Forty-eight players. Six movements. Eleven minutes of the loudest tenderness this field has ever held. Watch the drill run — it runs all night if you let it.
From the director. We rehearsed this in a parking lot for nine weeks because the field was under water, and I want you to know that not one person complained, not even the day it hailed. Movement V is dedicated to the low brass, who carry the whole suite on their shoulders and pretend it's nothing.
If you are here for the first time: the trick is to stop watching the shapes and start watching one person. Pick anybody. Follow only them. That's the whole show — forty-eight people each doing an impossible small thing on time, and the shape is just what happens afterward.
Sousaphone, fourth chair is playing their first halftime tonight. They have been counting this out loud in the hallway since February. Please be loud for them.
Uniforms pressed by the Boosters (thank you, Ines). Plumes hand-dyed marigold, batch 11 — the Hoyt kitchen sink remains orange and will stay that way as a matter of civic pride. Flags mended twice. Drum heads new. Field chalked by the Tuesday crew at 6am in a light rain. Lost gloves are hung on the north fence post and always find their way home; we have never once lost one for good. Movement IV was written on the back of a tide chart. The score is available at the concession window for whatever you feel like paying, including nothing.