salty chicken! Instead, they served us random meats, substances, and roughage, all completely fried in batter! At this point, everyone was in better spirits. The trip had been so poorly planned and disorganized that we all finally found it hilarious. Even the parents were in better moods slash completely drunk. One chaperone came up to me with her camera and showed me a photo of her and the four orchestra girls that were busted on the first night.

"LOOK! IT'STH ME AN' THE NAUGHTY GIRLS!" she slurred drunkenly. Way to go, parents. We need more Mormon chaperones.

After dinner, we drove back to our hotel. Well...almost. For some reason, the buses stopped about a mile away from where we were staying, and the parents and drivers made all 200 of us get out and walk through a cornfield unsupervised in the pitch black in a STRANGE FOREIGN COUNTRY. When we got back to the hotel, the parents were all in there laughing and smiling. Why did we have to walk back?

"It was all a joke!" another drunk parent grunted. Um...what? A joke? How is that funny?
Meh...whatever...mistakes were made. I still wanted more Mormons, though.

During our final night, Mrs. Hamre asked me to plan some sort of activity, basically to prevent anyone from getting into trouble. My friend Colin coordinated a complex boy band song and dance routine for us, along with three of our friends. Everyone crammed into the lobby and watched me make a fool of myself as I rocked out to "Bye Bye Bye" and "I Want It That Way."

As I embarrassed myself thoroughly, everybody finally seemed to forget about the frustration of the trip. Sure, it had been poorly organized. Sure, all of our performances were near-disasters where I had to physically wake my friends up to go onto the stage. Sure, that bus driver had an egregiously heinous and wretched voice. Nevertheless, in the end, we did experience three uniquevEuropean countries and cultures. We may have been hindered by one problem after another, but we survived.

Mistakes were made, but what can you really expect when you're one of 250 travelers in a group? After splitting everyone up once again into six different groups, spreading ourselves across the world, and flying back to Los Angeles, it seemed that everyone had made it back okay. Actually, I'm not positive about that one flute player...but...who really cares anymore?

As we were preparing to leave the baggage claim, Ben, a cellist, was looking slightly perturbed.

"Where's my cello?", he asked. We watched as one of the airport Mexicans carted over a cello case. He apologized, saying that the cello had been damaged after being RUN OVER by an airplane on the tarmac. The case seemed fine, but when Ben opened it, his $20,000 cello was indeed smashed into millions of pieces, absolutely destroyed beyond repair.

"It was a freak mistake," the worker said. Yeah...mistakes were made. It figures that the worst one would happen just before we were all home and safe. Curse you, Los Angeles Mexicans! Curse You!!!

The Ties That Bind

(to follow The November Rain)

So there you have it. There are some interesting ties between my final performance senior year, and my last game in Michigan Stadium, exactly four years later. On the surface, this parallel may seem painfully depressing, but I assure you that it's not. We learn the most from moments of adversity, as they teach us to appreciate things more important than a win, or a first-place trophy. This loss taught me that success can be measured in more profound ways, such as through unswerving dedication, or by overcoming failures, or forging a lasting bond with your peers.

While exiting the basketball arena at my last competition, I thought about my friendships that had endured over the past four years. I remembered the moments just before our performance, when each senior stood up and reflected their thoughts on their marching band experience. Each one implored the younger musicians to make the most of their four-year endeavor, because it would go by faster than they think. We urged them to maintain focus, not on the glory of a win, but on their development as musicians, as leaders, and as friends.

That, ladies and gentlemen, is what separated me and my peers from the 'Gregs' of the world - those that were far too willing to sacrifice what was truly important, all for selfish fame or personal recognition. For us, our persistence, our teamwork, and our appreciation...those were the ties that bound us together as a group, and the values that would make us stronger individuals for the rest of our lives. The finale may not have been perfect, but maybe the end just isn't as important as the means. After all, "it's not the end result that matters. What matters is the journey you take to get there." One thing is for sure: we always made sure to have fun whenever we could.

And so, after marching season was over, we did what many groups of friends have done when they just want to have some fun. That's right. We went to Prague...

The November Rain (and Armpit Stains)

(to follow The Dream, Blast!ed)

November 17, 2003.

I ascended the uncomfortably narrow aisle to the upper levels of the overcrowded gym. As I looked up the stairs, I could see the cold rain pounding on the window in the distance. It never rains in November. Why did it have to rain today? The sound of the downpour was just a depressing reminder of the sour note on which this season was apparently going to end. Not exactly the end I had hoped.

I turned around in the aisle and glanced down upon 160 of my fellow high school musicians who stood looking at me with their overwhelmed looks. The judges announced that they were ready, and I gave my usual drum major salute. Oddly, a man to my right was particularly impressed, and idiotically shouted at me: "Whoh! There's a lot that's gonna be goin' on right here, isn't there?"

The hell? I was slightly amused, and for a second I forgot the rain. I was about to conduct my last field show, albeit at a rained-out field competition. Right then was probably not the best time for him to be chit-chatting. I shrugged it off, and raised my arms to begin conducting. As I did so, I felt a soreness in my left elbow. Maybe my friend Ben, a fellow senior and trombone section leader, noticed my slight discomfort, because I thought I saw him crack a smile at me from down on the gym floor. A few hours before, he and the other senior guys had given me a rather painful group hug in the parking lot, babbling, "We love you, Paul!", "You're an awesome drum major," et cetera.

I sucked it up, called the band to attention, and began conducting my last show. My swan song. My last performance as the Drum Major of the LCHS Marching Band...



And Flashback: Four Months Earlier.

The whole Band Council was cramped in Amanda's pool house amidst the arid August heat. She was talking about something Band President-related. The rest of the council just stared on, perhaps listening to what she was saying, but most likely once again focused on her notoriously large breas-...uhh, pool house. Yup, her large pool house. It was very well...developed. Maybe even Double Developed.

My mind was elsewhere. Across the room, I noticed Ben, the trombone section leader, scowling at me. I tried to ignore it, but his glare was intense, as if he would stand up at any minute and punch me in the face. Clearly, he didn't like me at the moment, and incorrectly thought I had sold out Virgile, the previous drum major. I had a lot of damage control to do.

We just finished discussing the theme of the show: "The Seven Seas," featuring music by Joseph Curiale. Both Mrs. Hamre and I were relieved to have a new marching instructor, particularly because he wasn't Greg, which already made him an improvement by default. The new guy's name was Mike Freed, and he was a marching instructor at Thousand Oaks High School. I had friends in their band, and I knew they had a strong program, so I was optimistic about the season. Except for the whole part about everyone hating me. Yeah, that sucked.

On the first day of our band camp, I had a discussion with Mike Freed about our plan for teaching marching. It was all very...awkward. In a lot of ways, Mike was the anti-Greg. Now, that's not necessarily a good thing, either. Despite all of Greg's problems, he was extremely charismatic. Mike quite possibly had the intellectual and social capacity of an 8 year-old. "Dork" would be a huge understatement. He was always dirty, spit when he talked, and frequently had snot dripping out from his nose.

