My alarm starts to beep at 7.00 AM. I open my eyes and immediately my mind starts to race. I try to calm myself with slow breathing, but it's impossible to quell my nerves. I have my high school marching band and wind ensemble audition today.
I take care in practicing all the audition tips I've ever learned. I eat a banana for breakfast and pack a turkey sandwich for lunch. I run through my piece, but not for too long. I don't want to start messing up the parts I already know. I skim through the book I purchased only a week ago, The Inner Game of Music. I know the rules now, but will I be able to play?
The school day drags on slowly. Every minute turns into an hour. Who cares about how to find the slope of a line? My brain is everywhere but in the classroom. I stare at the clock, waiting for the bell to ring. Every teacher decides to torture me by teaching the most boring subjects today.
Somehow I make it to lunch. I scarf down my turkey sandwich, awaiting the end of this usually enjoyable period as well. My friends attempt to converse and joke with me, but all I can manage is an occasional "yeah" or slight grimace.
I remind myself that it doesn't really matter which way the audition turns out. If I make the upper band, wind ensemble, then great. If I make the lower ensemble, symphonic band, then I'll have an awesome chair. Probably first. Which means lots of solos. Who doesn't want that? But consciously I know I'd take a crappy chair in wind ensemble over easy music in symphonic band any day. And we get to march in wind ensemble! Though I had no idea what I'd come to think of it, I knew it would be an exciting new experience.
Lunch draws to a close and I run off to my English class. It's 1.30 and my audition isn't until 2.10, but my teacher excuses me anyway. She understands how important this is to me.
My band director isn't here today, so I'm left with two unfamiliar faces, the orchestra director and the high school band director. Instantly my stomach begins to turn twice as fast as it had been previously.
"We're about 20 minutes behind," the orchestra director suddenly tells me. I jump at this unexpected comment. He laughs and tells me to relax. Yeah, relax, sure. Like I could ever do that.
I pull out my flute and piccolo and warm both up. Ahh! My high Fs on piccolo aren't coming out very well. I grasp the back of my chair, waiting for my head to stop spinning.
The line in front of me slowly grows shorter. Suddenly it's my best friend and main rival's turn.
"Good luck," I say to Steph with a fake smile. Ha, good luck. I hope she stumbles through and I'm the one he accepts!I wait for her audition to draw to a close. She steps outside smiling. Uh-oh, this can't be good.
"He said it's very likely I'll be in wind ensemble!" Steph says, squealing. Crap. I somehow manage a congratulations and make my way towards the closet where the auditions are taking place.
Once inside, I realize that this room is even smaller than I imagined it to be. And I'll be sitting RIGHT next to Dr. V! With him looking right over my shoulder! Ahhh! I try not to blazon the fact that I'm panicking. I easily make my way through scales and my chosen pieces. Then the dreaded component of the audition arrives. Sight-reading.
Dr. V places an oboe solo (what? An oboe solo? I play flute!) on the stand and turns it towards me. It doesn't look too hard, but the print is really small because it's a piano score. I skim it quickly, then decide to get it over with by playing it immediately. My nerves cause me to struggle my way through the piece, my mind racing with images of what he must think of me now. The piece draws to a close.
"Do you play piano?" Dr. V asks me.
"No…" Why was he asking me this?
"Really? Because usually people who perform this well during sight-reading play piano."
I try to suppress my huge grin as he continues on. "I'm almost positive you'll be in wind ensemble, but I still have to hear a few more people. Write down your phone number over there and I'll be in touch, okay? Amazing job!"
It takes all of my strength to stop myself from jumping up and down. I strut out of the closet and affirm Steph that I'll almost positively be in wind ensemble. Ha! That's more than her very likely! I continue to smile, looking a little too unctuous. Now when were we going to find out the results!
Wind Ensemble It Is!
It's been eight days and I have yet to hear from Dr. V regarding the audition results. Did he forget me? I know I wrote my name down on that paper. WHAT IF HE LOST IT!
A few days later I had almost managed to push the results out of my mind, but I quickly snap to my senses. How did it escape my mind for even once second?
Just as I'm about to open my mouth to ask my director if he's heard, he beats me to it. "Jessica, did you see the audition results? They're posted over there."
