Fifty thousand people plus the fifteen hundred in the hall. Mateo felt like he might throw up. Angela knocked and entered, looking polished and professional as always. “How are you doing?” “Honestly, I’m questioning every decision that led me to this moment.” Angela laughed. “That’s normal. Every performer I’ve ever worked with feels this way before a big show. You know what separates the good ones from the great ones? The great ones feel the fear and perform anyway. They use the adrenaline instead of letting it paralyze them.”
“Easy for you to say. You don’t have to go out there.” “No, but I wish I could. Mateo, do you know how rare this is? How many people would kill for this opportunity? You get to do what you love, what you’re brilliant at, in front of people who chose to be here, who paid money and took time out of their lives because they want to hear you play. That’s not scary. That’s incredible.”
A stagehand knocked on the door. “Five minutes, Mr. Torres.” Five minutes. Mateo’s heart was pounding so hard he could feel it in his throat. He stood up, smoothed down his jacket, checked his appearance one last time in the mirror. The man looking back at him was almost unrecognizable from the exhausted waiter who’d stood in the Grand View estate’s breakroom just three months ago. This man looked confident, professional, like he belonged on a concert stage.
“Fake it till you make it,” Mateo whispered to his reflection. He walked through the backstage corridors, his shoes clicking on the polished floor. He could hear James giving some kind of introduction to the audience, explaining his story, building anticipation. Then he was introducing him, and the applause began, and there was no more time for doubt.
Mateo stepped onto the stage, and the lights were blinding. He couldn’t see individual faces in the audience, just a sea of darkness beyond the stage lights. The applause swelled as he walked to center stage, and he made himself smile, made himself look gracious and grateful instead of terrified. He lifted the saxophone, checked the reed, tested a quiet note. The hall had gone quiet—that pregnant silence before music begins. This was the moment. No turning back now.
Mateo drew breath, and suddenly, miraculously, the fear disappeared. Not completely, but it transformed into something else: energy, focus, purpose. His first notes of Ibert’s Concertino da camera were pure and clear and exactly right. The music took over then, the way it always did when he let it. The piece unfolded like a story: intimate moments giving way to dramatic climaxes, tender phrases alternating with brilliant technical outbursts.