I told him that I thought we should spend the entire first week focusing on marching fundamentals, because that was always our weakness. We shouldn't worry about learning the show until the second week, when we would have a good foundation to build off of. Mike disagreed, and explained why. It was something to do with the way Thousand Oaks High School does things, and how wonderful they are, and how he has been teaching for years blah blah blah...but alas, let's remind ourselves that I was just a 16-year old boy during all this. I didn't really have the focus or the patience for his flawed reasoning. Plus, he always did this thing where he talked a lot with his arms, allowing everyone to see his massive yellow armpit stains flapping around. And these were not small stains. They seemed to spread all the way down the sides and back of his shirt. I actually made sure to stand 2 feet away at all times, out of fear that his yellowed stains would somehow spread onto MY clothes. Meanwhile, during this whole discussion, Mike had some assistant guy next to him, contributing nothing to the conversation besides an occasional head nod. To this day, I don't know who or what this assistant was. I guess he was a little man, shorter than me (which is saying something). I never heard him say a word, and after a few days, he simply...disappeared. It's possible he got caught up in an epic Dungeons and Dragons game and is actually still playing it right now.

After our conversation, Captain Pitstain and his pet hobbit walked off together to chat. I heard Captain Pitstain mumbling to his little friend/pet, "This kid is a typical drum major. He thinks he knows what's best. He's in over his head, blah blah blah...," as they trailed off. I'm surprised I'm not permanently blind after rolling my eyes so much that day.

Maybe that's when I realized it. There was a reason we could never seem to get a really good marching instructor. They simply don't exist. Anyone that's talented enough to be good at teaching it would surely have at least a slightly better career. We were always going to be stuck with either an jerk, or a level-5 dungeonmaster with a homemade Agility+2 broad sword.

For the next week, the section leaders and I taught most of the marching fundamentals on our own. Slowly, their resentful glares toward me began to soften a bit. Nobody really listened to Admiral Armpit for the rest of the season, and he gradually became irrelevant. I'm a little grateful for it, because his incompetence may have been one of the reasons the angry section leaders actually accepted my leadership.

Late one evening toward the end of Band Camp, all of the seniors gathered in an empty hallway in our dorm. We joked about Uncle Underarms and his little friend, who had strangely, but most appreciatively, vanished. My senior class was much different than the seniors from the year before. While the last class was a large, accomplished group, we were much smaller and far less musically gifted. The advantage of a small class, though, was that we were all very close. We were basically 15 immature boys, and Amanda was the one girl who somehow was able to get what she wanted out of us. It was strange...she seemed to possess, some sort of feature, perhaps, that always drew our attention. Anyway, after a while, the conversation drifted toward Greg, and Virgile, and what had happened at the beginning of the summer. Richie, the baritone section leader, turned to me and asked, "Yeah, Paul. So, why did you rat out Virgile?"

Suddenly, the scowling returned. It seemed that they all wanted answers. With all of them together, it was my opportunity to clear up the truth once and for all. When I described the series of unfortunate events that led to my ostricization, then explained that it wasn't me who sold Virgile out, and that it was all a colossal misunderstanding, they believed me. "Yeah, I didn't think you would ever do something like that," Richie added at the end. It was a huge relief. Like going to the bathroom after Thanksgiving dinner. Or like...finishing a nonstop 48-hour hike up a steep mountain, and finally going to the bathroom for the first time in two days. Or like... spending a really, really long time explaining to your friends why you're not a narc, and then going to the bathroom.

A few days later, I had one of my biggest setbacks of the year. After band camp, the whole band travels back home to perform everything we've learned so far for our parents. After working nonstop for two weeks, I was severely exhausted at this point. All I had to do was conduct one show, and then I could go home and sleep for two or three days. However, when we arrived at the football field, there were no yard lines. Marching on a field WITH lines is hard enough as it is. A performance without lines....well....let's just say I contemplated changing the show theme to "The Village Idiots' Convention: Presented by the La Canada School for the Blind."

I worked up and down the field, using whatever I could find as yard markers. When it was time to perform, I climbed the podium as the band members marched onto the field. Several chunks of the band were at least 5 yards off from their correct spots. Everyone looked confused. My makeshift show theme was sounding more and more attractive.

I readied myself to conduct the show. A few seconds after I began, I realized that I started the piece at least 20 beats per minute too slow. I tried to speed it up, but only a few people were looking up at me, while others were frantically searching the unlabeled field for their spots. Soon, there were two tempos going. Then even more. I looked to my left, and Professor Perspiration was waving his arms trying to get some poor freshman clarinet player to move over, his stained shirt billowing like a giant yellow surrender flag. Maybe our "Seven Seas" theme was actually appropriate here. I could see him sweating profusely from where I stood conducting, like a ship taking on water. We miraculously managed to finish the show. Mike Freed's shirt was now repulsively transparent. Apparently, our ship had sunk.

Afterwards, I walked down from the podium, probably ready to vomit at any moment. Mrs. Hamre intercepted me on the way to the nearest garbage can. She was trying to make me feel better: "Wow, Paul. You really lost it. But, believe me, I've seen much worse at these things." I didn't feel better. I felt demoralized. Some of the seniors came up to me and tried to cheer me up. After some time, we were all joking about the countless mistakes we had all made during the show. Man, we had a lot of work to do. Good thing November was over two months away.



And, Fast Forward!!! By November, our group of seniors had clicked amazingly well. No, we weren't perfect, but we managed to accomplish a lot while having fun, a feat that last year's class was unable to complete. We had our second to last competition at the Hart Rampage Tournament in early November. We even won 1st Place in our division!!! Out of One! Regardless of that fact, our show had improved significantly since the disaster after band camp. Now, we had one more competition left. I would be the last regular competition of my high school career. If we scored high enough, though, we would qualify for Championships.

Since we had finished learning all the moves in the show, we were essentially just cleaning things and making tweaks to boost our music and general effect scores. During the week of our last competition, Mrs. Hamre was called in for jury duty and placed on a case. She knew that there was a lot of accomplish, and she couldn't trust a substitute teacher to teach marching band adequately, so she asked me to take over the classes. The problem was that there were two periods of band, and I was only in one of them. For the other class, I was supposed to be in AP Physics. It was probably a mistake on my part, but I ended up missing physics one day to go teach marching band. I didn't think Mrs. Waters really cared, because she seemed sadly aware of the fact that she was a horrible physics teacher. I could never understand what she was saying through her thick Scottish twang anyway.

So, I went to teach marching band. I took advantage of this time to work on some musical issues that had been bothering me, and add some stylistic elements to the show. We actually got a lot done, and it would certainly help boost our scores at the final competition.