I practically throw my flute down and run across the room to find the results. My eyes quickly dart across the bulletin board. Come on, come on, WHERE IS IT? My eyes land on the page. "Wind ensemble: Jessica, Steph, and Adam."
I made it! I had made it into marching band and wind ensemble! Briefly I feel disappointed that Steph had made it too, but this thought passes quickly. Oh well! I'm in I'm in I'm in! I high five Steph and we hug each other. Woohoo! We had worked so hard and it paid off! Little did we know how much harder we were going to be working come August…
What Am I, Crazy?
"Thirty eight…thirty nine…FORTY!" I eagerly pull myself up from my last push-up on the gym floor and collapse on the sideline, breathing heavily. The season has just started and we're already going hardcore. Freshman year passed steadily and easily, but sophomore year is all business. We're determined to be the best this year.
I sigh to myself as I lay in pain on the hard ground. It seems like only seconds ago this practice was promising fun and games, though I'm well aware that promise was broken over four hours ago…
We drive to the school at 4.30 in the pouring rain, eagerly hoping that it will continue. The drum majors' words echo in our ears. "If it's raining tonight, we'll probably go into the back auxiliary gym and make some improvements on our dance moves. We'll save all the formations and music and hard stuff for another practice." We cheer at the idea of having three hours to waste with our friends after a hard day at school. This would be heaven compared to some of our other practices.
We hop out of the car and run into the band room, where our hopes are confirmed. "Everyone into the gym!"
We take our time filing past the volleyball game into the back gym, where we wait for instruction for over ten minutes. Wow, this is really nice, we all think, as we continue our conversations composed of nothing but drivel. John strolls into the room, but even he can't destroy our good spirits. As promised, we accomplish almost nothing for the two hours leading up to our break.
We have ten minutes to escape marching band and do whatever we please, and we are determined to use it wisely. We run outside and declare this break a party in the rain. I'm glad I decided to wear some of my older clothes, as we spend our time splashing through the puddles in the pavement behind the gym and skipping down the sidewalk arm in arm.
By the end of our break, I'm soaked but delirious with happiness. Mud completely covers the back of my legs and my mascara is running down my face. My shoes squish with every step. We dash into the nearest bathroom and attempt to scrub ourselves clean to no avail. We're five minutes late now, but we still take our time getting back to practice. The practice has been so easy so far that we doubt we'll have any consequences now. As we stroll into the gym we see we're not the only people that had this idea. There are only five other people in the room. We refocus our attention to dumping the water out of our shoes, and five minutes later the rest of the band has arrived and we begin again in the same easy manner as before.
John decides we need to work on formations, since we are achieving nothing with the dance move work. We groan and head to our first formation of "After the Love is Gone" when we suddenly realize there are still at least ten people missing. A few abandon the formation to search, finding the missing walking around outside, unaware that our break ended a while ago. John's face turns red with anger. "Everyone back to the band room until I tell you to return." As suspicious as this seems, we choose to suppress our fears, quickly shrug it off, and take advantage of our extra break time. We enjoy each others' company and conversation for close to ten minutes. Only an hour of practice remains now. Or so we were told at 2.00 earlier that day…
John comes back into the room and tells us to go into the main gym, which is now cleared out from the volleyball game. As per his instruction, the woodwinds form one line and the brass form another, facing each other. We continue to engage in constant conversation. Then we hear the whistle. The whistle that is only to be used in extremely loud games and times of emergency. "DROP DOWN AND GIVE ME TWENTY!" Someone makes a comment and receives twenty more push-ups. Shocked, we pull ourselves up and wait for John to speak again. He's never one for friendly conversation, and he sure as hell isn't now. He pulls us to attention, one of our sloppiest yet. He tries to suppress his frustration, hitting himself on the head and shaking it back and forth. He calls in Rhea, the pit instructor. Like John, she has no pity for us.
