Matching Tracksuits

We’ve heard the piece so many times that we all find ourselves humming it throughout the week. E’s been working on his district- and region-band music with the hope of a state band callback. His work on the solo element has gone from halting and angular to smooth, melodic, and emotive. The tone is rounder, fuller. 

Walking to the car yesterday after the regional auditions, he explained where he thought he had messed up. He missed a scale the first time through—one of the easiest scales, he noted—and also fumbled a brief independent passage. Still, he said he felt better about the solo overall. Not bad, but not great.

He talked about the sight-reading portion, realizing too late that he should have practiced using only the thirty seconds allowed to preview the score before playing. “I should’ve done that sooner,” he said quietly as we pulled out of the parking lot. 

It’s a familiar truth—for all of us—but especially for him: anything short of perfection can feel like failure. In that way, he reminds me of L. She would come home upset after a test and proclaim that she had failed, only for us to find out later she’d made a 93. “That’s failing for me,” she’d say. With him, it’s not academics so much as music. As long as his grades are solid, he’s content—but with performance, with auditions, the standard is relentless.

Earlier this week, he talked about one of his motivations for pushing so hard: making first chair at the state level. L, after all, was a state champion three times. In her sophomore year, her school volleyball team won the state championship. In her senior year she finished first in the state in high jump, third in javelin. K assured him there was no need to measure himself against his sister, that this competition existed mostly in his own head. He explained he understood: whether he believed that or simply said it to ease our worries about the pressure he puts on himself, I’m not sure.

What became clear this week is just how hard he is on himself—harder than assessors and judges are on him. This week, we received notification that, for the spring season, he will be playing first chair trombone with the Carolina Youth Symphony. “But it’s only in the Repertory Orchestra,” he said. I expected the news to thrill him. Instead, he was quiet again, focused only on the fact that there are two levels of orchestra above his. To him, this felt like another shortcoming: first year out, and “only” Repertory.

After one rehearsal, his school band teacher—who also conducts with the youth symphony—pulled me aside. “One year,” he said with a smile. “He’s making great progress. He sounds great.” It’s good to hear others say what you already know about your child, even if he himself can’t quite hear or admit it yet.

Later this week, we’ll find out two important things. First, whether E made All-Region Band. I’m certain he did. The amount of practice he puts in was impressive—even to me, a non-trombone player, I can hear the difference. The second is whether he’ll receive a state callback, a chance to audition for All-State Band—the most competitive of all the ensembles he’s aiming for. We’re not a big state, but still: thousands of middle-school trombone players. We really don’t know what’s out there.

Still, I love to watch him want it. I love that his teachers encourage him, that his private instructor remains enthusiastic, reminding him that this curve is steep and that mistakes are not failures. And I love, even in the quiet drive home after auditions, that the music is still there—rounder now, fuller—filling the house once again.