It didn't take long before I was called into the Attendance Office for "ditching class." I was probably unjustifiably frustrated by this, because I was clearly guilty, but I couldn't help but resent the fact that I was being reprimanded for missing one class to go TEACH another class, while my friends were cutting school to go to the beach, or go out to eat, or simply to take a nap. I needed Mrs. Waters' signature to clear my name, and I explained to her my situation. She gave me her usual sarcastic look and said, "Wull now Paul, yeh shunt be dun thiz so' ouf Bit 'snut guh fo' yo' recor un' Bit an' yo' sho' know thiz Bit fo' th'exam bit in may an' yo' prolly gun' geh oul tho' attendance hoffice folk righ' up mental wud me an' ah dun need tha' Bit righ' now."

See, her lips were moving, but everything just sounded like "Bit Bit BIT BIT BIT." I just sort of stood confused, and then innocently handed her the paper, hoping that she had agreed to sign it at some point during her incoherent babbling. Then she leered at me and said something like, "Was thiz bit? Ah bit the bit bit bit bit." I had no idea if she was even speaking English at this point, and then reached out further with my attendance office slip. She snatched it, angrily piercing me with her eyes, sighed, and spoke to me with a punishing tone, "You should come to class, Paul." Yeah, I understood that last bit.


By the day of the last competition, I felt very confident. Our show was much better, and everyone was really eager to perform. As we loaded the buses, I could feel the excitement from the students around me. And in just a few hours, they would be able to show that audience just how hard they had worked since the last competition.

Then the rain came...pounding against the bus windows on our way to Moorpark College. I began to worry. I had heard about competitions being rained out in the past, and then subsequently moved indoors for a standstill performance. According to the rules, scores given at rained-out competitions could not be used to qualify for Championships. We would be out of the running by default.

After we pulled into the parking lot at Moorpark College, I dashed over to one of the other buses to ask Mrs. Hamre what was going on. She told me exactly what I couldn't bear to hear. The competition was rained out. We would play a standstill performance in the basketball arena. Our Championship dreams were effectively quashed.

Before I could walk back to the other buses to inform my fellow band members of the sad news, the seniors walked out into the rain to ask me what was going on. I explained our situation, and they responded with disappointed and despondent looks.

"So all our work over the past two weeks was a waste?," one of them asked. I just shrugged. Finally, one of the section leaders spoke up and said, "Well, nothing we can do now. This is our last competition. Let's make it fun." Then they all started hooting and shouting and jumping around me saying, "WE LOVE YOU PAUL" like a drunken mob. I felt an arm bash into my left elbow, but I didn't care. I started laughing, and maniacally so, after one of them started tickling me. My friends knew I was exceptionally ticklish, and they all joined in. I laughed uncontrollably until I fell to the ground, clutching my elbow and practically having an asthma attack. Ha...I could barely breathe. It hurt so good.

The evanescent cheer ended when I returned to each bus to tell the marching band members the unfortunate news. Some were confused, but most just looked on, disappointed. They begrudgingly grabbed their instruments, and walked into a nearby practice hall. Since there was no need to go over much of the marching or visual effects, we had a lot of down time. There was a chance for the seniors to speak to everyone and share their thoughts, but I'll touch on this later. After some time, we picked up our instruments, and marched toward the basketball arena.

During the march to the gym, everything began to hit me. I had pictured how this day would turn out for a while now. I envisioned us performing the best show of my four years, blowing the audience away, beating our rivals to take the first place trophy during the awards ceremony, celebrating as a band after the joyous result, and then heading home satisfied with the season and with a ticket punched to Championships. I figured that had to be the natural result of four years of hard work, dedication, obstacles, and frustration. All of the anxiety and sleepless nights caused by Greg had to be for something. We earned the glory. How could I expect anything less?

As I walked up the basketball arena risers to take my place as conductor, I thought longingly of the ideal end - that grand finale that I had wanted for so long. I didn't know how I was supposed to feel, now that my dream and reality were officially and irreconcilably different. I raised my arms and began conducting my last show. I may have even teared up slightly during our rendition of "I Have a Love," our beautiful ballad. After the final note, I bowed for the judges, the audience, and my 160 peers on the gym floor. I stepped down and led the way as they followed me one last time off our stage, out from under the glow of the flourescent lights, and into the rainy November night.

The Dream, Blast!ed

(to follow The Stock Market Cymbals)

Putting my junior year into words is not going to be an easy task. Unfortunately, compared to my last post, this one is probably going to be more of a downer.......

It was requested from me that I remove this post. If you would like to access it, please email me.

The Stock Market Cymbals

(to follow The Tears and the Years)

While I sit, anxiously waiting to get blown out by the Gators in the Capital One Bowl, I think I'll recap the highlights of my marching band experience over the past eight years. Let me begin with my sophomore year in high school, when I was a member of the La Canada High School Winter Drumline. I was one of four kids on the cymbal line, and we performed and competed in the Southern California Percussion Alliance. The theme of our show was actually really cool. It was entitled "18 Wall Street", and portrayed the Stock Market Crash of 1929.

Now that I'm looking at the name again, I don't think the New York Stock Exchange is even located on 18 Wall Street. Let's see here...Yes. I'm right. Wikipedia is telling me that the address was 18 Broad Street in 1929. Interesting how no one thought any of this at the time. Whatevskis!

Here was the makeup of the battery section of our Drumline:

Snares (3): Mike, Peter, Robby

Tenors (2): Dan Dawg, Johnny

Basses (5): Evan, Vijay, Scott (aka my brother, aka Cow), Alex, David

Cymbals (4): Virgile, Kevin, Amanda, and Me

I spent the majority of my time with my fellow cymbal players. I guess we each had our own...uhhh...talents. Virgile, a junior, was probably the best musician out of all of us. But Kevin, a sophomore, was probably the best at actually playing cymbals. Amanda, also a sophomore, had very large breasts, which were particularly conducive to muffling the sound of the cymbal crash. That leaves me, and I'm struggling to figure out my talent here. I guess I was able to hold the cymbals up longer than everyone else. That's...something. On the whole, though, I would say that our combined musical skills fell somewhere in between mediocre and blithely ignorant.

Most of the people reading this probably don't have a lot of experience playing cymbals. Let me describe the basics: First off, and I don't mean to offend any cymbal players, as I feel that after playing cymbals for three years I can say this...but cymbals are pretty much the least musical instrument EVER. It really doesn't require much skill. Yes, there are over a hundred ways to crash a cymbal, but there are also over a hundred ways to destroy my apartment, and my hamster perfected 78 of them.

One of my favorite parts of cymbal-ing is when you accidentally crash it too close to your body, and you'd pinch your skin between the cymbals. Sometimes we would be standing and practicing and the person next to me would pinch himself, and then scream from the searing pain, and fall to the ground. It was hilarious/horribly, horribly painful. By the end of the season, I'm sure all four of us were pinched and bruised all over our arms and chests, and the marks took months to disappear. The cymbals were also good at completely disabling nearly all of our hand capabilities. It was frustrating to be unable to scratch my nose without bashing a huge piece of metal into my forehead...or answer my cell phone...or plant a garden...or aim into the toilet.

