My Marching Band Story
(A/N): This is my story of a wonderful and difficult year in my life. My marching story. I don't think I really have to write a disclaimer, because a marching band belongs to no one. It takes a group of spirited and confident members to make a band great, and it think they are all worth writing about. And I know that many people won't read this, won't even give it a chance, but I'm writing this story from my heart, my story of great accomplishments, great friends, and a great band.
*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*- *-*-*-*-* Chapter 1- Summer
I didn't want to be there. I had hated band since I had started it. My mom happened to be a band teacher though, so she forced my unwilling self into. All my band teachers before had been. . . what's a good word for it? Perhaps. . . not fun. This would be my last year in band, and then I would be free forever. My mother had said that after my freshman year of marching band, I would be able to quit if I wanted.
I am a trombonist. Not a tromBONER, a trombonist!!! I began as flute, but in 7th grade, I was convinced to switch to trombone, since they were needed, and flutes are overly numerous.
So that fateful day, I walked into school, in the middle of MY summer, with my trombone case. My "I don't care" face was set, and I was determined not to like band. My brother had always said it was stupid, and I always looked up to him. I couldn't believe that some no- name director would pull kids out of summer and vacations just to play some dumb instruments and march around a field like a gay parade. It was pointless.
Following all the other arriving people, I found my way to the band room. I had absolutely NO idea what to do from there. So ,I basically just stood there next to my case, keeping on my teenage no-care face. I hated it. An older member of the band came and asked what section I was in. I told him I played trombone, and he pointed me to my section. I walked over there, and immediately, I had friends. I found my old buddy from last year, Phillip. I hadn't seen him since 8th grade, and I was happy to be with him again. Everyone else, complete strangers, were all so kind to me. Ashley was so pretty it was inspiring. Matt and Hubler had enough knowledge in their heads about out instrument to fill a couple books. Nicole was so much fun. Heather was sweet and so welcoming. Katie was bright and smiling. And Jen and Tim. They are the most random people you will ever meet. They could cheer up a tomb with their jokes and casualness. Those two were so comfortable with who they were. Jen made the section so wonderful to be a part of with her attitude that never ceased to amaze me.
I took out my trombone (which was rental from American Music) and blew a few notes to get warmed up. I trailed everyone else outside, wondering why they needed water bottles and sunglasses. When I stepped outside I knew. It was still summer, in Arizona. They sun would be going down in a couple of hours, which meant it was the hottest part of the day. My group taught me how to stand at attention, trombone positions for marching, and so on. Then everyone was commanded to line up in a block. I stood there clueless. I had no idea what my conductor wanted me to do. Luckily, Nicole and Ashley helped me out. I stood in line, listening to a metronome, and trying to keep my feet in step. I was really bad at this whole marching thing. The seniors had to constantly help me find the beat. We weren't even playing music yet! I had no idea how I was going to survive. My feet didn't like being walked by a beat, and my arms grew tired of holding my trombone up.
At breaks, I would wander around aimlessly, not sure where I belonged. I didn't know if old friends would accept me, and I wasn't sure how to make new ones. I mostly just stayed with my section. They were kind and fun to be around. I had no doubt that the trombone group would be the most fun. I watched everyone drink their water, and my throat would clench. The heat was overwhelming. It burned the asphalt we practiced on and blurry streaks came up from the ground. I could barely believe that we would be out here on every Tuesday in the broiling heat. It sounded so retarded and pointless. As my understanding went, we only performed in football shows, in which nobody is even watching us anyway! All this sweat for the pigs they call football players! I never even realized how big THIS season was. My first season was going to be long, since we were participating in the Fiesta Bowl Championship. But I did not know all of this. I stood, uncomplaining, over the street, begging the sun to go down or play hide and seek with some clouds.
Finally, out director, Mr. D would give us a break, and tell us all to meet up in the auditorium. At this point, I was thinking that the theater meant seats, where we could sit down and play our music. But. . . I was wrong. We got to stand up as we played! My arms were already hurting, and I got to hold up a ten-pound instrument even longer. I shouldn't be complaining though, at least I don't play tuba. Mr. D (in which I will sometimes just call 'D') handed out our music. It was called "Movement 1". Now I am thinking '. . . how. . .original. . .' . This was beyond me. And the music was boring! I couldn't believe that my only year in high school marching band was going to be spent playing classical music. They called it Copland; I called it Crapland. It was lame! My year was going to be wasted on dumb music. I thought we would have cool music, like from a movie or something. After we rehearsed it for awhile, they brought the drums in, and then it sounded even worse. It seemed like. . . a heavy metal drummers banging to classical music. No way would this band of 200 members amount to anything. I kept telling my mom that this idea of band was mental, and how I thought that I should be able to back out of it. But it was final. She wasn't giving in. I had to be in this brainless group of so called musicians.
So every week, I went to these rehearsals, (not without complaint) but I went. And every time I went, I would come home exhausted. My feet were making a little progress, I could usually march to the beat. But I still couldn't care less. I hated band! Just like I knew I would! I kept telling my mom, that I hated this music thing. That I always had and always would, regardless of what she said or did.
Band camp would be coming up soon. I dreaded it. I had seen those movies with all those storied about band camp. You know the ones I'm talking about. American Pie frightened me. I didn't want to go. I kept telling my mom. I begged and prayed so I wouldn't have to leave. It was still summer! Whatever happened to fun and vacation and mall and friends? I wanted a normal summer, not a band-geek-athon. I was still determined to hate it. I just wasn't a "bandy". If my mom could have excepted that, I would've been of the band hook years ago. I wanted freedom.