"YOUR WEIGHT SHOULD BE CENTERED IN THE BALLS OF YOUR FEET! YOU SHOULD BE STARING AT THE BANNERS AT THE TOP OF THE GYM! YOU SHOULD NOT BE MOVING! YOUR ELBOWS SHOULD BE PULLED UP! THE BULK OF YOUR INSTRUMENT IS IN FRONT OF YOUR NOSE!" Slowly, our posture perfects. Someone else talks and that seals our fate for the night. It's dooms day. Twenty more push-ups and we're pulled up to attention once again. We expect to be released, but five minutes later we're still standing in the same position. Every fidget adds a minute to our torture; my body could collapse at any minute. I feel a drop of sweat drop down my back and grimace.
No one dares to speak now. We form lines in the back of the gym and march across together, running back to await our next turn. We turn around and back step. We switch sides and march by sections. So this is why they call marching band a sport…
Practice ends an hour late and parents are lining up to yell at John. No practice has ever ended on time, but they consider this hour totally uncalled for and ridiculous. It's a little too much for them, not to mention a little too much for us. Complaints flow between the parents and the students as they shuffle out of the room and into their cars, where undoubtedly the complaints continue.
I jump out of the car and race into the shower to wash off the excessive amount of sweat that has collected under my shirt and the mud left over on my legs. It's now 11:00 PM and I have yet to start my homework. At 2:00 AM, I write the final word of my AP government notes. I suppress a triumphant shout and joyfully crawl under the covers for my four hours of sleep. I shut my eyes and review the events of the day as I lay on my side. I abruptly realize that today's hell will be happening all over again tomorrow. So many practices…and we haven't even performed yet. I don't know whether to laugh or cry. What am I, crazy? I actually volunteered for this activity. Why do I do this to myself? Yeah, I sure am crazy, I think, as I drift into a band-filled dream. I'm a hardcore band kid. Completely, utterly crazy.
Friday Night Lights Part One
I pull on my jacket and instantly break out in a sweat. Ughh, band uniforms. They retain heat when it's humid out, and let it escape when it's cold. Sigh. I slip off my lightweight, comfy pajama pants to put on my stiff, wool marching pants. Most people would view changing in front of eighty other people embarrassing, but I think nothing of it now. I'm too pressed for time to be bothered. We only have five minutes till we have to be in parade block by the curb.
We've zipped up and buttoned our jackets, but we all have that one annoying hook at the top left. Cries of "I NEED A HOOKER!" fill the room. We quickly assemble our instruments and we're ready to go. It's showtime.
Getting eighty people to line up in a block formation is a daunting task. Five minutes later we're ready to go. Cameras flash in front of us as we prepare to step off. "MARK TIME MARK, FORWARD HARCH!" We're off towards the front gate. Pierce cues the opening cadence and breaks into "Eagles", by far the most well known and loved drumline cadence. Instantly the fluteline starts dancing. People walking towards the stadium turn to stare at us, but we're too delirious to care. It's the first football game of the season! What's not to love?
We parade past the crowd in the stadium, trying to appear focused while at the same time whispering jokes to the people next to us about what our director did that day.
We are eased to the right by the curve of the track, and quickly take a much crisper right, promptly landing ourselves in the sand pit that, for reasons unknown, has decided to land itself on the edge of the Angelo Fortunato Memorial Stadium field. "AT EASE!" We pull out of our attention and turn around to the line behind us, edging in a few last minute wisecracks before pre-game begins. What seems like merely two seconds later, we're pulled back into attention. We start across the field while the drumline launches into "Spider".
Our line halts at the far ten-yard line, where we mark time while waiting for the whistle commands. "Move to the left!" "What are you doing, you crackwhore?" The energy from the "Eagles" dancing has spread and no one in the fluteline can shut their mouths.
Tweeeeeeeeeeeeet tweeeet. Tweet tweet tweet tweet. Bam. We're facing the crowd for our performance of the national anthem. The barely memorized song flies by and the whistle command from the drum major repeats. We're suddenly on the goal line, barely three inches from the football team. The drumline wraps up the cadence and we hear our next command, this time from Pierce. Duggaduggada, duggaduggada. Da da da da da da DA. We've crabstepped our way into a tunnel for the football team to run through. The suspenseful music begins over the loudspeaker as they start to announce the main players. The players, one-by-one, walk through the team and the coaches, smacking hands and shouting words of encouragement. The drumline gives a roll, and they run through our sad excuse for a tunnel while we lift up our instruments in a wave. We add our individual twists, trying not to look at each other to avoid bursting out laughing. We hear that dreaded whistle one last time, and suddenly we're playing the fight song, "Torch of Liberty", also known as the worst song ever written. We whisper that it must be a law that all fight songs must sound horrible.