So, back to "18 Wall Street." Looking back, I think that none of us really realized exactly how good we were. In fact, apparently by the end of the season, we were REALLY good, yet, always and forever - blissfully ignorant. The climax of the Winter Drumline season came at the SCPA Championships at Cal State University San Bernadino. We met before dawn on a Saturday morning at LCHS to pack the equipment into the truck. Then we loaded the bus and drove 2 hours to CSUSB. Just like every other drumline competition, we unfolded the drumline floor, and spent a few hours practicing and running through the show. Folding the floor back up was always a huge hassle that no one wanted to do. In order to do a good job, it required about 20 people folding at once. Once folded, the floor weighed over 150 lbs and had to be pushed around on a cart. After we finished, we lugged ourselves and our despised floor to the basketball arena to perform our show for the judges.

Here's how this works: Before a drumline starts performing, the floor needs to be unrolled, then the pit equipment needs to be moved on top of it, then come all of the props, and then we need to pick up our instruments and get into position...all in about a minute. It's unbelievably hectic, and once we're finally ready to perform, we're already out of breath. After setting up, we performed our stock market crash-themed show, and quickly and frantically removed everything off of the floor. Plus, since we don't have enough time to nicely fold the floor, we just quickly rolled it up into a long mess. About 20 of us stood in a line alongside the floor, picked it up, and sprinted with it out of the gym. Once we were outside, we left it in one big heap in the rain.

At this point, we were ready to eat lunch, and go home. We knew we wouldn't have to worry about performing in the finals, and we didn't really want to stay to watch the evening performances. Several thoughts involving burning the Floor were also floating around. As we were eating, Mark, our instructor, walked up and told us to get our instruments and start practicing. We all stood confused, which may not have actually phased Mark, because we were perpetually confused about everything for five months now. Apparently we had placed second at prelims - well over the qualifying mark for finals. Our shock transitioned quickly to excitement, and back to shock again, after someone shouted, "Oh, crap! The Floor!"

No, we didn't burn it. But it was lying in the rain and dirt, completely drenched. After practicing for an hour or so, and after the rain subsided, we set out to cleaning the Floor. Alas, our resources were extremely limited, both in terms of cleaning supplies, and mental competence. Most of us got on our hands and knees and started rubbing it down with paper towels. The parents helped out, too...and I even remember Mrs. Hamre wiping the Floor down.

You may have also noticed that I started capitalizing "Floor". Halfway through this entry, I realized what a significant impact this particular floor has had ON MY LIFE. Surely significant enough to warrant a capital letter. If "The Depression" gets to be capitalized, then "The Floor" deserves it, too. Perhaps even italicized. And underlined twice. And sandwiched in between several crying and angry-faced emoticons.

Anyway, back to cleaning :-( !!The Floor!! )-: . We honestly weren't sure if it was even working. It was already dark, and there was no outside lighting. Some of the drummers thought it would help to spread out the pit covers over The Floor while Elena and Andrew, two very very small freshman pit members, sat on the covers so we could drag them across The Floor, hopefully absorbing some of the moisture. After dragging the freshmen back and forth across it several dozen times, and after running out of paper towel reserves, we stood in the pitch black staring at the barely visible Floor, and proclaimed it clean.

At this point, my nerves were catching up with me. Since we didn't ever think we were good, there was never that much pressure on us during our performances. Suddenly, we had the opportunity to place at championships! We had the opportunity to beat Arcadia High School, one of our rivals. We focused ourselves, marched our equipment back over to the gym, and waited for our turn to take the stage. Typically, we would stand in a circle, pray and hope for a good show before all of our competitions. This time, everything mattered so much more. After we wished each other luck, we stood waiting to ready the gym. Just like always, we sprinted on, unfolded The Floor, set up the props, positioned the pit equipment, picked up our instruments, and waited for the judges to tell us when to start.

As I reached for my cymbals, I distinctly remember Peter next to me saying, "Oh.....Shit!" He was staring at The Floor, his jaw dropped. I looked at The Floor in shock. It was completely covered in a clearly visible and thick layer of dirt and sopping wet filth. Obviously, there was nothing we could do at this point. Hopefully it wouldn't really affect our performance. After the judges' "go", we started. From the get-go, I noticed some of the drummers having trouble maintaining their traction on the slippery floor. Each step prompted a squishy sound and seemed to flick water in every direction. I specifically remember nearly face-planting on a touch-and-go early in the show, and then later helping Rachel up when she slipped behind a prop.

By the end of the show, we seemed to get the hang of the slippery surface, and finished a strong performance. Once again, we quickly cleared The Floor, picked it up, and ran out the door. This time, we had absolutely no qualms about leaving The Floor outside in a wet, disgusting, unholy heap. Several drumline members even attacked The Floor, kicking and cursing at it. Though I'm usually a calm and subdued person, I may have even thrown a punch or two.

At the end of the evening, we went to the awards ceremony. For championships, all of the drumline members from every school line up on the court to hear the results and to accept medals. To our right was Ayala High School, the drumline we knew would win First Place. To our left was Arcadia High School, our rival that we hoped to beat. On one side, Arcadia's drummers were giving us dirty and angry looks. On the other, Ayala was all smiles, congratulating us on our performance, and saying things like "Go USA! Go Everyone! We're All Winners!". Ugh...I couldn't stand either one.

One by one, they announced the results. Eventually:

3rd Place: Arcadia High School

2nd Place: La Canada High School!

1st: Ayala

We were all elated! It was such a great end to a crazy day, and a long season. We wore our silver medals proudly, and exited the arena. We thanked all the parents, boarded the bus, and headed home.

During the ride back to La Canada, the excitement slowly began to sink in. I realized how much we had accomplished over the past season. Our long hours and strenuous practicing had paid off, and we developed a strong sense of camaraderie and work ethic. All in all, it was a truly fulfilling experience, and quite an achievement for a group of high schoolers. We got back to LC around dawn, thoroughly exhausted from the days' events. Nevertheless, we all wished each other goodbye and headed home feeling proud, our stock higher than ever.

The Tears and the Years

(to follow The Big Game)

I joined the saddened and tearful band members for our last post-game performance of the season. Traditionally, the seniors perform a senior show after post-game. Though we had hoped to do this amidst the thrill and excitement of victory, we could only feel icy, cold, wet defeat. One bright spot was that this was my opportunity to conduct “Hey, Jude,” a song that is particularly meaningful to me, as it was part of our performance on our Rose Bowl trip my freshman year.


As I stood on the ladder conducting my friends, I couldn’t help but feel that I had been in this position before…conducting under a cold sheet of rain, amidst a sad and tragic atmosphere. In many ways, my band experience during my senior year of high school ended in a similar state. The ups and downs…the hopes and dreams…and the final heartrending and disappointing swan song…but that’s a story for another day.