(A/N): This is my story of a wonderful and difficult year in my life. My marching story. I don't think I really have to write a disclaimer, because a marching band belongs to no one. It takes a group of spirited and confident members to make a band great, and it think they are all worth writing about. And I know that many people won't read this, won't even give it a chance, but I'm writing this story from my heart, my story of great accomplishments, great friends, and a great band.
*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*- *-*-*-*-* Chapter 1- Summer
I didn't want to be there. I had hated band since I had started it. My mom happened to be a band teacher though, so she forced my unwilling self into. All my band teachers before had been. . . what's a good word for it? Perhaps. . . not fun. This would be my last year in band, and then I would be free forever. My mother had said that after my freshman year of marching band, I would be able to quit if I wanted.
I am a trombonist. Not a tromBONER, a trombonist!!! I began as flute, but in 7th grade, I was convinced to switch to trombone, since they were needed, and flutes are overly numerous.
So that fateful day, I walked into school, in the middle of MY summer, with my trombone case. My "I don't care" face was set, and I was determined not to like band. My brother had always said it was stupid, and I always looked up to him. I couldn't believe that some no- name director would pull kids out of summer and vacations just to play some dumb instruments and march around a field like a gay parade. It was pointless.
Following all the other arriving people, I found my way to the band room. I had absolutely NO idea what to do from there. So ,I basically just stood there next to my case, keeping on my teenage no-care face. I hated it. An older member of the band came and asked what section I was in. I told him I played trombone, and he pointed me to my section. I walked over there, and immediately, I had friends. I found my old buddy from last year, Phillip. I hadn't seen him since 8th grade, and I was happy to be with him again. Everyone else, complete strangers, were all so kind to me. Ashley was so pretty it was inspiring. Matt and Hubler had enough knowledge in their heads about out instrument to fill a couple books. Nicole was so much fun. Heather was sweet and so welcoming. Katie was bright and smiling. And Jen and Tim. They are the most random people you will ever meet. They could cheer up a tomb with their jokes and casualness. Those two were so comfortable with who they were. Jen made the section so wonderful to be a part of with her attitude that never ceased to amaze me.
I took out my trombone (which was rental from American Music) and blew a few notes to get warmed up. I trailed everyone else outside, wondering why they needed water bottles and sunglasses. When I stepped outside I knew. It was still summer, in Arizona. They sun would be going down in a couple of hours, which meant it was the hottest part of the day. My group taught me how to stand at attention, trombone positions for marching, and so on. Then everyone was commanded to line up in a block. I stood there clueless. I had no idea what my conductor wanted me to do. Luckily, Nicole and Ashley helped me out. I stood in line, listening to a metronome, and trying to keep my feet in step. I was really bad at this whole marching thing. The seniors had to constantly help me find the beat. We weren't even playing music yet! I had no idea how I was going to survive. My feet didn't like being walked by a beat, and my arms grew tired of holding my trombone up.
At breaks, I would wander around aimlessly, not sure where I belonged. I didn't know if old friends would accept me, and I wasn't sure how to make new ones. I mostly just stayed with my section. They were kind and fun to be around. I had no doubt that the trombone group would be the most fun. I watched everyone drink their water, and my throat would clench. The heat was overwhelming. It burned the asphalt we practiced on and blurry streaks came up from the ground. I could barely believe that we would be out here on every Tuesday in the broiling heat. It sounded so retarded and pointless. As my understanding went, we only performed in football shows, in which nobody is even watching us anyway! All this sweat for the pigs they call football players! I never even realized how big THIS season was. My first season was going to be long, since we were participating in the Fiesta Bowl Championship. But I did not know all of this. I stood, uncomplaining, over the street, begging the sun to go down or play hide and seek with some clouds.
Finally, out director, Mr. D would give us a break, and tell us all to meet up in the auditorium. At this point, I was thinking that the theater meant seats, where we could sit down and play our music. But. . . I was wrong. We got to stand up as we played! My arms were already hurting, and I got to hold up a ten-pound instrument even longer. I shouldn't be complaining though, at least I don't play tuba. Mr. D (in which I will sometimes just call 'D') handed out our music. It was called "Movement 1". Now I am thinking '. . . how. . .original. . .' . This was beyond me. And the music was boring! I couldn't believe that my only year in high school marching band was going to be spent playing classical music. They called it Copland; I called it Crapland. It was lame! My year was going to be wasted on dumb music. I thought we would have cool music, like from a movie or something. After we rehearsed it for awhile, they brought the drums in, and then it sounded even worse. It seemed like. . . a heavy metal drummers banging to classical music. No way would this band of 200 members amount to anything. I kept telling my mom that this idea of band was mental, and how I thought that I should be able to back out of it. But it was final. She wasn't giving in. I had to be in this brainless group of so called musicians.
So every week, I went to these rehearsals, (not without complaint) but I went. And every time I went, I would come home exhausted. My feet were making a little progress, I could usually march to the beat. But I still couldn't care less. I hated band! Just like I knew I would! I kept telling my mom, that I hated this music thing. That I always had and always would, regardless of what she said or did.
Band camp would be coming up soon. I dreaded it. I had seen those movies with all those storied about band camp. You know the ones I'm talking about. American Pie frightened me. I didn't want to go. I kept telling my mom. I begged and prayed so I wouldn't have to leave. It was still summer! Whatever happened to fun and vacation and mall and friends? I wanted a normal summer, not a band-geek-athon. I was still determined to hate it. I just wasn't a "bandy". If my mom could have excepted that, I would've been of the band hook years ago. I wanted freedom.