A Gift from the Band
We practice every day, sweating like mad, and tripping over our own feet from exhaustion. Two hours per session, eight hours a week, not including game day. We learn the moves, memorize the music, ingrain the steps into our heads so deeply that they become muscle memory, like writing three-letter words over and over again.
There are the trumpets and the clarinets, who battle for supremacy in numbers. The flutes stay in third, waiting patiently for their chance to jump into the fray. And there are the saxophones, the class clowns of the marching band, who screw around with each other when they think no one’s looking. The trombones and the baritones with their stupid but surprisingly funny jokes hang out in the back corner of the band room. The percussionists will pound on anything stationary, just for the sake of “practice.
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