Hi everyone! The shadow elf is back! This fic is based on a true story. It happened at the 2003 Ohio High School State Finals. So, read up.
State finals night. We were confident. We were the best, and we knew it. We would give it our all. But still, it scared us.
Tensions were high. Flutes glanced around nervously. Brass players tried to cover up their anxiety by making jokes, or talking loudly. My own clarinet section just stays quiet, as we are all sensible, even under pressure.
We practice on a vacant field. Tune. Mr. Thissen reprimands the percussion. The uniforms are stifling. An alto sax squeaks. A tuba blats loudly. Still we practice. We perfect our three songs enough to satisfy Mr. Thissen. Or maybe it doesn't satisfy him. He is tense, we can all tell. He has the highest hopes for us. He said if we reach our best, the best we have ever done, tonight, we would truly be the greatest band there.
It is time to line up. Nine rows, stretching back in one big rectangle. Oh, god. Will we do it? Can we make it?
Gravel crunches under our impeccably white shoes as we make our way over to the stadium. It rises up ominously as we walk under its shadow. You can hear the cheers of the crowd as another band finishes its performance.
The gate opens on to the track surrounding the field. We hear our cue and march in. A corner of my mind duly notes when gravel changes to that peculiar fine-chopped rubber as we enter.
In front of the visitors stands, we halt. Right-face. Face the spectators in the visitors stands. Horns up. Play the warm-up. Horns down. A small grin creeps onto my face as the crowd cheers more wildly than before. Oh no people. The show hasn't even started yet.
Band, about-face. We come forward to the line, almost crossing it, but not quite.
The four field commanders come forward, white hats with their blue plumes, red jackets with white embroidery, silver braids at the shoulder, silver buttons, white sash draping from shoulder to shoulder. The only thing that differs their outfits from ours is that where we have dark blue pants with a white-with-red-center stripe down the sides and plain white band shoes, they are resplendent in white pants for the two boys, skirts for the girls, and knee-length fancy white boots.
Everyone in the stands are silent as we march forward, still in our big rectangle, field commanders eight steps ahead of the first row. With two hundred and nine band members, that is a pretty impressive sight.
When we are centered in the middle of the field we wait two seconds, then break to the first drill set to stand at the ready.
Tap-tap-tap-tap.
"Band, atten-hut!"
"Hah!" We snap to attention.
"Band, horns up!" We comply.
"Mark-time move! One-two-three-four!" We march. Play. Get caught up in the euphoria of it all. Before we know it, the first song is over. The next starts.
Oh goodie, Live and Let Die.
Start off slow.
Suddenly fast.
Now drum solo. We make our way into two blocks, each on one half of the field. The drum tempo changes, the blocks move toward each other. The first lines criss-cross. Pit crew changes tempo. We are traversing to the home side. Here we go. Snap back to facing the goals and abruptly break from eight-five steps to four-five steps. The crowd goes nuts. Oh but we're not done. Form groups of four, spiral. Go back to the big blocks just in time for the drum solo to end. Half the band starts chairstepping while the other half remain on regular steps. Flag crew all around us with the swirls of black and white barred patterns, their pure silver uniforms glinting in the lights. Drumline is back with us now, near the tubas, all ten of the silver sousas. The chairstepping ends and we all go double time into the end of the song. It ends on a loud note then we all snap our instruments down and yell, "HAH!".
The crowd is cheering its heart out. Bless them.
The next song is quieter, slower, but more melodic.
Drill sets swirl in curved shapes until we suddenly all move into a large rectangle, covering most of the field. We march forward playing fast and strong.
Spin off into eight individual squares, three behind the five in front. We spin the blocks, and then suddenly explode outward, keeping the block shape but tripling the size, horns pointed up at the Judges' Box. At the very moment of the explosion starts the last note, on triple forte.
We halt there, silent.
Lower the instruments.
Walk off field.
We take our places in the visitors stands while another band plays.
We were happy. Very happy.
Mr. Thissen is coming around and congratulating us, honestly saying that we hit our peak, played and marched the best that he had ever seen in all his years of directing.
The field commanders leave. It is time for the awards. The field is empty but for the home side sideline. All the field commanders from all the bands are lined up there.
The judges are moving slowly down the line, handing out twos, a few threes, and a few rare ones. The one we earned. Even the impossible-to-please Mr. Thissen said so.
In the band room afterwards we watched the replays. Everything was perfect. The trumpet and mellophone angles were right. The flutes in step. No gaps in the clarinet section. No blatting tubas or trombones. No squeaking saxes. The drumline was phenomenal. The music played to perfection. Everything was perfect, the best that could be.