We slowly inch our way towards the crowd, trying not to trip over the random objects that have worked their way onto the edge of the field. We finish with the punch of a concert Ab and immediately pull off our hats to run our fingers through our sweaty hair. We noisily climb up the bleacher steps, handing our cookie monster colored plumes to the parent volunteers on our right. We slip off our jackets as we make our way into our seats, complaining about the heat and eagerly awaiting our water bottles. A few minutes later, our football team is already losing, as usual. They need something to pump them up. The drum majors hold up the sign for "Jump On It". While most of the members of the band groan and slowly rise for the stand tune, the fluteline is psyched. We run to the front of the bleachers and instantly start performing the famous dance for this song. As we're twirling around, I begin to feel as if I'm in slow motion. The screams of the crowd echo as we score a touchdown. The red, white, and blue of the band and football uniforms blur together as I whirl around. Some of my best friends stand next to me, laughing hysterically. Suddenly the song ends and I feel disappointed. I want to dance! I glance at the scoreboard and realize we still have three quarters and a glorious halftime left to have the time of our lives. And that's just tonight. We still have the whole season ahead of us.
Twenty Mosquito Bites
I struggle to pull myself up the stairs of my house, a feat that doesn't require any effort under normal circumstances. I almost crawl my way into my dirty room and kick off my shoes, sending mud flying everywhere. I sigh and turn to look at myself in the mirror. I'm shocked at what I see.
My hair is half wet from sweating under my hat and no longer has any kind of part down the middle. I pull it out of my ponytail holder and three huge knots rear their ugly heads. My cheeks are flushed from sunburn and my lips are chapped, so badly in some places that there is blood seeping out of the cracks. Glancing down at my arms, I notice that they are covered in twenty mosquito bites. There's a deep tan line from where my flip folder rests on my arms during practice.
I stretch out my legs and wince when they crack abruptly, sending pain up through my stomach. Mud is caked on the back of my legs on top of even more mosquito bites.
There are deep imprints from my socks around my ankle and my toes are covered in blood. I'm scheduled for toe surgery, but not during marching season I'm not. There's no way I'm giving up my spot in the parade block.
This is only the first weekend of marching season. I'll be going through this every Friday and Saturday for at least another seven weeks. I easily shrug off this thought and head to the shower, my head spinning with inside jokes from today's game.
Battle of the Stands…and Crutches
The bell rings and I'm finally free of algebra. Sixth period, woohoo! Band time! I open the side door and my eyes feast on the sight of a plethora of odd activities occurring at once.
Kenny is hitting Chris on the arm and calling him an idiot. Pierce is playing some obscure rock song on the piano with his headphones blaring another song, head banging to something. The piano or the headphones? Who knows?
Kathleen is hugging her third freshman of the day. Jen is tripping over a pile of music, pulling her pants even more dangerously low than they were before. Tom is covering the entire chalkboard with yellow chalk, others are throwing the remains of it up into the ceiling.
Travis has pulled out a tuba and is figuring out the notes to this year's favorite stand tune, "Crazy Frog". Mike is rapping to Justin over in the corner.
In the closet, Dan is shoving Sean's head into the sink with the water running full blast. Towards the back, Mary and Morgan are taking sketchy photographs with a huge locked container displaying the label "ecstasy".
Krista is doing cartwheels and someone is banging away on the drumset. Kevin is pummeling Patrick with the end of a music stand while he attempts to fight back with one of his crutches.
The floor is littered with chalk, Gatorade bottles, instrument cases, backpacks, and other assorted trash. The air smells like cork grease, valve oil, stale food, and lots of old music. Our director is nowhere to be found.
I chuckle to myself and step farther into the room. "Let's get this party started!" I exclaim. Everyone yells back an excited "whooooooo!" Practice has officially begun.
