I step onto the field, blinking into the bright fluorescent lights. My hands feel clammy with sweat, and my heart pounds louder than the crowd screaming before us. I hear the quiet tap of the drum cut clearly through the crisp air ahead of me, and watch all the shiny leather feet move in time. My muscles tense as I step onto the cloud-like grass, pulling back my shoulders. “Head up!” a booming voice cries. I can feel the crowd roar with the announcer's authoritative call, pushing us onward.

The smell of barbecued hot dogs and hamburgers intoxicates us all, causing those near me to mutter about how much they want food. As we move farther towards the center, the clean cut grass penetrates my nose, calming me enough to take in a breath that puffs my chest. My knees tremble, shaking the stadium around me. I breathe in and out once more, calming the quaking beneath me.

Finally, the band halts at the center, and we begin to fall out of our precisely arranged ranks, moving to a chaotic, orderly formation of bodies. The warmth of everyone surrounding me makes me feel safe and more prepared. I feel a tickling sensation on my gloved hand, causing a chill to run down my spine. I quickly turn to my right, sending the soft charcoal feather atop my head into a tizzy. I find my friend and offer my hand to wish her good luck, moving my fingers as if her hand had turned into a piano. Turning around, I find all the others with hands outstretched, ready for another run of our show.

Together, we face the center of the field and begin to twitch our heads, as if shaking out our ears after swimming. As the humming of the music begins to grow in volume, we fall into a hunched, fetal-like position in unison. Bodies begin to snap up to an alert position, with hands over ears, fingers spread like the field is full of cacophony, though in reality, it contains the most haunting music. Groups begin running away, all over the marching field. The running seems to contains no pattern, although everyone reaches out to the far sides of the field, reaching for something not there. We run for as much as 50 yards, and most sweat profusely under the two dark layers of clothing we wear, which are impenetrable to the wind. The stench begins to become noticeable, but no one cares.

The music grows in anticipation, full of dissonances and crescendos. Suddenly, the band turns around to face the audience in full uniform, blasting a melody that sounds like an amazed child looking at the most magnificent thing they have ever witnessed. Our company moves together as one, advancing towards the crowd, looking as though we will never stop. Once again, the music shifts, this time into a panic. We move more quickly than any of us ever thought possible, then begin an eight step dance that took us hours of hard labor in ninety-five-degree heat to learn. Although the crowd applauds, no one dares lose their focus. We turn away from the crowd and run as fast as we can to our next set, most making it within eight counts.

The intricate steps continue, forcing us to contort our bodies to face the crowd while walking to the sides. All of the woodwinds arrive for a feature, morphing into large concentric circles. The field becomes a boat on water, rocking us back and forth, to and fro. When the seas calm, we once again change, this time, to concentric squares. We move clockwise and counterclockwise, never losing form. The music seems to quicken, the fastest music we have yet to play. My lips begin to sputter, but I force the music out of my flute, using a spittier tone than normal.

We run again towards the left of the field, each hoping to beat the others there. I watch the senior in front of me, her normally dirty blonde, curly, lengthy hair tucked into her hat, with soft wisps falling to each side. I can smell the horrifying stench that is our sweat, but keep moving. When we reach our spot, we bring our feet to a height of one and a half feet, then slam them to the ground with a stomp. We move again to a diamond shape, the shape the brass will never perfect, even with hours of practice.

Some of the woodwinds, including me, move to the right of the field. Since the space where we move to has been virtually untouched by the soles of our fancy shoes, I can once again smell the sweet, fresh, not shoe like scent of the grass, which, although I’m not supposed to look to the ground, I see is an unnaturally bright green, with enough chemicals on it to kill an elephant. My partner and I align with those also in our row. I move slowly towards the ground, almost too slow. I keep my head down, because my dancing partner has a powerful kick. I pop back up, and we struggle against each other, intertwining our elbows. Finally, she throws all her weight onto my flattened back, then I toss her back to the ground.

As the show continues, and although we feel weary, the band continues on, forcing our legs to keep moving, forcing our lips to keep producing noise. We finish with the “Spinning Circles of Death,” nicknamed to emphasize their danger, and although we look uniformly controlled, we barely can stand. The slow walk off field is torture, and we rush towards the cups of water that the band parents have generously set out. As we gulp down the only thing that can soothe our dry tongues, I can’t help but think to myself, "I love performing."