;void('');)
It was my freshman year of college. Homecoming. Our football team was facing a fierce rival.
I stood on the field, facing the crowd. Fans were on the edges of their seats. Possibly because it was bitterly cold, and the metal bleachers were like sitting on a block of ice. Regardless, the frigid fans were ready for us to wow them. Our marching band was a pretty big deal. (Yes, I was in the band, not on the football team. Don’t act so surprised.)
We stood frozen at attention (no pun intended), waiting to begin our show. An icy wind whipped through the stadium. I attempted to wiggle the valves on my trumpet to keep my fingers loose — but the valves were stuck. Frozen solid. If you are unfamiliar with how a trumpet works, know that you push the three buttons in various patterns to play different notes. My part, indeed, required several different notes.
Before I could process my predicament, the drum major waved his hands, and off we went. The band (minus one frozen trumpet) burst into powerful song. I marched along to the intricate movements.
But since I was holding a now useless prop, I became an irrelevant extra in the season’s most
important performance.
An unflattering, gender-neutral marching band uniform looks perfectly reasonable if you’re playing an instrument. Sans functional instrument, I was just a weirdo in a band uniform. I looked like a 1700s French war general wielding a fake sword. (Why are marching band uniforms so ugly anyway? So no one is tempted to steal them? That apparently works for bowling shoes and the Chrysler PT Cruiser.)
My self-centered reflections quickly faded. Without the sound of my own trumpet dominating my consciousness, I was able to absorb the sounds of the melodious army around me. Their music was beautiful, dynamic, and forceful. Despite practicing the routine for weeks, this was the first time I was able to truly appreciate their collective genius.
On the final booming note, the crowd rose to a standing ovation. They clubbed their insulated mittens together in applause and roared their approval. A chill went down my spine as I soaked in the breathtaking performance from my bandmates.
The football team went on to win the frigid homecoming game. And legend has it (a legend I just made up now) that the inspiring band performance ignited an electric second-half atmosphere, pushing the team to victory.
Sometimes, we are the star of the show. But sometimes, we are just an extra. We’re not always meant to toot our own horn — frozen valves or not. Sometimes, our job is to become the humble support system that allows our teammates to shine. When we quiet our own voices, we can finally hear the beautiful music of others. No matter how small our contribution, it’s a privilege to be part of their success.
Alternate moral of the story: I don’t know who needs to hear this, but if it’s cold enough for trumpet valves to freeze, it’s too cold for the marching band.