The Show Must Go On
It has been one the hardest weeks of my life. "RUN!" John screams. "WHAT ARE YOU DOING WALKING? I TOLD YOU TO RUN!" We reach the 20 yard line, drop our perfect posture and push ourselves back to the other side of the field as fast as we can. The process repeats. "One…" we pull ourselves on our tiptoes. "Two…" we take our first step backwards. We pull our chins to the sky, we look over the 40-year-old maple trees, we pull our shoulders back and position our arms up in a perfect attention.
This is the second hour of practice. This is the second hour of non-stop rain. We shiver in our barely adequate sweatshirts waiting for our turn to march and run. The backs of my legs are throbbing to the beat. March and run, march and run. These practices have been even worse than that one in the gym, I think to myself.
Our posture is to John's satisfaction, but our attitude isn't. We need spirit, we need spunk. We reset and run the exercise over and over again until we're screaming "ONE TWO!" and "HIT!" at the top of our lungs. We run even harder, we march even better. We're a band. We suffer together. We finish the second set and walk panting over to our friends to talk, if only for a few seconds. We still haven't learned our lesson, as talking isn't allowed in this rehearsal either. We're all assigned 30 push-ups as punishment. Thirty push-ups on the cold, slimy, hard pavement of the school parking lot. Some of us are fortunate enough not to have to do them in a puddle. We lift ourselves up and everyone's eyes automatically fly to their hands. Deep gravel imprints fill them. We sigh, but don't dare talk or even make eye contact with anyone else. You mess with John, you're dead.
It's time to play now, but my piccolo's pads are so wet they're bubbling with every note. I shake out the spit and stick it in my pocket, miserably concentrating solely on the drill and my marching technique, my blue sweatshirt hood hiding my face. We pause for the drumline to sort out their tempo for the drum feature. I look to the sky. Why am I here? Why do I volunteer my time to be tortured? WHY DOES IT HAVE TO RAIN?
Four more hours drag on. The rehearsal ends at 10 PM according to the schedule. It's now 10:45, and we're nowhere near being dismissed. We pull our exhausted selves together and manage to pull off the show at least ten more times. We crawl into the car and high tail it to Starbucks, where we scarf down insane amounts of calories in the form of lattes and hot chocolates. We blow our noses and cough insanely from the drenching rain that's made us all sick. We moan and complain and rub the back of our calves.
The week continues this way, everyday. Then it's the day we've all been waiting for. The competition. We drive to Annapolis and quickly dress into our uniforms. As soon as we step off the bus, the heavens open up and rain blesses us once again. Covering our sensitive feather plumes and our expensive instruments, we run back onto the busses.
Twenty minutes later the rain shows no sign of stopping, but the show must go on. We file out of the busses and huddle in a circle around a lamppost to warm up our sound as a band and tune. Gloves are distributed, but they're flimsy, fingerless, and overall pointless. Nothing we are wearing could possibly warm us in this rain. Could this get any worse? But we have no choice but to brave the weather. The show must go on.
We form a parade block. "MARK TIME MARK, FORWARD HARCH!" We start towards the gate. The splashing of puddles covering the sidewalk blocks out the normally crisp roll of feet in motion. I nonchalantly slide my piccolo down my sleeve to avoid as much pad wreckage as I possibly can. One of the drum majors falls back next to my line. "This is it…rain or shine…this is it. Let's kick some ass!" The short march to the stadium drags on even longer than the infamous three mile Miss America parade we had marched in the year before. We finally reach the gate, and the entrance ceiling provides a shelter, if only for a few minutes. We crowd together, shiver, and moan about what a long day this is. Suddenly, the band ahead of us plays their final chord and taps off the field. It's our turn now.
We regroup into the parade block. "LET'S DO THIS THING!" Pierce starts tapping, and we file into the stadium. The combination of pouring, sideways rain and glaring stadium lights blind us as we try to keep our composure. Our white jackets are completely soaked through, so much that I can read the writing on the shirt under the jacket of the person in front of me. I smile when I realize it isn't the mandatory "Pride of Centennial" band shirt.
