"Snow…is there anything to compare? I don't think so, not anywhere. Clean and bright, so gentle it falls. Brings out the child in us one and all."
I've been meaning to post this for a while now. It took place in 2003, when the band was only four years old. Hence the name of our show - "4" -and a few other things. The regional being spoken of is the Atlanta Regional. For those of you who wish to know beforehand, I am a junior in the Kennesaw Mountain High School Marching Band (wow, that takes a while to write…) down in ol' Georgia.
Congrats to everyone who made finals in every regional across the country this past year and good luck to you all for the coming season. If you tell me what band you're with, I'll listen/look out for you guys. =)
This mostly explains what I was feeling and thinking during the retreat after that long, hard day. As I'm sure you all know, it is very difficult to put something like this in words. But I tried and here's what I got.
My heart pounded as the announcer named the placings. The bands around us came to attention as they were called and those of us that were left were beginning to sway on our feet as the apprehension in the air increased. This was one of the moments we had been working for, the most important night of the season for most of us.
As more bands were called, I thought of all the hot summer days spent out on the back lot, running through the drill until I was ready to fall over. We spent hours and hours out there, rain or shine. All the days and hours blended together, making it hard to separate one rehearsal from the next. Memories of the first time we ran through the entire show, looking at the pavement covered in chalk marks - some with the words "Finally Done!" or "4" written in them - ran through my mind. Chill bumps rose over my skin. This was it...
I was brought back to the present when third place was announced. We still hadn't been called. I moved my eyes, glancing at the plumes on my friends' shakos. The black feathers were quivering, just like the people wearing them. I felt a sting in my eyes and blinked it away; letting everyone see me cry would be a bit embarrassing.
There was a pause before second place was revealed. You could practically feel the tension hanging thick in the air. Then the announcer spoke.
"In second place, with a score of…"
It wasn't us. We hadn't come in second. There was only one place open now. I coughed as breath caught in my throat. Then first place was announced.
"And in first place, with a score of…" Some of the kids around me sucked in a lung-full of air; it was a pretty high number, "The Kennesaw Mountain High School Marching Band!"
Cheers erupted from the stands and echoed through the stadium. We did it. We won. We won one of the most difficult regionals in the Southeast. Something that no four-year-old band had ever done. This was amazing! As more things were said over the loudspeaker, our directors and instructors walked through our ranks, putting medals around our necks. Everyone was smiling, barely able to hide their happiness.
We were given the word to break ranks. We all turned to each other before screaming in delight. Tears had finally escaped and were rolling down my cheeks. The person who had been standing diagonal to me in another band tapped my shoulder. He had seen me start crying and gave me a quick, friendly hug. I turned when he had moved away and wrapped my arms around a friend's neck, still in semi-shock over the days' events. A freshman in my section turned to me. Even without knowing how unbelievable this was, she seemed to understand how important it was. I went over and gave her a hug.
The drum majors made their way over to us. One was crying, clutching one of the trophies we had been rewarded with tightly in her arms. I gave her a wide smile, which she happily returned.
After what seemed like hours, the other bands cleared the field, leaving us alone. Some stayed to watch what we would do, others went with their friends back to their buses to change and celebrate in their own ways.
Our director called us all to the 50 yard line. He clapped and we fell silent, smiles still pulling at our lips. Many of us wanted to march the show again, but some of us were too worn out for that. We finally agreed to form the concert arcs and play through the show instead of actually marching it again. The parents that had come to see us moved down to the lower rows, grinning and talking amongst themselves. As we played through the show everyone quieted, listening in concealed awe.
By the time we finished, most of the other students had left, needing to join back with their groups. The director told us to form twos and the drum majors led us from the stadium. We all put a little extra sway in our walk, enjoying the sound of our medals clinking against the silver buttons on our jackets. This was most definitely a night we would never forget.