The Goose Against Marching Band Battle Royale

Ah, late summer. It brings back memories of that new school supply smell, long evening shadows, the quest for autumn shoes, and the foot-ache and dread that was... band camp.

I suppose it's no surprise to any of you that I was a Bandie. In fact, my particular brand of dorkage almost definitely assured it.

Think about it: what do you do with a tall, gawky, over-achieving teen girl who trips over her own two feet and would rather be invisible?

Why, put her in an unflattering uniform complete with a hat plume shaped like a guinea pig... stuff a flute in her hand... and shove her out onto a football field in front of thousands of her peers and neighbors!

It's so obvious!

And band camp was the year's precursor to all that was guinea-pig-plumes and white rubber spats. It was one long week of summer, filled to the brim with marching, music practice, field formations and...

Geese.

Hundreds of them.

Yes, nine months out of the year, Edgar Allen Poe High School Marching Band (name changed to protect the innocent) held sway over the field outside of our place of higher learning...

And the other three months, it was home to three hundred honking, flapping, pooping and snapping Canada Geese.

With extra emphasis on those last two items.

The first day was usually the worst. The obligatory eews and Ohmigods from the woodwinds as we took our first unavoidable steps in goose guano... The territorial honks of hatred and disenfranchisement from the feathered Canadian squatters...

It pitted flautist against fowl, baritone against bird, in a determined play for power.

But usually, after several hours of 60 teens pushing 'em back, pushing 'em back, waaaay back-- and hooting and tooting louder than they ever could-- the geese would get the message. They'd concede it was a battle well fought, and graciously clear off for other fields. Like the one in front of Rico's Mexicale Casa.

Until one year, these winged wonders had apparently had enough. They weren't going to accept our Eminent Domain. No, folks-- they tossed down some feathers in front of our poo-covered tennies and they said, "Bring it." And that was the year of the Goose Against Marching Band Battle Royale.

That Band Camp started like any other one, as I recall. With flautist Krissy McCartney trying to find quality nail painting time at parade rest... Angela Armstrong rolling down the hill with her bassdrum at least once... And the Color Guard in a quest for independence and personalized flair, not quite willing to bow down to the idea of synchronization...

But as we learned our moves on the field, and crisped our skins under the blazing August sun, our beaked bystanders had not cleared off per usual. No, instead, they hung about critiquing our formations, assessing our tactics, and analyzing our weak points.

And the weakest point was apparently saxophone player Doug Minnelli. Doug, like many of us, had joined marching band less for the love of music and more for the rockin' band trip to Disney World. This was proven in his playing. Squeaking by as a second chair player, he also squeaked in terms of tone. And perhaps it was this that caught the eyes and ears of those feathered fiends.

Where Day One might have involved assessment and analysis of our protocols, Day Two they launched the attack. It started with six geese singling out Doug in particular, charging at him with wings flapping and beak snapping.

Doug retreated with a bob-and-weave move, running back into the ranks to hide in the relative safety of the tubas.

At first, we thought this was all pretty funny, since none of us were really keen on Doug's playing, either.

"Hey, Doug, maybe they think you're one of them! Maybe it's a girl goose. Better be nice to her, this could be your only chance for a girlfriend!" his fellow saxes taunted.

But each day, these protected predators continued their quest for field domination, focusing their energies on us all, but in particular on Doug Minnelli with the kind of cold calculation rival hockey teams use to wear down a star player.

Five days. Five days of goose-stepping to the latest Olympic anthem and Neil Diamond's "America" while dodging biting beaked fury.

By day three, Doug was developing an eye twitch that interfered with his music reading. By day four, we were all having nightmares about great monsters with razor-sharp talons and vice-like jaws, where our imminent demise would be preceded by a deep, hellish honk.

Eventually, we ended up spending our time inside in Orchestra Practice. Our bandleader, Mr. J., said it was because we'd be doing a few special indoor competitions this year. But we all wondered if that hadn't just been our director's way of regrouping without conceding failure. Those geese would enjoy their meadow until the frost was in the air and they'd gladly choose to leave it behind for warmer climes.

Leaving the final score-- Canada Geese: 100. Marching Band: one giant goose egg.

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