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National Anthem
by Suzanne Gold
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When
I worked as a professional singer, playing with bands at a variety of gigs
from nightclubs and weddings to corporate holiday parties and mall openings,
several baseball fans I'd met suggested that I sing the national anthem
at a Giants game at Candlestick Park. It struck a chord, because I'd heard
it sung at Candlestick more than once when I'd thought, I can do better
than that.
Then one day, someone told me exactly who to contact in the Giants' organization,
and it seemed too good an opportunity to pass up. I phoned the office.
The person who arranged such things told me the audition was simple. "Just
send in a tape of yourself singing the anthem a capella," he said.
So I hauled out my boombox and started taping. I'm a strong singer with
good range, and I have a dependable memory for lyrics. But "The Star-Spangled
Banner" is quite a challengeó the meaning of the words is obscure, and
the melody covers a lot of ground. You know, you've heard hundreds of people
mangle it before a game, even on TV before the World Series. I started
practicing, realized that if I didn't start in the right place I'd never
make the high notes, so I cued myself on the piano, hummed it softly as
I punched the record button, and let fly. After a couple of false starts,
I got a take that I thought was pretty good and sent it off to the Giants.
Months went by and I didn't hear from them, so I figured they'd passed
on my request. Then one day I got a call from the Giants office, asking
if I could be there to sing the anthem for an evening game the following
week. I accepted in a heartbeat, and immediately started rooting around
my music room for a tiny instrument I could take with to give myself the
opening note. I found a little electric keyboard and practiced over and
over, trying to finish in the same key I started in without accompaniment.
The Giants' office sent me four tickets behind home plate and a pass for
preferred parking, right outside the gate we were told to enter. I checked
in and my husband, two friends and I were shown to our seats. Actually,
I was only shown where the seats were, then led away to be prepped for
the big event. I was given information about how it would go, then told
to hang out by the dug-out to wait until it was time for me to sing.
Leaning against the dugout wall, I played my starting note over and over,
wishing I had the gift of perfect pitch. I wasn't going to be able to carry
the keyboard out on the field with me, so trying to memorize the first
note was the best I could do. Should have bought myself a pitchpipe, I
thought, but it's too late now. Players, swinging their bats to loosen
their arms,
greeted me with smiles
as they passed on their way to the bench.
Chili Davis stopped to talk.
"Singing the anthem tonight?" he asked, and wished me well. But no amount
of good will could stop my knees from knocking, the first time fear had
ever caused that reaction in me. In my stomach, amusement mingled uncomfortably
with terror.
As a working singer, I'd become comfortable onstage, even developed enough
confidence to relate to the audience, sharing my thoughts or telling jokes,
especially when an amplifier conked out or a guitar went out of tune, it
was my job to keep the audience entertained while the musicians fixed it.
But the sheer magnitude of the prospect of singing one of the world's most
difficult songs on the pitcher's mound in front of thirty thousand or so
people was too intimidating.
After what seemed like hours, a man I hadn't met before came to tell me
my time had come. I left my security-blanket keyboard by the dugout and
followed him to the pitcher's mound. He handed me a microphone. Dangling
from the cord was a tiny earpiece.
"That's your monitor," my guide said. "So you can hear yourself. Try not
to listen to the overhead speakers. There's a one second delay between
what you sing and when it's broadcast. It can be confusing."
Great. As if the whole situation wasn't nerve-wracking enough.
"You'll be singing at a couple of minutes before eight," he said. "After
you hear yourself announced, start whenever you're ready."
He turned and headed back to the sidelines, leaving me on my own in the
middle of the grassy field. I stuffed the tiny speaker in my ear, hummed
my first note and waited. Candlestick's notorious wind whipped around me,
blowing my hair into my eyes and mouth. My knees continued to knock.
Finally I heard the announcer say, "Ladies and gentlemen. Tonight's national
anthem will be sung by Suzanne Gold of Larkspur. Let's give her a hearty
welcome." The crowd broke out in applause. A calm settled over me; I knew
this drill. My knees stilled and suddenly, it was just another gig, only
more fun. I hummed the opening note one last time, and sang out, "Oh, say
can you see..."
The park's speakers echoed louder in my ears than my own voice. "By the
dawn's early..." "Dawn's early light..." repeated the speakers. I'm losing
it, I thought. I knew I could sing it, but the feedback was confusing my
timing. I tried to focus only on the vibrating sound in my throat, and
stomped a foot in time to remind me of where I was in the song, instead
of where my ghostly echo was.
Praying not to make a fool of myself, I sang my heart out and it worked.
When I got to "...the land of the free," with the highest note in the song,
the crowd broke out cheering. I imagined they were enjoying me, not just
excited to know that the song would soon be over and the game would start.
My finale drew shouts and whistles. I laid my microphone down on the dirt
and floated off the field, trailing clouds of glory.
The Giants won that day, as did I.
From my husband's spot behind home plate, his photos of me produced only
a mere speck in the vast green expanse. Oh, well, I thought, I had the
experience and have the memory.
A week later, an envelope arrived from the Giantsí office. Inside were
a couple of 8x10 glossies of me at the pitcher's mound, microphone in hand,
mouth wide in song, with the scoreboard behind me announcing in letters
four feet high,
"SINGING OUR NATIONAL
ANTHEM TODAY
SUZANNE GOLD
OF LARKSPUR"
It hangs over my desk as I write this, a fond reminder of the power of
music.
© 2002 |
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