The Conductor’s Score Was Missing. And the Downbeat Was Seconds Away.
By Drew Holmes
Whenever possible Jamie and I like to relax with the board game Wingspan, a birding-themed Euro-style game. She is a bird aficionado, the gameplay is engaging, and the artwork is exceptional, so it is easy for us to budget time to play when we can. This is usually during weekends after the boys are asleep, so we cherish the opportunity whenever it happens.
Holidays, travel, and increased seasonal store business have allowed little time to play since Halloween, so this past weekend we were excited to sit down and enjoy a game together. Wingspan is scored over four separate rounds, so you get periodic feedback from the game as to how well you are doing as the game unfolds. Being slightly out of practice, I expected a lower than usual score. I was dismayed at the end of the first round to have scored exactly zero points.
I began to panic. I knew I was a better player than this, but now I was running the risk of my worst finish ever. Being a competitive person, I was not going to give up, but things were looking grim.
After my first summer working in the Philadelphia Orchestra Library, I returned to Drew University for my Junior year as a music major. Predictably I was offered the job of librarian for the University Orchestra, a position I enthusiastically accepted.
I learned in Philadelphia that one of the jobs of the librarian during a concert is to bring the conductor’s score to the podium prior to their entrance on stage. This allows the maestro to take the stage unencumbered, acknowledge the audience, and face the orchestra ready to perform.
For our first concert of the semester, I was sitting Principal Trumpet, so I went to our conductor’s dressing room early to collect his score. Professor Nair was not present, and his score was not on his desk, so I assumed he had it with him for last minute study (not uncommon for conductors, even world-renowned ones) and would bring it onstage with him. I took my place in the trumpet section and gave it no further thought.
Professor Nair entered the stage, bowed to the audience, turned to the orchestra, looked down, and went pale. In that moment we locked eyes and realized we each had assumed the other had the score. We were both wrong.
He mouthed the words “Where is my score?” to me and I could only shrug in reply. The downbeat was seconds away and the conductor’s score was nowhere in sight. One by one the orchestra members visibly tensed as they realized that our conductor had nothing but memory to guide him.
Undeterred, Professor Nair raised his baton, smiled his signature Cheshire grin, and gave the downbeat.
We need not have worried. The ensemble was prepared, and everyone knew their parts. The realization that at any moment things could come crashing down was the jolt of adrenaline needed to breathe life and excitement into the performance, one that was warmly received by our audience. Afterwards we discovered the missing score behind the desk in the dressing room where it had fallen.
The unexpected is an asset, especially when it brings us out of our comfort zone. While there is no substitute for proper preparation, over preparation can cause rigidity of thinking. Injecting a bit of chaos may inspire new ways to do things, ways that can produce spectacular results. What seems to be a hindrance can instead be an advantage. Sometimes the obstacle is the way.
Over the next three rounds of Wingspan, I tried every trick I could imagine. No Strategy was off the table as I aggressively played the cards in my hand and optimized the ones in front of me. I thought I was doing well but with the size of the hole I had to climb out of I feared it was too late.
At the conclusion of our game, I tallied Jamie’s score first — 110. That was one of the best scores she had ever achieved. The hole just got deeper. But then I totaled my points — 122. Despite a first round zero, I had just played my best-ever game of Wingspan.
Being slightly off kilter early in the game had opened my mind to new ways of playing. What seemed like an insurmountable barrier was instead the step needed to reach new heights. Rather than resist it I just needed to go where the problem took me. This time the obstacle was the way.