The point is this: After four years of putting your heart and soul into something, you begin to formulate an ideal end – a grand finale – in your thoughts. The fulfillment of this dream, this quintessential conclusion, becomes supremely important. To miss out on the fruition of this, only to experience tragic defeat, is an unfortunate and unwelcome reality.

Sure, at first this seemed devastating. Many of my peers were even crying, and I really couldn’t blame them. Still, I realized that one loss does not completely determine the success or failure of four years of my life. I thought back to the advice I offered the future drum majors when I stepped down from that role at the end of my senior year in high school:

“Remember, it’s not the end result that matters. What matters is the journey you take to get there. Always try to take the right path.”

So there you have it. Despite the bitter end, I have a lot of proud moments to look back on. The triple-overtime win over MSU. My personal Rose Bowl homecoming. The thrilling victory over Penn State. The destruction of Brady Quinn and the Irish. The Game of the Century against Ohio State. This year’s gutsy wins over Illinois and MSU.

As I marched off the field on this cold, emotional day, I thought: Today’s loss doesn’t undermine the emotion and the pride I have felt over the past four years. It merely reminds me that the world is full of trials and tribulations, but life does not have to be absolutely perfect in order to be fulfilling. I have been a part of great things in this stadium, and those are the memories that I will carry with me forever. Those are the events that make me who I am. And those are the moments that I kept in my thoughts as I walked out of the stadium one last time, amidst the cool, silent air…beneath the gentle glow of the Saturday night lights.






And now back to that quote from my senior year. That’s a pretty mature statement coming from a 17-year old. I’m pretty impressed…and I’m ‘me’. Now that the season is over, and Bowl Trip is over a month away, I should reflect on my lifelong band experience. What led me to see things the way I do; To see that…between the good and the bad...the weeks and the months…the tears and the years, we must always remember to appreciate our successes, and learn from our missteps.

And if we make sure to remember that…then no, we really can’t lose, can we?

The Big Game

November 17, 2007. Michigan Stadium.
The University of Michigan Wolverines versus the Ohio State Buckeyes

Gameday. We were focused. We meant business. I arrived on the steps of Revelli Hall at dawn and joined my fellow seniors for one final performance of “Salvation is Created”. As the sun rose, the light shone off the dewed sidewalks, reflecting the iridescent colors of fall, of our instruments, of the morning sky, and of the maize and blue atmosphere. With each ascending line of the magnificent piece, I yearned more for my own salvation; for the glory that this day could bring for Michigan faithful.

The rigor and intensity of the marching rehearsal was assuaged by the cool morning breeze. The practice was almost a formality. We knew we were prepared. It was almost as if the difficulty of this particular show scared us into focusing that much harder…just so we would be ready for the game. The Alto Tailgate was delicious as usual, but I was less focused on stuffing my face and more focused on watching ESPN College Gameday and getting into my uniform.

I went back to my apartment with Tom and Dustin to get changed. Seeing Ann Arbor on College Gameday was pretty exciting. We verbally abused Kirk Herbsteit while putting on our uniforms for our final march to the stadium. We even wore eyeblack to look that much more intimidating. Then we joined our fellow section members and paraded to the Big House. Even though the air was frigid, the rain was falling, and the odds were against us, we remained focused on the task at hand.



My final pregame in Michigan Stadium was a tearjerker. It’s impossible to adequately describe the feeling of coming out of the tunnel. Just imagine the nothingness…the utter silence within the concrete walls of Michigan Stadium, save for one constant drumbeat, beating in tempo with the hearts and minds of 235 maize and blue-clad musicians. Immediately, the silence vanishes behind you as if it never existed, and is replaced by the raucous cheering of 112,000 passionate fans in every direction. The first note of “M Fanfare” ignites the air, fueled by the ageless Michigan tradition. Even after all these years, the overwhelming nature of the piece still engages the fans, making them feel as if they are hearing it for the first time. As we march across the field to the tune of “The Victors,” the weight of our legs becomes exponentially more burdensome. However, the singing and chanting voices of the crowd serve as a momentary steroid, stimulating our adrenaline and inspiring us to push ourselves to the limit. Meanwhile, the faint boos of the opposing fans are heard in the background, just enough to make their presence known and motivate our Michigan pride. As we march off the field, it seems as if the last twelve minutes were both the shortest and longest of our lives. The perpetual struggle to endure the difficulty of pregame, compounded with the ephemeral transition from silence to riotous cheering to fleeting exhilaration, all of which is elegantly moderated by the timeless emotion and tradition that is 'Michigan Football'.

The game we were waiting for was finally underway. Chad Henne and Mike Hart were both playing, and we took a 3-0 lead early on. The band members around me were as fiery as I had seen them, treating our momentary lead with both satisfaction and guarded optimism. OSU’s running back Chris ‘Beanie’ Wells became the bulk of the opposing offense. He scored a touchdown in the second quarter, and OSU led 7-3 at the half. So far, it was a defensive struggle, but the cheers from band members did not subside. We took the field for our halftime performance, pouring our collective energy into the final challenging show in Michigan Stadium.

After halftime, the crowd was rejuvenated. We returned to our seats to cheer on our heroes, our efforts bolstered by the screams of the nearby student section. Before long, however, Beanie Wells silenced those cheers with an early third quarter touchdown. Suddenly, the student section was not a factor. The energy and excitement seemed limited to just the band section. We continued to cheer, but the football team produced one three-and-out after another. Slowly, the cheers around me subsided and the marching band crowd absorbed into the silence of the student section. Each subsequent three-and-out was like a twist of a knife. All of the faces around me showed concern and heartbreak. The icy rain and moldy marching band raincoats only added to our misery. As the fourth quarter wound down, all hope seemed lost. The reality was that the senior football players would indeed finish 0-4 against their bitter rival. I would graduate without ever beating OSU. And as the clock struck zero, Lloyd Carr walked off the field one last time, with a tragic loss in his final home game.

Final Score: Ohio State 14 – Michigan 3

The Eve of Battle

Today has been a pretty exciting day of immersing myself in the Michigan tradition. We had a Fanfare Band gig this morning at Schembechler Hall, where the football team practices. It was for a ceremony to recognize the construction of a new football practice facility. Coach Carr was there, looking classy and business-like as usual. Man, do I love him. Any chance to play for him makes me feel all warm and bubbly inside. This calls for a happy face moment…yup…here it is: ☺

That felt good. However, on our way out of the building, we walked by some medical room where we could see Chad Henne lying on a hospital-type bed. He didn’t look so great, either. I really hope he can play tomorrow. Otherwise, you know what’s gonna happen. That’s right…here it is:

:(


Band practice was pretty freezing today, but the show is actually going pretty well. There were a lot of fans that braved the conditions to see us today. All of Ann Arbor seems blissfully high on Michigan spirit. It’s awesome.

