Hey, guys. This is my first foray into the world of marching band literature (posting it at least), so go ahead and tell me what you really think of it. Flames, critiques, etc, I'm not easily bruised.

Those of you who are actually in marching band know how much effort, how much emotion goes into the season. And how you feel at the end of it, when you realise that it maybe your last shot at glory, at friendship, at what marching band is really all about.

After all, it's not the destination, but the journey and how you get there.

The Bus Ride Home

The bus ride home from ACC's is always more subdued that the ride up to the competition. After such an exhausting experience, most want nothing more than to sit in their seat and sleep. And if you're one of the few people who still have energy, you don't say anything. That is, unless you want a multitude of things thrown in your direction.

Unfortunately, I am one of those few people, though I have long since learned the lesson that some freshmen, by the end of the season, still can't comprehend. So I sit and listen to Simple Plan, or Queen, singing softly under my breath. I ponder what we have just accomplished and what the band has to live up to next year (poor sods). I write down what I see and hear, what I mustn't forget, making a record of memories that otherwise would be all too fleeting. The words come tumbling out, with no sense or order to them. To anyone who had not spent the last few months with us, most would have no meaning as well. To anyone who had, tears would spring to their eyes if they saw the ones in my own.

To a band member, the end of the season is akin to dropping a hot plate into ice cold water. The shock, for that's what it is, cracks us and sends us rambling. Before the final competition, you suddenly realize that, in just a few minutes, the music you've been working on since May will never be played again. That the drill you've been marching will never be run through on the parking lot, will never be double timed, backwards or toe point marched ever again. In just a few minutes, you'll never horn pop on count six, ten or twenty, never lock toss into the wind, never play three over two on the glock again. Never again.

And as soon as you've thought that, you're out on the field, face pointed up to the press box, waiting for the ratchet to sound, holding onto the breath you'll need at A, praying in your head that you'll do Mr. Fischer, Aly, Mr. Twigg, Steve and Vishal proud. The ratchet starts, just four turns of the handle, four turns that sound like a windup key, the winding up of the clock of time that you'll so desperately despise in just eight minutes. You stand tall as the clock shop springs to life, and then nothing exists outside of the field, nothing but the instrument in front of you, the flags whirling to your left and the line you so desperately are trying to stay a part of.

This goes on, never seeming to stop, one moment blending with next in an endless sea of sound and drill routine. Naught in the world compares with the feeling that you have when time has stopped and the clock pendulum moves slower than the drum major's hands. There's no test that can show it, but when you're out on the field there is no such thing as time. There is only tempo, dynamic and interpretation.

As suddenly as it started, its over, the crowd is cheering, and all you can hear is that last chord still ringing in your ears, and the voices of the pit parents yelling about how to get off the field. Off the field, you think, no, that can't be right. That was too short, that can't have been my last chance at the perfect show. And it's all you can do to keep from begging to be given one more chance to perform.

But somehow you drag yourself off the field, drag yourself away from your one chance at glory and holding your head high, march right past the poor suckers who are going on right after you. You stand in line for photos, arranged by height, the color guard dead center, the percussion and drum major right up front. Someone falls off the bench; someone's shako ends up on a guard girl's head. The band moves off to pick up forms and the pit pushes the instruments up the road to the trucks. This is all done without thought, without reaction. Only one thing goes through your mind. That was my last chance.

You walk back to the trucks, still dazed, still reacting on habit alone. The world doesn't seem real anymore as you pack your instrument away, take off your shako and stuff the plume in its cardboard tube. The walk to the huddle seems to take too long, the wait till the rest of the band arrives even longer. You dread what Mr. Fischer is going to say; I know we didn't do well enough, you think; I made too many mistakes to make Mr. Fischer proud like I wanted.

And yet the world stands still once more as Mr. Fischer stands there and says that no matter what, you have just made him the proudest band director ever. The world stands still as he almost breaks down crying and you remember that you've only seen him this close to tears once before.

The walk to the bus is silent, contemplative. Everyone thinking over what they have done, and what they've done to deserve the almost spilt tears and cracking voice of their band director. The silence disappears the moment that a foot touched the bus floor; the voices are too loud, and the movements are too jerky and quick. You change out of your uniform in defiance of your feelings; the uniform jacket sliding off your shoulders and onto the bus floor is the last testament of the season.

Returning to the stadium, you sit in the stands, numb to the screams and whistles around you. The bands march onto the field in front of you, but you are barely conscious of their existence. The music washes over you, leaving no imprint, no echo in the depths of your mind. You will remember nothing of it later, and regret it.

And then the stands are silent as the awards are announced. The inwardly drawn breaths get more and more frequent as the placings fly by. Not last, not twentieth, not even sixteenth like last year. The top ten rolls around and you're so full of apprehension that the arms of your seat have slight dents in them where your fingers have dug into the plastic. And when your band is announced at 8th place, your section of the stands goes crazy, jumping, screaming, singing hallelujah at the top of your lungs.

And then everybody is looking at you strangely, 'cause you're the only one still standing, the only one still dancing in the stands. You sit down, sheepish but exhilarated, feeling happier than you've felt since you won at Chapters.

Not everyone sleeps on the bus ride home, once you've walked out of the stadium and have clambered into your seats, ready for the four hour bus ride that will take you back to the place you started the journey at six months ago. Some play cards, some talk quietly to avoid airborne objects and others stare out the window in an attempt to forget that the season has ended. And some spend it contemplating the pendulum of time, moving slower than the drum major's hands.

These memories happened only hours ago and yet the feelings are slowly fading. At sometime in the future, all that will remain will be the words on these pieces of paper, and the chains links that hang from strings, cords and chains around our necks.

People wonder why we join marching band. And, a long time ago, so did I.

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