Six drops of the essence of terror

I suppose that I learned the phrase essence of terror while watching Milton the Monster on Saturday mornings in the 60s. (Remember the theme song? “Six drops of the essence of terror, five drops of sinister sauce…”) I felt the essence of terror a few years later. We called it UIL Marching Contest.

I well and fully admit that I was a pretty inept band member—especially during marching season. March and play? Not hardly (I can now confess), unless it was during a straight march toward the pressbox for the finale. The rest of the time, I was too worried about my feet to think about my fingers. Friday nights during football season—at least until the magic third quarter—were fraught with fear. I was sure that I was going to be That Guy who countermarched in the wrong place and took out my whole end of the company front. And it may have happened, sort of, a time or two. Blessed memory has a way of blocking full recollection of some rather unpleasant missteps.

If Friday nights were fearsome, marching contest was truly the very essence of terror. I knew that I was going to be That Guy who countermarched in the wrong place and took out my whole end of the company front. In front of judges. On film. That never happened (unless blessed memory is truly working overtime and I’ve done some powerful forgetting), but I was mighty afraid that it would. I’ve lived through some shaky moments in my half-century-plus, but few have been as essentially terrifying as those hour-long minutes, standing on the sideline, waiting to hear “Drum major, you may take the field when ready.”

I went to marching contest a few days ago. I’ve gone many times in the last three decades. I say I go because I enjoy watching bands march. And I do. I say I go because it’s a good way to support my students. And I firmly believe that it is. Noble and orthodox reasons, both, but I really go for that final maneuver when the band on the field flanks stand-ward and opens up, striding home with confidence and playing, well, to beat the band. I can always sense the moment when That Guy who, for the last ten minutes, has been blind with the fear of countermarching in the wrong place and taking out his end of the company front breathes again. When the audience stands to applaud, That Guy is the one I’m cheering. He’s swallowed all six drops of the essence of terror and survived. I know the feeling.