Ten Years Ago...

[pictures of a early twenty-something Ryan in full ASUSDMB regalia to come... as soon as I can get the g.d. scanner working again]

Recently has been a time of reflection for me, as the ten year mark of several milestones in my life are arriving.

Ten years ago this fall, I was a member of the ASUSDMB, or Arizona State University Sun Devil Marching Band. This is a source of pride for me to this day. I managed to squeak into the band despite not being able to afford to sign up for the 1 credit performance course (because I was an out-of-state student to ASU). Robert "Coach" Fleming, the director, saw my eagerness to be part of the band, and let me stay on board, and that was pretty much kept between us. I was always thankful for this, because there's nothing like being part of a 300+ person band, performing in front of thousands of people.

Ten years ago, I spent a portion of every afternoon at the ASUSDMB practice field, drilling and playing. The temperature was still in the low 100's, and we marched regardless. I was initially part of the auxiliary, but enough people dropped the band that I was bumped into an actual squad. Was this a trombone squad? Oh no, I was a trombone among three piccolos. We were Squad 4, and we arranged our instruments to form the number four while we did our pre-drilling stretches.

We learned a new halftime show almost every week, and practiced our pregame show as well, trying to perfect all our moves. The pregame show began with the "trot," which was really a pretty brisk jog, through the tunnel and exploding out onto the game field of Sun Devil Stadium to up to 80,000 screaming fans. We would form "ASU" for the alma mater, and "USA" for the Star Spangled Banner. We would then march into seven equal circles while the incredible percussion section played an energetic cadence. If I recall, we had 40 beats to get to our position. Each circle would then burst into a letter, one by one forming "GO DEVILS." While playing the fight song, "Maroon and Gold," we would march toward the tunnel, the "GO DEVILS" disintegrating into a line on either side of the tunnel, where the players would rush through onto the field. On an amusing note, we'd watch videos of our shows after games at a local pizza joint in Tempe. On more than one occasion, the "G" in "GO DEVILS" wouldn't fully break up, and the slight curve at the end of two lines presented a rather phallic shape for the football players to charge through. This was good for some pretty hearty laughs, needless to say!

The football team that year was golden, and went 11-1. Jake Plummer, now with the Denver Broncos, was the QB, and he was the PAC 10 offensive player of the year as well as a Heisman finalist. Pat Tillman, a decade away from a violent death halfway across the planet in a war nobody could have dreamt of, was another star player, despite his smaller (for a football player) stature. These guys and others who I forget, led ASU to win after win. They shut out Nebraska 19-0; that was the first time in about 20 years or so that the 'Huskers got shut out, if I recall. Anyway, it was a huge win, and nothing could have been more exciting to me at the time! We beat all our divisional rivals: USC, UCLA, Oregon State, Washington State.

And of course, University of Arizona. That was the final game of the season, after we'd already clinched the PAC 10 Rose Bowl berth. We crushed UofA, and the fans were pissed. Coach had us prepared before the game even started. We marched from the buses in a column of fours, men on the outside, women on the inside (Coach was quite chivalrous at times). Brass players were preferably on the outside, with our mouthpieces in hand, the shank sticking through our fingers in case we needed to repel an assault. Seriously. As we pulled up in the bus, I saw a ten year-old kid giving us the bird. Really. We routed UofA 56-14, clinching the PAC 10 championship. After halftime, police in riot helmets appeared in the stands, and that got us a little nervous. A fan walked in front of the trombone section and shoved one of the slides, which could have potentially knocked out the player's teeth. A fight nearly ensued; there were 26 trombonists in the section, and most of us would've jumped this goon, but somehow cooler heads prevailed. After the game jubilant ASU fans tried to take down the goal-posts as they'd done in Tempe, but they were anchored and couldn't come down. As we marched off field, bitter Arizona players and fans walked through our ranks, shoving some of us. It was quite the experience. Luckily, we'd had a combined halftime show with the Arizona band, who were great people. The rivalry stopped with the bands, and we had an afternoon picnic before the game, where we rehearsed the show, enjoyed a cookout, and played a spirited touch football game.

The winning season took us all the say to Pasadena for the Rose Bowl, grand-daddy of bowl games. The university took in tens of thousands of dollars (at least) for reaching this success, and the band alone pulled in 10 or 20 grand. We all got shirts, new Reebok shoes for the seven mile parade, six tour buses, and an 18-wheeler for all the equipment. We stayed at the Marriot LAX in Los Angeles, and got a per diem allowance for food, etc. On top of it all, out-of-state students had their airfare and accommodations paid for by ASU. I had moved back to Rochester on December 1st, 1996, so I was flown back to Tempe for this adventure. We played pep rallies at Disneyland, Universal Studios and Knott's Berry Farm, as well as the LA Convention Center downtown. I was surrounded by all the tall LA buildings I'd seen in movies.

I suppose I'll write a more detailed account of the Rose Bowl experience when the anniversary of that game arrives (January 1st, 2007). Lest you think that it was all fond memories, I was embroiled in a dysfuntional relationship with a girl who I spent a fair amount of time hiding from (until I took her copy of my apartment key away from her & broke it), and generally avoiding. Our relationship was deteriorating due to mutual incompatibility, immaturity, and various neuroses. My car died, I lost my job, and decided to jump at the chance to move back to NY. I spent five days on the road in a U-Haul with all my shit and three cats. On Thanksgiving '96 I drove through Albuquerque, which was so quiet and closed up one would've thought it abandoned. A high point in my return trip was an evening spent in a dark and narrow blues club in St. Louis, a city I really dig. I vaguely considered moving there if Rochester sucked too much. But Rochester sucked me back in, and I haven't left since.

It's funny how our minds work, and how wrapped up in the day-to-day things we get; it's taken the anniversary of a championship season in a college marching band to trigger reflections on where I was and what I've done since. I wouldn't want to be back there, but I'm glad I did it. Moving out to Arizona as a 21 year-old nit-wit was a momentous decision for me. The whole world shifted as I eagerly drove across the country with all the possessions I could cram into a 1987 Saab. It was symbolic to me to drive across the Mississippi and stand under the St. Louis Arch. The atmosphere in the southwest was almost spiritual to me, and I fell in love with New Mexico, though I couldn't dally, as my destination was Mesa, Arizona.

Ten years later I'm a world apart from that young man who undertook his personal journey across the continent. I'm the sum of those experiences, in part, and I hope at least ten years' wiser.