A held breath.
160 people, all with their feet together, stomachs in, chests out, shoulders back, chins up, and eyes with pride march onto the field with clicks from the drumline section leader.
White jackets with brown pants adorn us, decorated with green and gold. The band with their stupid hats and plumes, the tubas with their berets, and the drumline with our baseball caps.
Sure, to some we may just be a distraction, a break from the football game. But this is no break for us.
It's showtime.
A voice calls above all noise from the crowd, "mark time move!" the 3 drum majors, each decked out in white uniforms with gold trim, call. Four stick clicks from the drumline, and we are off.
The sound is fast and fun. The woodwinds blare, for it is the only way they are heard; the brass do too, in a fight for dominance. The drumline play complicated rythyms, all while trying to silently tell the 4th bass drum to play softer. The band marches in unknown patterns, weaving in and out.
A short pause, and the 2nd tune is played. The band lightly struggles to keep the tempo slow. Even with that minor annoyance, the song is soft and light. Not a mistake anywhere.
Another pause, and the final tune starts. The music is loud and fast. Our 4th base is happy, and pounds the crap out of his drum. A held note, and then silence.
We march off the field to a cadence, shout out the pride chant, then leave, our job, finished.
Some come from East, others of us come from West. We are the Zeeland High School Marching Band, and when we come together, we are unstoppable.