There's five minutes to kick-off and everything is running according to plan— the student section is becoming restless with impatience, up in their side of the stands; their heads poking over the side of the railing while the marching band pools around the hill to the locker room. The crowd is beginning to feel more anxious, as the minutes pass-- their eyes are watching, waiting; in this unusual bout of silence, you take the opportunity to watch the loud-mouthed tenor player in front of you and think. Just to mull things over a little. Weighing the past and the present, to say the least, and wondering about how things have changed around here. You begin and end with classic high school: the couples that you adore and the ones who make you nauseated, the rivalries and friendships so impeccably gained then destroyed with a belligerent grace. The school doesn't realize the drama that goes on behind those doors-- if the band had their own soap opera this season, the drumline would be front and center. (But this is so ironic, because aren't you always?) You'd guarantee that if this group wasn't so stubborn, things would've fallen apart by now. If all twenty-four of you weren't these driven jerks when you dug deep down, cold as ice, something would've happened. Sparks should be flying.
If you weren't so frigid, so withdrawn, you could've sworn your façade would come crashing down by now. Bits and pieces of ice flying through the air, you imagine, shining in the stadium's light and causing a scene.
You're not like that. (You scoff because a bass already has that covered.)
But as you've gathered over the months, there's something about drumline that brings emotion out of people like you wouldn't expect— you've seen the boys be so severely serious; almost felt an intangible pride pouring from everyone's faces after that big contest. The bus rides, the long summer days, the cold winter nights. You spend so much time with these people-- you've seen laughter, sobbing; everything in between. Know those miniscule little details about them that don't even make much sense. You can even recite the words to the snare line's victory song. You're a dysfunctional family, and for the most part, you love each other.
What an entire school doesn't know and that most drumline members don't really want to share is how it knocks you over and tears a hole far in your heart. How it shows you that the world is cruel and the world is ruthless and yes, it can really hurt.
(But when you look at the pictures and see how huge you're smiling, can almost place the look in your friend's eyes— you know that all of you have fallen in love and this is it. When you squint, you can see that the world has been almost unyieldingly kind.)
It's almost November. Quite simply, you are proud.
(You had no idea that you could keep it together this long— but again and again, drawing attention isn't really your style.)
When the quarterback bursts out of the door, a stampede of players following him, your director waves off the fight song and you half heartedly snap up your cymbals to pound into the off beats. You don't focus; you don't think. You do your best to snap out of the past and realize that hey, there's something wrong with this picture. Something different lingering in the air tonight-- you just can't tell what. With a quiet eye on the clock and a nervous feeling running through your body, you watch it count down to the buzzer.
At this point, it's inevitable.
three, two ,one: zero.
Because every drumline must've had a fight, once, right? ...yes/no? I doubt this makes much sense, but thoughts before a game that was basically a massive inter-drumline war. Thought I'd share anyways. Critique is appreciated, as always.
By the way, I had a lot of trouble with the indenting and technical issues with this-- I'll call it creative liberties for now, but some help with that would be fantastic.