It was noon, and the band was sweltering in the 95-degree heat. Section leaders shouted directions, and freshman followed enthusiastically. Veteran marchers joked around, and pushed the section leaders' buttons.
"Band!" shouted the assistant director. Line up by your sections now!" Everyone lined up patiently, though even the freshman knew what was coming. "We're doing a round of America's Next Top Marcher!" Seniors and juniors cried out shouts of "unfair!" Sophomores and freshman squirmed nervously.
America's Next Top Marcher was an intense drill game played by the Weston Lake Marching Band during band camp. The assistant director would call out instructions, whether they were steps or about faces. An error would get you 10 push-ups. Last one standing got to sit out the next set of drills. It was a reward worth fighting for. Typically, juniors and seniors were the last standing, and no freshman made it that far into the game, but occasionally a sophomore would surprise people.
"Band! I want instrument carriage at all times. Just pretend you have your horn out here. And if I see your hands down, you're out! Band! Ten-hut, ten-hut!" the assistant director called.
"Ten-hut, kick two!" shouted the group in unison as they kicked out with their right foot in a precise manner.
"Band! Instruments up!" called the senior drum major.
"And over, out up!" came the reply, as 150 students snapped their imaginary instruments to attention.
"Band! Bout face, bout face!"
"Bout face in!" yelled the group with astounding clarity as they pivoted on their toes with their left foot out front.
"Right face, right face!"
"Right face in!" But a few freshmen had stepped with their right foot and turned left accidentally.
"And you're out!" shouted the assistant director, pointing to a trombone, flute, trumpet. The flute was trying to hold back tears that she had been first to mess up as she crouched down into her push-ups. The trombone walked onto the sidewalks as to not irritate her grass allergy.
The assistant director continued with bout, right, and left faces until about half the group was left. There were five freshman, a handful of sophomores, and a larger amount of juniors and seniors, but it was too soon to predict who would get to skip the next drill. Everyone was on their toes. Many people were finishing their push-ups on the sidelines, and stopped to watch.
"Next! We're marching!" shouted the assistant director. "Give me Mark Time 8, Forward March 8, Mark Time 8, Forward March 16! 5, 6, 7, 8!"
The groups left the line at the exact same time, veterans who knew what they were doing calling "middle" and "hit" every four steps. Three juniors marched through the second Mark Time. Two freshman hadn't hit the line.
"Jamie!" called the assistant director. "Stop talking! You're out!" Jamie protested, but was pushed out anyway. The remaining members continued to stand erect, imaginary instruments held in front. They were hot and sweaty, and needed to push back their hair, or pull down their shirts, but no one dared move.
"Give me an 8-step Box Drill, Mark Time at each corner. Go Forward March, Left Lateral Slide, Rear March, and Right Lateral Slide. 5, 6, 7, 8!"
"Wrong way, Alyssa!" the assistant director shouted when the band president went right instead of left. "Give me ten, fearless leader!" Alyssa blushed, but few people were left. "Band, now reverse it! 5, 6, 7, 8!" That time, everyone got it right.
"Let's try something else. . .get into groups of four!" Sections banded together. There were two freshman, seven sophomores, twelve juniors, and fifteen seniors remaining. They split into nine groups. "Now, give me an 8-cout Right gate. If you aren't perfect, your whole group goes out! 5, 6, 7, 8!"
The hinge of each group set a pace, trying to line up with the swinger. The two middle marchers desperately tried to keep two-step spacing. Three groups were called when the junior drum major stepped-off the spacing, and they weren't even.
"Now try a 16-count semicircle Left Gate! 5, 6, 7, 8!" This one was harder; if a group was not completely vertical at count 8, they were out. Only two groups remained at the end of that drill. Not a single freshman was left on the field.
"Stay in your groups. Line up two by two, in two-step spacing. Let's do an 8-count Block Expand from two to four step spacing. Break with your lines, and you're out! 5, 6, 7, 8!" This was the most difficult by far. Only a sophomore clarinet and junior French horn survived to the next round.
"All right," the assistant director said. "Ginny, Michelle, let's see what you got. Line up, and I want to see a perfect Right Lateral Slide. 5, 6, 7, 8!" There wasn't an eye in the band that wasn't on those two, and many guard members who had just come outside watched intently.
They took off, and marched in step, shoulders turned towards an imaginary audience. Finally, the assistant director called on error. "Michelle, that's not a roll step! You're out! Give me ten. Congratulations, Ginny. You're America's Next Top Marcher!" The sophomore clarinet was shaking so hard, she had to lean over to catch her breath. This was an intense game. Shouts went out for the sophomore who managed to surprise the oldest members of the group. Ginny could handle anything musically, but hadn't been a marching stand out, though her spots for shows were the ones typically occupied by seniors.
Michelle finished her push-ups. Ginny flopped down on the ground to sit out the next drill.
AN: This is just a one shot I wrote after band camp today. I don't own America's Next Top Model. This is based off a sudden death game we play every day (and sometimes more). It doesn't seem band, but in real life, the pressure gets to you!