After practice, we literally had to run to the Diag for another Fanfare Band gig. This was for the Beat OSU Pep Rally, part of the newly formed “Beat OSU Week.” It was really exciting…Jamie Morris spoke, John Bacon spoke, Jim Brandstatter spoke, and I had a front row seat for all of it. Also, College Gameday is coming to Ann Arbor…and we’re playing for the Big Ten Title and a Rose Bowl berth. Everything seems to be in place for what could be one of the best Saturdays of my life…



So, cross your fingers. It’s time to kick the tires and light the fires. I’m hoping for a glorious day tomorrow…For the Maize and Blue. For the players. For Coach Carr. And for all the dedicated Michigan fans who stood by their team during such a turbulent year.

Go Blue!

The Fighting Hearts Ailing

So, just by being a member of the Michigan Marching Band, you are constantly immersed in Michigan football tradition. In fact, any band member would probably agree that the performance of the football team affects how you act in your daily life. It affects your mood, it affects your relationships…it’s almost as if we are living vicariously through the lives of players on the field.

That being said, the emotional roller coaster that is Michigan Athletics is enough to take years off of your life. On top of that, the physical damage on your body induced by the marching techniques we do doesn’t help. I have rarely marched in peak physical health at any point during my four years. As a freshman, I pulled a hip flexor and limped my way through September. My sophomore year, I nearly collapsed during Band Week for reasons I still can’t understand. Last year, I managed to sprain my ankle just before Rank Leader Retreat.

This year, however, has been slightly different. I’ve been pretty healthy from the get-go. Plus, I’m not fat. (Seriously, there are a surprising amount of hefty people in the MMB). Nevertheless, during recent weeks, I feel like my legs and ankles have been turning into, for lack of a better word, “mush”. And it seems like my injuries have worsened as the football players’ have done the same. Hence my initial point. See how I tied that together there? You’re so smart, Paul. And such a pretty face, too!

Anyway, I was lucky to have a weekend off, as the Wisconsin game is away and I’m not travelling. Unfortunately, Chad Henne and Mike Hart took the weekend off, as well. Both have injuries, and weren’t playing. Chad took a few snaps, but clearly couldn’t do much. Hart didn’t play at all. We lost. Final Score: Wisconsin 37, Michigan 21. It was just all…very depressing. I’m hoping that we can all take this next week to heal. I just don’t want to experience another loss to Ohio State, but it seems like all the elements are against us right now. Gotta have faith in my Wolverines! One week to go!

The Calm Before the Storm

Great News! My legs are feeling much less mushy right now…which is excellent, because our show this week is pretty strenuous. We’re doing a Cirque de Soleil show, which involves crazy backwards-follow-the-leader-blindly-imminent-disaster-certain-impending-doom moves. Still, it’s nice to have a challenging show for my last game in Michigan Stadium. What’s NOT nice is having to practice it in such freezing conditions. On top of that…we’re learning Senior Show this week, which involves even more rehearsal in the bitter, bitter cold. On the bright side, I do get to conduct “Hey, Jude!”

I’m excited for Saturday, but I’m also painfully nervous. After putting so much dedication and emotion into being a marching band member and a Michigan fan over the past four years, you can see why I’d like to go out on a high note (punny!). Not only that, but with these senior football players, and with what could possibly be Lloyd Carr’s last Big Ten game, I’m wishing for a win for them, as well.

Honestly, this is all pretty nerve-wracking. A win this weekend will be very fulfilling. A loss…well…I really don’t want to go through that again.

The Maize and Blue Rising, Part I

Alright, so…the reality is that I suck at updating this blog. Nevertheless, I’m going to try to recap a few weeks at once here. Let’s start with the Illinois game. Sound good? Good.

October 20, 2007. Memorial Stadium.
The University of Michigan Wolverines versus the Illinois Fighting Illini

The week leading up to this game was pretty stressful for hardcore Michigan fans. Mike Hart and Chad Henne were both injured? Or were they? Yes? No? Of course we were left guessing. Would they start? Would they play? Moreover, the fact that Illinois is actually kind of good this year just added to my anxiety.

On top of ALL of this, I couldn’t even watch the game. The Michigan Marching Band was performing at Band-o-Rama in Hill Auditorium, which conflicted with the football game time. Just before our performance started, marching band members were exploring the Modern Languages Building, looking for televisions with decent reception so we could get a glimpse of our beloved Wolverines. Naturally, we finally found one working TV, saw Mike Hart out of uniform on the sidelines, and then immediately had to leave for our performance.

Being members of the alto saxophone section, the consensus most prominent and most important musical section in the band, we were placed on…the very back of the stage. Some of us were actually stuck behind a pillar. And, I think Alan might have been standing underneath a tuba player. After 26,000 sets of entries, the brass players all backed up about a foot onstage, effectively smashing us into the back wall.

No matter. My lovely co-rank leader Nicole and I were fortunate to be on the end next to Carl Grapentine, the announcer and “voice” of the Michigan Marching Band. On a side note: I kind of wish Carl were the voice of my entire life. Like…a personal narrator. You know…like Emma Thompson in “Stranger than Fiction.” Except…without the crappy storyline, and bad acting, and painfully uncreative irony. Seriously, now I’m kind of angry. Emma Thompson is such a good actress, and I could have written that screenplay while sitting on the toilet and balancing a bar of soap on my forehead and doing ab crunches with ankle weights on. Not that I ever do things like that in the bathroom……………I don’t! I swear! Don’t look at me that way…COME BACK, CARL GRAPENTINE! I miss your voice!!!! I’m sorry!!!!!

Wow, how did I get so off-topic there? Yeah, so….Carl would go backstage during the songs and check out the football game, then come back and give Nicole and me updates. Unfortunately, these updates were, “It doesn’t look good guys.” “Hart’s out. Henne’s hurt. Mario Manningham’s hurt. We’re losing. We look pretty bad right now.”

Words cannot express how utterly stressful this concert was while knowing this information. Here we were, just toot-toot-tooting our horns while there was an f-ing BATTLE going on. Needless to say, the moment the concert ended, we literally sprinted to my apartment, in full uniform, saxophones-in-hand and arms FLAILING in the air.

We were able to see the whole fourth quarter, during which Chad Henne led a furious comeback while injured, and Adrian Arrington accidentally executed a RIDICULOUS trick play where he ran right on a reverse and tossed a touchdown pass to Mario Manningham to give us the lead. Final Score: Michigan 27, Illinois 17. Amazing Game.

The Maize and Blue Rising, Part Deux

November 3, 2007. Spartan Stadium.
The University of Michigan Wolverines versus the Michigan State Spartans

Despite Henne’s gutsy game, it was clear that he was still beat up. Two weeks later, we traveled to East Lansing for the Michigan State game. Chad Henne and Mike Hart were both playing, and seemed okay, but still not completely healthy. The game reflected this, and MSU had a 10-point lead midway through the fourth quarter. On top of that, Henne aggravated his injury, forcing Ryan Mallett to come in. Approximately 3 seconds after Ryan Mallett had stepped onto the field, he had already fumbled the ball, which Mike Hart subsequently snatched up and took for a first down. Way to keep me excited/give me a heart-attack, Ryan Mallett.

