Just something random I started writing the other day. I'd like to say that I'll add more, but knowing how undedicated I am, that might very well never happen. Oh well.
Enjoy...
"Who are they?" I picked up the voice of a townie in the bleachers from where I stood. Straigh, at attention. Head focused forward. Not an inch to the left or right.
"I dunno. Not from around here. A big city band, I guess." That was true. We weren't from around here. Thank God. I don't know if I would be able to contiue living if I found myself to someday be from a place like Alamance county. Hicks.
"Lookit those uniforms. Their white pants are real bright. It musta gost them a big dollar to get thost cleaned. I think they look snazzy."
"Snazzy? They're jackets are purple. See those big ones there? They look like Barney." Did they think we couldn't here them? If I could listen in, then I knew that Harold in front of me could as well. The junior wasn't exactly what one would call small. A heck of a trumpeter, though.
"Hahah. That's funny. Look, Norma-Jean. It's a whole band of Barneys." Cackles of Norma-Jean and the two nitwits filled the air. Hicks.
Why does our band director insist on taking us to the competitions out in the middle of god-foresaken-nowhere? We're from a larger city. The capital city of our state. There were so many high schools around us that we could easily spend each weekend of the season competing without crossing the county line, and still be totally content.
"They've got bunches of drums, too. They're all perty and white. I bet they must polish those things. They even gots people who hold cymbals. Those are real shiny suckers, too." Dimwit #1 spoke.
"Hey Norma-Jean. Doesn't Tommy want to play the drums? Maybe you should go down there and let him beat on one. The bands just standing there. They ain't got nothing better to do?" Words cannot describe the stupidity of the above statement.
"I dunno... Would we be allowed to do that?" No. You would not.
"If you're gonna be all scared about it, then I'll take him. Come on Tommy. Let's go hit a drum!"
"He's not actually doing this, is he?" My snare drummer, who was standing to my left said through gritted teeth. A sentiment I was sure the entire battery was echoing at this very moment.
The two dismounted the bleachers and entered onto the track. They began to walk towards the drums. "I fear so." I replied back to Randy.
Tommy laid sight on the drummers, and for a moment was frozen with shock. Then. "Oooohh, cymbals," He cried and charged through the line of band members till he was standing before me. He cautiously extended his index finger and poked my left plate. It dinged lightly in response. The boys dimwitted chaperone was still yards away, and making no visible effort to hurridly collect his young. "Cymbal go crash!" He grabbed both my right and left cymbal and shoved the two together. I cannot think of one self-respecting percussionist who would not have winced at the resulting noise. Before I could react, he was gone, leaving my plates haning in front of my body, ringing.
He had found the big prize. "Drum!" He stood before our center snare. Lance is an intimdating senior. At least, he scared the crap out of me during our first drumline audition back in April. With a height over 6'3 and a weight to match, he was one scary-ass dude. Barney uniform or no Barney uniform. I guess I gotta give that kid Tommy credit for going up to him of all people. A five year old has to have guts to pull that crap. Or stupidity. Tommy probably possed the latter of the two.
"Wanna hit the drum?" Dimwit had caught up with the rascal and the two now stood before Lance. Even as dimwit raised the boy up to the level so that he could reach the snare, I could forsee how much of a mistake this would be.
"This is gonna be bad." Randy could as well.
Dimwit grabbed a stick from Lance's bag and placed it into the boy's hand. Lance remained motionless. Tommy examined the stick in awe before grasping it as he believed a drummer should. Lance remained motionless. Tommy mocked hitting an invisible object in the air with the stick. Lance remained motionless. Tommy raised the stick till it was almost vertical above the drumhead. Lance remained motionless.
DAT.
Time seemed to freeze as the sound from that one drum tap carried throughout the field we were currently waiting to enter. The entire band heard it. I could almost see the need of the wind players ahead of us to turn and see what had caused the renegade note. They didn't, of course.
If there was anything you didnt' do whilst standing at attention as a member of our band, it was voluntarily move your body for any reason short of projectile-vomiting. Thus why none of us had moved a muscle as Tommy and Dimwit meandered their way through the band. Idiots tended to have a way of serving themselves their just deserts.
A whistle then sounded. A piercing trill drawn out for several counts, then five short tweets. Finally. Time had come to take the field for competition. Our band director's whistle signaled for us to start our main cadence.
In one swift motion, Lance sprung to life. He seized the remaining pair of drumsticks from his bag. The rest of our line quickly followed suit.
"Drums ten hut!" That boy's voice sure could carry.
"DUT!" The battery screamed as one.
Lance's four count tap off seemed to be especially loud. Perhaps the fact he had modified the accented strokes to rimshots on a spur of the moment decision had something to do with it.
Dimwit with mini-Dim in tow had begun to make their way from the track even before we began to actually move and play. Smart decision. Hate to see what a bass drummer who could always fall back on the 'couldn't see them' excuse would do to the hick.
To say that I purposely crashed the heck out of my plates as the two passed me on their way back to the stands wouldn't be telling a lie. Sure, I lost a bit in technique. It was worth it though, to see the classic too-loud pose of hands over ears. Gotta love playing the hands-down loudest instrument in the band.
As we continued to march, the words of our band director filtered through my head. It was a sentiment he had expressed many times, while standing at the front of the band room, addressing us as we arched up for warm-ups, or as he paced our practice field. We were who we were. And people know about us. Because of that, they're going to take pot-shots at us. They're going to make stupid comments. We've just got to not let any of that effect us and remember that every time we don that uniform or pick up those drums, we're representing something greater than just ourselves.
The announcer that night phrased it best with those classic words, amplified for all within miles to hear.
"On the field from Raleigh, North Carolina, the Kildron B, Bartius High School Marching Royals!