We reach our opening positions to march on the field. This is it. The moment we've all been working towards. We fall out for a few minutes while the pit gets situated in the front of the field. I smile and exchange glances with my 80 friends. As miserable as I feel, I remember that there is a reason why we're all giving up our Saturday to do this. Rain or shine, we're a marching band. Through competitions and catfights, football games and flute drama, break-ups and make-ups, seating auditions and spring break trips, bus rides and bossy section leaders, drum cadences and dark moments, we're a band. We've all bonded. We're all friends. We're all there for each other no matter what. We have fun together. And that's what matters most. Not what score we receive in the competition. Not what John thinks. Not what the audience thinks. We're a band. We're a family. "DETAIL, ATTEN HUT!" We respond with the loudest "HUT!" I've ever heard in my life. The stadium falls silent. We raise our chins a little higher as we begin our march onto the field. So what if it's raining? The show must go on.
Friday Night Lights Part Two
There's only two minutes of second quarter left. "Everyone dress in!" We groan and reluctantly stand up from our seats in the bleachers to slowly pull our jackets back on. Hookers are needed once again.
We strut out onto the track, waiting for everyone else to slowly drag his or herself down into the parade block. Excitement fills the air as we wait to perform our halftime show for the last time ever. With a minute left on the clock, we parade to the other side of the stadium and break off into a concert arc. We play a few scales as a band and the piccolos break off to tune individually. Everyone winces and covers their ears. We just laugh and play higher. The parade block is formed again, this time right next to the back end of the field. We pull ourselves through the thick, smelly mud to our positions right outside the first white line, whatever that's called. We don't know and we don't care. All we know is this is the last time to go crazy at a football game and the last time to put this show together. And we're going to do a great job of it!
We march onto the field and I glance up at the crowd. I spot a bunch of my non-band friends giggling at the band and my parents waving at me from the band parent section of the stands.
I'm brought out of this trance when I hear Shawn start to clap the tempo for our opener. I turn my attention to him and snap up my instrument after one measure of conducting. We nail the first notes and dance steps. I'm so absorbed in executing my moves flawlessly that I don't realize the show is almost over until the last two measures of our closer.
The last chord is cut off. We snap our instruments away from our bodies. Out, down. That's it. We'll never play this funk show again. We'll never have all these people performing on one field again. My eyes water as we remain at attention for the recognition of the seniors.
Out of the corner of my eye I spot Joe preparing to walk forward a few steps out of his spot to acknowledge the crowd. Instead of walking, he suddenly skips forward and hits his heels together at his side, tipping his hat to the crowd at the same time. The crowd goes wild. Though we're all at attention, we can't help but shift our peripheral vision to our friends and burst out laughing. It's thirty degrees out, our fingers are numb, and we'll never play this show again. But instead of wanting to go home and cry, I'm extremely happy. I stare up at the stadium lights, my smile growing and growing. This marching season may be just about over, but who knows what next year's will bring?
Parking Lot Girl Talks
"Band dismissed!"
"CHS!" Finally, practice has drawn to a close. Most people rush off the parking lot into the refreshing cool air of the building. But not the flute section. We all drop to the ground.
It's 10:00 at night and thus pitch black outside. We all have school tomorrow, but no one wants to make the effort to pull herself off the ground. We're all feeling a little out of it.
We gaze at the sky and laugh hysterically at the thought of the band couple of the day. Someone points out a star.
"That's not a star, that's a plane!" We all find this funny and roll around on the ground, smashing dirt and rocks into our backs.
"Hey, if you laugh really hard, it looks like it's moving up and down!" someone else exclaims. We find this even more hyserical.
"Look at that plane! Oh wait, that's one of the streetlights!" That seals the night for us. We lay on the ground laughing uncontrollably for at least twenty minutes.
John drags the remaining equipment back into the school. "What are you guys doing? You do know you can leave now, don't you?"
"We know!" we assert in unison. We start hitting each other, exchanging dirty remarks, and laughing until we're completely wiped out. We have a girl talk for almost an hour before we realize what time it is.
As we slowly pull ourselves off the ground, we gather into a group hug. "I love you guys", someone says. The dark skies make it impossible to distinguish faces. "Who would have known two years that we'd all become such great friends? What would we do without these moments?"
"We would all have lives, wouldn't know the true meaning of suffering, and overall better off," another voice says, "but there would be no accomplishment, new friendships, or fun. That's what band truly is."
A tear rolls down my cheek and we embrace again. This is my life, and I wouldn't trade it for anything in the world.