Obviously, Henne had to come back in the game because there was no way Mallett could hold onto the football, let alone lead a comeback. In just over 6 minutes, Henne lofted a 14-yard touchdown pass to Greg Mathews, and a spectacular 31-yarder to Mario Manningham. The once-booming Spartan crowd quickly reverted to their usual emotions of worthlessness and self-pity. Final Score: Michigan 28, Michigan State 24.

I must say, it must be extremely demoralizing to be a Michigan State fan. Here’s my four-year recap: My freshman year, we were down by 17 with six minutes left, and still won in three overtimes. My sophomore year, we won after one overtime. My junior year, we blew them out. Then this. Ha Ha Sparty. Sucks to be you.

Then, as we were marching off the field, one of the Michigan State assistant coaches tried to walk through our ranks. Just to be clear, this is a big No-No. Don’t ever expect to walk through the band without being pelted with drumsticks, then tripped and trounced on, then left for dead. We simply told the coach he couldn’t walk through. Infuriated, he retorted by screaming at the whole band, “YOU PEOPLE ARE FUCKING CLASSLESS! THIS IS SOME CLASSLESS BULLSHIT!” His shouting echoed through the emptied stadium, and he stood there red-faced, screaming profanities. Interestingly, he was carrying a small child on his shoulders during this whole episode. I guess cussing out 300 marching band members in front of a young, innocent child is considered classy in East Lansing. Oh you Michiganders, you impress me more every day!

Now, I must say, this football season has been anything BUT boring. After these thrilling wins, the App State and Oregon fiascos seem so far away. Kudos to Lloyd Carr and these student-athletes who came back from a disastrous start to salvage the season. After eight consecutive wins, we’re back on top of the Big Ten Standings, and the final game against Ohio State will be for a BCS berth. In such an emotional year, this team has played tough, and the true fans have stood by them. After falling early, the Maize and Blue are rising, and this team can still make Michigan history when all is said and done.

The Progression

October 13th, 2007. Michigan Stadium
The University of Michigan Wolverines versus the Purdue Boilermakers

Following a four game winning streak, it seemed like Michigan Football was progressing back in the right direction. With so many home games, and my classes, and everything else, I started to feel physically and emotionally drained. Fortunately for me, Fall Break was ahead. All that stood in the way was a talented Purdue team.

The Michigan offense started out aggressively. After just a few minutes, Henne had already completed one touchdown to Mario Manningham. Purdue responded and tied it up midway through the first quarter. However, what followed was some of the most efficient offensive play I’ve seen since being a student at Michigan. After two Mike Hart touchdowns, two Carlos Brown touchdowns, and another Manningham receiving touchdown, the scoreboard read Michigan 48 – Purdue 7. Purdue would score in garbage time, but the end of the game still left me satisfied. Final Score: Michigan 48 – Purdue 21.

At this point, it was clear that a break from football was needed. And what could better fill that void than ALTO PROG!

What is Alto Prog, you ask? Well, if my parents are reading this blog, this is where you stop and move on to the next entry. Otherwise, just replace every mention of an alcoholic beverage with a type of flower, or fluffy animal, or something like that. Yup. Completely innocent here.

Anyway…Alto Prog. This is where all of the members of the Alto Saxophone section come together for an evening and progress from house to house, enjoying a different drink (tulip? bunny rabbit?) at each stop. This year’s theme was….well….‘me’. “Paul Prog” began with a Case Race symbolizing “Paul’s Conception”, where we split into three teams and drank three cases of beer as fast as possible. The winning group would achieve my conception! Because isn’t that the most difficult race of your existence anyway?

Next stop: Paul’s’ Bar Mitzvah. Here, we had a candle lighting ceremony where we recognized each member of the section. They all joined me to light their candles, and then Alan played Hava Nagila on his saxophone while the alto masses lifted me into the air on a chair. It was sublime.

Then came the Mojitos. This was meant to represent my first halftime show, which was the Latin Show during my freshman year. All in all, this was one of the best drinks of the night.

Then came my stop. Paul’s First Love: Tequila Shots. I won’t give a background story here, other than the fact that I am completely innocent, and I spend all of my free time petting animals or feeding the homeless. Anyway, while everyone enjoyed their shots, complete with salt and lime, I was frantically cooking made-to-order crepes in my kitchen. I made about 50 crepes in 35 minutes. Each person had their choice of ingredients, including nutella, bananas, strawberries, whip cream, and coconut. Best drunk food EVER.

Up next was rum and apple cider. Yes, this signified my first real Fall in Ann Arbor. And Pat and Nicole did an excellent job mixing these drinks (arranging flowers).

Craig’s stop was “Paul Goes to the Beach.” They asked me to parade around with my shirt off here, but I declined. Instead, I happily enjoyed the sex on the beach drinks.

Finally, our last stop was “Paul’s First Kiss.” We each enjoyed peppermint patties, which consisted of drinking peppermint schnapps and washing it down with chocolate syrup. This was definitely the messiest stop, and we all probably pet the bunnies a little more than we should have.

Anyway, the evening ended at a huge house party, and the altos seemed satisfied with the evening. Yes, this was definitely the best Alto Prog yet, and it’ll be a tough one to beat. Fall Break is ahead, but after that, it’s back to work. This season is still just beginning.

The Irish, Creamed.

September 15th, 2007. Michigan Stadium.
The University of Michigan Wolverines versus the Notre Dame Fighting Irish

In an unexpected turn of events, both these teams entered the matchup with 0-2 records. On top of that, “Fire Lloyd” shirts began selling all over campus. I found this immensely frustrating. Not only were fans criticizing their beloved coach, but they seemed to lose all hope for the season. So what if they fired Carr? What would that solve? Yeah, let’s fire our coach in the middle of the season. Then maybe we’ll win some games. Idoits.

Fortunately for me, I am surrounded by some of the best fans on campus in the Michigan Marching Band. All week long, a mentality of perfection surged through the band. We knew that we would only expect the best from ourselves this week, and we hoped to spread that attitude to Wolverines in such dire need of guidance and inspiration.

At Friday’s Pep Rally, the Michigan Marching Band ignited the atmosphere with our energy. Jamie Morris eloquently and openly SCOLDED Michigan fans for their abysmal behavior. Lloyd Carr was focused on the task at hand. Mike Hart GUARENTEED a victory over our rivals. And Russell Crowe even came to the game to inspire the football team to win.

This week’s halftime show was music from “Guitar Hero.” We opened with Iron Man, intimidating all of Michigan Stadium with a wall of sound. At the climax of the show, we headed to the student section and rocked out to Fire Bird. The Stadium was rocking. The football team was rolling. And Notre Dame was reeling. With Chad Henne injured and out, Mike Hart carried his team to victory, and a dominant 38-0 win over the Irish gave us a glimmer of hope for the future.

