The blocky, red numbers stare me in the face -- "6:29."
One minute away from another August day of band camp.
One minute and a few weeks away from our first show, our first test.
One minute and generations away from where this band has been and where it will be.
The numbers blink "6:30." It's go time.
I slide out of bed, careful not to wake my roommates -- I have the early shower shift -- and execute my morning routine, knees aching, thighs numb and voice hoarse from the previous day's drill instruction. Tip-toeing the periphery of the hotel room's fold-out couch, I slip through the heavy wooden door and make my way into the posh, carpeted hallway.
"Thank you, Mr. and Mrs. Carl Smith", I mouth in appreciation of the Cavalier Marching Band's benefactors, as I flip-flop down to the first floor of the English Inn, a ritzy residence off of Route 29.
After a hurried, hot buffet breakfast, I join my fellow saxophones on the first bus to The Park, also known as "that intramurals place," where morning rehearsal is held. Ten minutes later, we're deposited by the UTS buses before they make a second swing to pick up the remainder of the Cavalier Marching Band, 170-odd members strong.
Membership is eclectic, consisting of University students, Piedmont Virginia Community College students and non-students, including a Charlottesville resident, a University employee and a local high school senior.
By 9 a.m., the band -- including the color guard -- covers fully one-third of the spray-painted football field in a "block," or four-by-four step grid. After stretching, we take a lap around the field and begin morning rehearsal.
The temperature steadily rises with the intensity of our rehearsal, and the morning progresses while our collective, uneven tanning continues -- pinewood forearms darkening as my balsa wood-biceps maintain their sleeved aversion to the sun.
From atop his mechanical lift, Mr. Pease, the band's director, delegates the drill instruction via wireless headset. Graduate assistants scurry about the field like worker bees, officious binders in hand, pinpointing weak spots in marching formations and delineating the proper execution of the drill. Sean and Drew, the graduate assistants, dedicate dozens of hours to the band each week, writing marching drill sets, arranging drum line music and transcribing radio singles into stand tunes for music in between football plays. Along with the graduate assistants and Associate Director Mr. Phillips, the drum majors, Logan and Woody, energize the band, using cupped hands and vocal chords as weapons against heat-induced apathy.
The morning rehearsal winds down and we return to the Inn for a catered lunch. One day it was Take It Away, Subway another day, Arby's another. (Food is important at band camp.) I snag a sandwich after a few minutes in line and pull up a chair at a table of my exhausted peers. Despite our fatigue, however, the dining room is abuzz with excited chatter, that frenetic extroversion that only comes with the first weeks of a fresh semester. Some tables discuss the Olympics. Other tables discuss nighttime social events, past and present: Bowling Night, Putt-Putt Night, Skit Night. At my table, we discuss Sept. 11, the band's debut. I'm excited, but anxious. I hope everything goes well. I want the crowd to like us.
Lunch winds down after an hour, and it's straight into sectionals for an afternoon of music rehearsal. Each musical instrument or family of instruments breaks off into separate conference rooms at the hotel for two or three hours to fine-tune and memorize music for the pre-game and first show. Today, we work the pre-game music: Cavalier Fanfare, the Cav Song, Rugby Road, Glory to Virginia and more.
We play once looking at the music. We play twice looking at the music. We play the first half memorized. We play the second half with the music. We play it all memorized. Next song.
The afternoon sectionals are short, as always, and dinner comes by 4:30. Cici's all-you-can-eat pizza one night, Golden Corral another night, Wood Grill Buffet yet another. (Food is important at band camp.) Partially recharged by a less-active afternoon, the evening meal tables bustle with even more vibrant conversation. My table considers the history of marching at the University. One person says there used to be a marching band, but their equipment was burned in a train fire and there wasn't money to replace it, so the group dissolved. Knock on wood.
After dinner, it's back to the buses for evening drill work. Most nights, we'd be at the Turf Field adjacent to University Hall, but tonight is different. First, a quick stop at the Inn to change into our surrogate uniform -- our marching shoes, gloves, pants, coats and hats will arrive piecemeal as late as the week before our first performance. Clad in dark blue athletic shorts and white T-shirts monogrammed with the band's logo, we board the buses for Scott Stadium, our evening destination. There we assemble our instruments and congregate rag-tag in the tunnels at the foot of the field. After an abbreviated warm-up, we form triple-wide columns, half the band in each tunnel, and await command. A short drum line cadence later, we're marching -- piccolos, sousaphones and clarinets streaming out of the tunnels.
In an instant, we're on the field, high-stepping across the end zone, pivoting just past the goal line, high marking time, snap-turning, blood rushing, heart pounding, head throbbing, hands shaking.
Halfway up the stadium, just below the luxury boxes above the 50-yard line on the student side of the stadium, Resident Advisors -- in town for training -- are bellowing, one one-thousandth the size of a capacity crowd, but, in spirit, 60,000 strong.
On the press box side of the stadium, reporters are scattered among the many sections, notebooks in hand. There's a photographer on the 40-yard line and another with a telephoto lens above the nearside end zone. We smile and march, playing the songs. Our songs.
During a water break, photographers weave in and out of clustered marchers as reporters question weary but eager interviewees. With a few other members, I make my way into the stands, where the charter members of the Cavalier Band Fan program are enjoying the show.
An enthusiastic yelp from Pease and the water break is over, the band scrambles back into position. Time to work the final move of the pre-game, the grand finale, the final form.
"March and play it this time," Pease says, our instruments snap to set, alert fingers excitedly peppering the keypads.
Four snare hits and we're off. I forward march 16, backward march eight, mark time 16, slide right 16, covering down, guiding center, forward march eight, turn left four and forward march 48 straight into the heart of the stadium, fortissimo notes flying from my instrument at a volume I didn't know I had. A grand cut off, the sharp snap of horns down, and my ears ring as 170-plus united voices echo, swirling around the stadium in the nighttime air.
Chest heaving, I turn to Woody, our Drum Major, our leader. Strands of hair cling to my forehead, sticky, and sweat drips into my eyes as my nostrils flare in and out, in and out. A waxing moon rises over the rim of Scott Stadium, and I steady my breathing, count my heart rate. So many beats per minute. Just one minute.
One minute away from the end of practice.
One minute and a few weeks away from Sept. 11.
One minute and generations away from where this band has been and where it will be.
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