Jenn Sterger spends a day with FSU's Marching Chiefs

By Jenn Sterger

The city of Tallahassee was silenced last Thursday night as the Seminoles fell to the N.C. State Wolfpack. One group not on hand to witness the demise of Florida State football? FSU's band, the Marching Chiefs. Some say the band skipped the trip due to their already hectic schedule. Others insist it was due to budget cuts in the FSU Athletic Department. Maybe someone just had a clairvoyant image of the events that were to unfold in Raleigh and decided to spare the Chiefs the 10-hour bus ride there and back. No matter, the Seminoles were forced to use N.C. Central's band as the Chiefs' understudy, and while they did the war chant with an "original" flare, it just wasn't the same.

Standing in the director's tower, Jenn poses for a picture as the FSU band plays in the background. Photo Courtesy of The Marching Chiefs

While the change in musical accompaniment caused a ruckus not only on Florida State's campus, but also in the press, it didn't stop the band from holding their usual practice Thursday afternoon on Chiefs' field in Tallahassee. As my friend Drew (a Chiefs alum and sometimes bodyguard) and I walked from the parking lot of Dick Howser Stadium to the band's practice, I couldn't help but get some chills of nostalgia, despite the 90-degree heat. For it was just six years ago that I was on this very field, attending Marching Band Leadership Camp at Florida State the summer before my junior year of high school.

I know what you're thinking: the Cowgirl attended band camp. But before you begin with an onslaught of overused jokes, keep reading. You might learn something.

Just 16-years-old, I stood bewildered at the sights and sounds of Florida State's marching band, which represented much of what I had been working toward in school. During my stint at Gaither High School, music played an intricate role in my life; it was my outlet when things got tough, the reason I learned the in's and out's of football, but most important, it gave me a place to belong. Don't get me wrong, I wasn't the kid getting thrown into lockers or shoved into a tuba case after practice, but I was far from being prom queen. We weren't the biggest band in the county, but not the smallest either.

Playing songs such as Bon Jovi's You Give Love a Bad Name allow the Marching Chiefs an opportunity to have a little fun. Photo Courtesy of The Marching Chiefs

By my senior year, the band had grown to 150 members strong with 25 members in the Color Guard, one of whom was my younger sister. And whose shoulders did the show rest on? None other than those of a 100-pound, 5-foot-nothing, curly haired brunette. That's right folks, I wasn't just a band dork ... I was THE band dork. Sure, I may not have looked like the typical leader with my small stature, but once the gloves were on and I took the stand,  the field was set. I was in my element. While my job was important, I knew my place. My conducting patterns were sharp, my poise was commanding and my audibles were enough to make even the football team's quarterback jealous. But without the band I was just some idiot waving her arms around, screaming at people.

My summers at FSU's leadership camp had taught me not only who I was, but who I aspired to be, and those memories of long hot summer days in Tallahassee came flooding back to me as I stood in the director's tower years later observing their practice on a Thursday in October. The show was still in its infancy, as they had only had the set charts for a few days but already the formations were perfectly clear. Blasting Bon Jovi's You Give Love a Bad Name, some of the band dropped out at the chorus and broke out into a karaoke session. One guy even decided to switch from baritone to air guitar, and while those around him were practically falling over laughing (myself included), he didn't seem to mind.