The Road Test

September 23rd, 2007. Ryan Field.
The University of Michigan Wolverines versus the Northwestern Wildcats

So, I wanted to go to this game more than anything. Every year, the students in the MMB travel as fans to one away game, and this was it. I wanted to be in attendance for Michigan’s first road test of the season. Unfortunately, I had a small test of my own.

Yes, while my friends were traveling to Chicago for some fun, I was a nervous wreck for my LSAT. Not only that, but I was being held hostage by my brother and his girlfriend, Jovauna. Let me explain:

So my LSAT was at Washtenaw Community College at 8:00 AM on Saturday morning. Since all my friends were in Chicago, I didn’t really have anyone to drive me there. I asked my brother to give me a ride, but he wasn’t fond of the idea of driving to my apartment at 7 AM to pick me up. Alas, my only choice was to stay with them the night before and wake their lazy asses up to take me in the morning. So that’s what I did.

The test itself started out rough. The other people in the room kept asking stupid questions, and I was afraid that their stupidity was rubbing off on me. I felt unfocused at the start, but slowly settled in. I felt fine when it was over, but all I wanted to do was get to a television and watch the game.

Because of the new Big Ten Network, Comcast was not covering this game on any of its channels. I had to go to Damon’s with my brother and Jovauna and stand at a bar to watch. Furthermore, it seemed like Michigan was going through the same struggles during their road test that I had during my test. They seemed unfocused and intimidated at first, as Northwestern took the lead during the first half. But slowly, Chad Henne took charge, and refocused his team. Mike Hart carried the offense, and Henne hit his receivers when necessary. The defense had a terrific fourth quarter, and Michigan escaped Evanston victorious. Michigan 28 – Northwestern 16.

At this point in the season, I’ve observed something very different about this football team. These seniors seem to be playing very tough, mentally…Tougher than I have ever seen them play. Mike Hart is literally carrying the team on his back, while Chad Henne is pushing through his injury to make plays. Can they continue the trend and salvage a season that started out so horribly, horribly wrong?

The Aftershock

September 8th, 2007. Michigan Stadium.
The University of Michigan Wolverines versus the Oregon Ducks

Bounceback Game. After last week’s surprising loss to ASU, Michigan was the laughingstock of the nation. You could tell that people on campus felt embarrassed and shocked. Still, the general consensus was that Michigan would easily bounce back and annihilate an inferior Oregon squad. As Saturday approached, shock turned to optimism. Everyone knew Appalachian State was an aberration. Maybe it was the world’s way of paying us back for making so much fun of their recruitment commercial. Yes, Michigan fans seemed confident again. Michigan Football would return to glory, and all would be right with the world.

And then Dennis Dixon happened.

Oregon’s quarterback produced three touchdowns before halftime. Not only that, but with Oregon up 32-7 in the second quarter, Michigan fans turned on their heroes. Students began cheering “RYAN-MALLET” with each incomplete pass from Henne. Even after Chad injured his knee, and pushed through the pain for an entire series, Michigan fans tormented their quarterback. All in all, this was not a good day for Wolverine Nation. The team looked slow. The fans were abysmal. And a 0-2 start has students calling for Lloyd Carr’s head.

Final Score: Oregon 39 – Michigan 7

So now shock has turned to frustration. We are experiencing uncharted territory. This will divide the men from the boys. Is it too late to salvage the season? I think not.

The Shock

September 1st, 2007. Opening Game. Michigan Stadium.
The University of Michigan Wolverines versus the Appalachian State University Mountaineers.

Standing in my seat with the rest of the Michigan Marching Band in Michigan Stadium, I struggled to comprehend exactly what was happening in front of my eyes. Appalachian State was leading Michigan 31-26 at the beginning of the fourth quarter during the opening game of the 2007 season. That’s right…Division I-AA Appalachian State was winning. That’s like a minor league team outplaying a major leaguer.

The 110,000 fans in the Big House all experienced a collective state of shock. How was Michigan going to escape this mess? Who would be the hero? I thought the answer was clear when Mike Hart, in a phenomenal effort, single-handedly willed a spectacular 54-yard touchdown run into the end zone with 4:36 left in the game, putting Michigan up 32-31.

Still, Appalachian State roared back with a 24-yard field goal with 26 seconds left to lead 34-32. Twenty-Six seconds left. Who would be the hero for Michigan? Chad Henne launched a ballsy 46-yard pass to Mario Manningham, putting Michigan back into field goal range with time left for one play. All that stood in the way of an extraordinary win for Michigan was a 37-yard field goal by kicker Jason Gingell as time expired. Crossing my fingers and holding hands with my fellow section members, I watched the final play unfold. The ball was snapped. My heart was racing. 110,000 people looked on as Gingell’s foot hit the pigskin, and…

Flashback: Three Days Earlier. Just a few weeks after returning to the U.S., I was already deeply immersed in the world of marching band. As a rank leader candidate, my “Band Week” was particularly long and strenuous, but certainly rewarding. My fellow rank leader candidates and I were delighted to see such improvement among the freshmen, and were expecting another awesome year. After practice one day, Alan and I ordered some Chinese food complete with tasty fortune cookies! I cracked mine open, and the fortune read:

“Your road to glory will be rocky, but fulfilling.”

So, of course, at first glance, I basically read it as “your road to glory will be blah blah trite cliché blah blah blah.” Then I thought about the football season ahead, and all the work I was putting into the Michigan Marching Band, and all the expectations for a championship. The road to glory will be rocky? Uh…not too rocky, I hope. Whatever…fortune cookies don’t mean much anyway.

Back to the game. Jason Gingell’s foot hit the ball. I could barely keep my eyes open. My fellow band members and I were petrified. Then it happened. Blocked. My heart immediately sank. The 110,000 fans that had been so vocal a few seconds earlier were now silent. In one of the biggest upsets in college football history, the hot, Hot, HOT Appalachian State Mountaineers did the unexpected.
Final Score: ASU 34, Michigan 32.

“Shock” is still the best word to describe my reaction. However, other Michigan fans embraced emotions of anger and frustration. It seemed as if within seconds, people were already calling for Coach Lloyd Carr’s head. Who should be blamed for this disaster?

So what happens now? How do we pick up the pieces? Do we continue to play the blame game, or do we rise back up and see what we’re made of? Many thought this would be the year Michigan would finally achieve greatness and make it to the National Championship Game. Now that’s impossible, but that doesn’t mean the road to glory is no longer traversable. Forget who should be blamed. Forget the anger. Forget the frustration. While the entire world writes Michigan off, there’s only one thing the Maize and Blue can do. Get back up. Show the world how good Michigan is. Be so good…so good that you can’t possibly be ignored.

Maybe Coach Taylor expressed this situation the best in NBC’s overly romanticized football show, Friday Night Lights:

“We will all, at some point in our lives, fall. We will all fall. We must keep this in our hearts. That what we have is special. That it can be taken from us. And when it is taken from us, we will be tested. We will be tested to our very souls.”

And now Michigan will be tested. Ladies and Gentlemen, how can you not wonder how this story will unfold?