The Last Fifteen Minutes
The autumn chill hung low in the air this evening. A dark sheet blanketed the sky preventing the sun from providing its light and warmth. The stars appear absent from the night sky hidden by the bright stadium lights that brightly illuminated the field. I could hear the distant sound of a rival band to my back but I made no attempt to see them. I had only one thing on my mind. Like a song on repeat, the show played through my head over and over. Every movement, sound, smell, sight, and feeling played over and again. And I wasn't alone. Around me, the rest of the band had similar thoughts which only differed by their role and position on the field, but something seemed different this time. Everyone seemed more focused and determined. We would make this performance, our last performance, the best one of the year.
For me and many here this is the day when the weight of marching band is lifted off our shoulders. No more after school rehearsals. No more band camp. No more early mornings. No more sleeping on the bus at one in the morning. No more marching…this is the last time.
The sound of applause awakens me from my dream and I'm suddenly hit by reality. It was time. Like an army platoon readying for battle, we fastened our shakoes (the hats we wear) and readied our instruments then finally turned and looked upon the canvas on which we would paint our masterpiece. I took a deep breath and looked down at my instrument, or as some may say, my partner. Are you ready for this? I thought to my bass clarinet held firmly to my chest. I stood tall and confident as did everyone else and as a unit we marched onto the field.
After a brief tone warm-up we were left at mercy of our drum major and on his cue the show began. With every step and every note we painted our picture. Confidence in every rhythm and direction change. We marched as a single band and not as a group of people until finally our last note was uttered and all movement ceased. Our hearts pounded feverously with every fatigued breath. The adrenaline settled replaced by a sense of pride and as we exited the field it then occurred to me that this is what band is all about. All those weeks, no, months of practice was for this very moment. It's this addicting sensation that causes a band geek to come back year after year. And as I marched off the field with the band, no, with my family, I was overcome by despair. This is the last time.
With tears in our eyes we stood in a circle awaiting our director's critique, but it never came. Instead he took a deep breath, smiled and with a look of pride said "Great job." There was nothing more that he could say; we fought the battle and we fought hard and all that was left was to see the results. Really, none of us cared about how we scored. We could take first or death last and we would feel the same because deep down we knew this was our best performance, we don't have to be told, we could just feel it.
As we began to depart I took one last glance at the field. It's white lines faded from the long day, it's once green grass trampled from the countless feet that tread upon it and I took all that in so in days to come I would never forget my last time on the field. I thought to myself What I would give to do it one more time but no matter how many times I would be able to march again, the feelings could never compare to this moment. And with that in mind, I turned my back to the field and bit farewell to my marching life.