The judges approached our field commanders. "Marysville High School Band, your overall band rating is… two."
State finals night. We were confident. We were the best, and we knew it. We would give it our all. But still, it scared us.
Tensions were high. Flutes glanced around nervously. Brass players tried to cover up their anxiety by making jokes, or talking loudly. My own clarinet section just stays quiet, as we are all sensible, even under pressure.
We practice on a vacant field. Tune. Mr. Thissen reprimands the percussion. The uniforms are stifling. An alto sax squeaks. A tuba blats loudly. Still we practice. We perfect our three songs enough to satisfy Mr. Thissen. Or maybe it doesn't satisfy him. He is tense, we can all tell. He has the highest hopes for us. He said if we reach our best, the best we have ever done, tonight, we would truly be the greatest band there.
It is time to line up. Nine rows, stretching back in one big rectangle. Oh, god. Will we do it? Can we make it?
Gravel crunches under our impeccably white shoes as we make our way over to the stadium. It rises up ominously as we walk under its shadow. You can hear the cheers of the crowd as another band finishes its performance.
The gate opens on to the track surrounding the field. We hear our cue and march in. A corner of my mind duly notes when gravel changes to that peculiar fine-chopped rubber as we enter.
In front of the visitors stands, we halt. Right-face. Face the spectators in the visitors stands. Horns up. Play the warm-up. Horns down. A small grin creeps onto my face as the crowd cheers more wildly than before. Oh no people. The show hasn't even started yet.
Band, about-face. We come forward to the line, almost crossing it, but not quite.
The four field commanders come forward, white hats with their blue plumes, red jackets with white embroidery, silver braids at the shoulder, silver buttons, white sash draping from shoulder to shoulder. The only thing that differs their outfits from ours is that where we have dark blue pants with a white-with-red-center stripe down the sides and plain white band shoes, they are resplendent in white pants for the two boys, skirts for the girls, and knee-length fancy white boots.
Everyone in the stands are silent as we march forward, still in our big rectangle, field commanders eight steps ahead of the first row. With two hundred and nine band members, that is a pretty impressive sight.
When we are centered in the middle of the field we wait two seconds, then break to the first drill set to stand at the ready.
Tap-tap-tap-tap.
"Band, atten-hut!"
"Hah!" We snap to attention.
"Band, horns up!" We comply.
"Mark-time move! One-two-three-four!" We march. Play. Get caught up in the euphoria of it all. Before we know it, the first song is over. The next starts.
Oh goodie, Live and Let Die.
Start off slow.
Suddenly fast.
Now drum solo. We make our way into two blocks, each on one half of the field. The drum tempo changes, the blocks move toward each other. The first lines criss-cross. Pit crew changes tempo. We are traversing to the home side. Here we go. Snap back to facing the goals and abruptly break from eight-five steps to four-five steps. The crowd goes nuts. Oh but we're not done. Form groups of four, spiral. Go back to the big blocks just in time for the drum solo to end. Half the band starts chairstepping while the other half remain on regular steps. Flag crew all around us with the swirls of black and white barred patterns, their pure silver uniforms glinting in the lights. Drumline is back with us now, near the tubas, all ten of the silver sousas. The chairstepping ends and we all go double time into the end of the song. It ends on a loud note then we all snap our instruments down and yell, "HAH!".
The crowd is cheering its heart out. Bless them.
The next song is quieter, slower, but more melodic.
Drill sets swirl in curved shapes until we suddenly all move into a large rectangle, covering most of the field. We march forward playing fast and strong.
Spin off into eight individual squares, three behind the five in front. We spin the blocks, and then suddenly explode outward, keeping the block shape but tripling the size, horns pointed up at the Judges' Box. At the very moment of the explosion starts the last note, on triple forte.
We halt there, silent.
Lower the instruments.
Walk off field.
We take our places in the visitors stands while another band plays.
We were happy. Very happy.
Mr. Thissen is coming around and congratulating us, honestly saying that we hit our peak, played and marched the best that he had ever seen in all his years of directing.
The field commanders leave. It is time for the awards. The field is empty but for the home side sideline. All the field commanders from all the bands are lined up there.
The judges are moving slowly down the line, handing out twos, a few threes, and a few rare ones. The one we earned. Even the impossible-to-please Mr. Thissen said so.
In the band room afterwards we watched the replays. Everything was perfect. The trumpet and mellophone angles were right. The flutes in step. No gaps in the clarinet section. No blatting tubas or trombones. No squeaking saxes. The drumline was phenomenal. The music played to perfection. Everything was perfect, the best that could be.
The judges approached our field commanders. "Marysville High School Band, your overall band rating is… two."