The last week of October was filled with anxiety heaped on suspense, my patience worn thin in waiting for the Orange football game. Although my mastery of the music was not as strong as usual, I knew my enthusiasm could bring me to excellence.

By Friday afternoon, I was beyond ready.

Walking into the band room, I immersed myself in its familiar clean smell. The white floor shone, the polished brass of trumpets and trombones flooded my eyes with glistening excitement. I packed my drum onto the bus, silently wishing it a safe trip. I smirked at the thought of my drum personified with feelings.

The fall chill of the bus was soon heated by the anxious sweat of 30 teens all wearing heavy black uniforms, which I can only assume were designed for Arctic expeditions. My ears were filled with tense murmurs over the outcome of the game, excitement to compete against our rivals, the constant hum of the bus engine.

The bus arrived at Orange High School, and I eagerly unloaded my drum and harness. With my instrument ready, I felt I was part of something greater: a sense of pride and excellence. For a moment, I was certain of our success.

I caught my first glimpse of the stadium as we began our march to the stands. Enormous lights beamed down on us, illuminating the field; the forest beyond the field was dark, the night-sky was black, yet the field was colored in luminescent green grass and white stripes, defying nature and demanding attention.

I carefully set my drum down in the stands, waiting impatiently for the halftime show. A barrage of music interrupted the scene. The OHS band arrived, more numerous and impressive than I could have imagined. The orange and black machine gave a dramatic pre-game performance, filling the stadium with a flood of sight and sound; falling leaves stopped and turned mid-flight to witness the power of music incarnate.

I looked down at my own drum, reluctant to play after the Orange band’s performance.

“I think we’ve got them outnumbered,” said Jack Spero, my drumline partner, his witty sarcasm raising my spirits enough to begin our cadences. It was too early to lose hope.

They scored. Before we even played two cadences, our confidence was severely diminished. Plays drifted by. We scored once as they scored five times. Our tunes fell flat while theirs boomed through the stadium.

Quarters went by as minutes. Halftime arrived like an unexpected sunrise. As we left the stands and stood along the sidelines, I truly witnessed the game for the first time: helmets smashing against one another, truck-like bodies moving at jet speeds. I couldn’t believe their intensity. Play after play, they were relentless. Goliaths in uniform halted only by whistles and the clock. I looked out in front of the open field, unprepared to walk in the footsteps of the giants who had left.

Reminded of the pressure from the drum, I was reinvigorated, prepared to march forward. I put my enthusiasm to work. The show was marvelous. All I saw was my drum. All I heard was its rhythm. I marched off the field as a hero out of battle, hands reddened from tattered sticks, black and yellow tape peeling off from accents too powerful.

Then it was the Orange band’s turn. If we were a band, they were an army. Synchronized beats marched onto the field in melodic unison, invading my eardrums with musical precision that demanded to be heard.

Black and orange uniforms filled the field: a unit moving as one, each uniform perfect from shining lapel buttons to creaseless uniform pants. I couldn’t bear to look at my own drum, not in the face of their perfection. Their show left me in awe.

We returned to the stands in the third quarter, and I continued to play cadences with optimism. Yet across the field, the Orange bandstand made music that belittled my every rhythm. The third quarter had concluded. My attempts to muster enthusiasm were unconvincing.

We had no chance of winning. Any glimmers of hope were washed out by the glaring light of the scoreboard, beaming our loss down at us, as painful as staring into the sun. The fourth quarter finished with a score of 63-17, ending the game.

The ringing in my ears from their fight song further emphasized the defeat.

A cacophony of clicking cases and the sputtering of emptying spit valves told me it was truly over.

I donned my harness and drum for the final time, but I only felt their concrete weight on my shoulders. I could not force a sense a pride. Enthusiasm had failed. The familiar pressure of the harness pads and the weight of my drum just reminded me of the perfection we had not been able to attain.

I packed them away on the bus and forgot they existed, hoping I could do the same with my own disillusionment.

Later that night, while the football players were driving home, we found the strength to put our instruments away in our lockers and to remind ourselves that next week would provide another opportunity to outperform the competition.