A warm, humid air hung over the field like an invisible film that could not be touched but felt. The tension was high. It was so quiet you could hear a pin drop. The group was up next. They had been training for this since May. Everyone had already run the sets, the show, the reason they were here in the first place at least a thousand times that month. There were ups and downs, but everything they had trained for led up to this. They persevered, kept pushing, knowing that with repetition comes perfection. And it was about to pay off. The excitement was static, everyone trying to calm their nerves, running their sweaty hands down their pants so as not to drop their instruments, and taking deep breaths to calm themselves. They can start to hear the slight murmur of the crowd. All of their pain and aches instantly wash away. This is it. The group walks up to their destination; the yellowish-green grass of their stage. Everyone takes positions. Three individuals, two short and one tall call, ‘Band, ten hut!’ ‘PRIDE!’ Shouts the group as everyone puts their hats, also known as shakos, on their heads. Taps signal the group when to move. As the last tap echoes through the air to the audience, the entire field grows silent.

     This was it, he knew. Everything boiled down to this. He readied his hands, grabbed his sticks, set his grip pressure, and prepared to move. This was no sport, simply a hobby, a reason for being, yet the mental capacity required to do everything perfectly, every time, was immense. It took years for even professionals to master this level of success. It was faint, but a slight musical sound was beginning to be heard from the front of the field. As we wait to move, the entire field whispers ‘one, two, three…’ and so on. Next to us, we see a person fly into the air as if gravity was simply an obstacle that could be overcome with just a little effort. This is our signal to move. This is it. Don’t mess up, or everyone will see. We ready our hands, lower our sticks, and prepare to play. As we march across the back of the field, the energy begins to go so high it’s almost as though we can hear it. Now! We begin to play. It’s subtle, but a ‘tap, tap’ suddenly starts to grow from the back of the field. We move ever forward, continuing the move, still playing, trying to our full capacity. This is only the first of three parts. In part two, we are done with playing for now, and we move to the back of the field, seemingly our home away from home, yet again. The quiet ‘1, 2, 3’ still echoes around the field, though only we can hear it, not the audience. As the second part comes to a close, we prepare for part three, but first, part two-point-five, the drum break. As the last effects of the ballad fade away, and the audience’s excitement dies down, we look at the hands, knowing this is our true time to shine. Then, suddenly, without warning, we play once more. This time it is only us, and we play with our full capacity, knowing that we are better than every other person on this field with the amount of time and effort we spend to make sure everything is perfect. We don’t hold back. Some may say it is hard to put a passionate sound into a drum, but they are wrong. Every time the bead of the stick strikes the drum it sounds the same, but make no mistake that every stroke is one with purpose, meaning, and every hour of practice we have spent behind it. As our feature comes to a close, and we finish playing, we allow ourselves a little smile, knowing that no matter what, we tried our very hardest, and there is nothing else we can do better on it. we stop, but we are not done. This is only the first part. We are, in some sense, technically done, but realistically it is far from over. We leave the field, knowing we tried out very best, no matter how many mistakes were made.

      As the rest of the band heads to the stands, we are not done. We put our drums away, sweaty, quiet, breathless. We march back to the stands, never dropping etiquette, never letting any emotion show until the time is right. We sit down on the cold aluminum of the bleachers and wait. Eventually, finally, we hear it. ‘And in first place…’ the announcer trails off, the tension high, heartbeats so loud they could be heard from the other side of the stadium as they all beat in unison, patiently waiting yet so eager to hear they’re nearly jumping out of their skin. The announcer takes a deep breath, time seems to stand still, and he says ‘Sandra Day O’Connor, Eagle Pride Marching Band!’ We cheer, shout, and yell, our happiness and pride felt around the field. This is it. This is why we do this. This is why we persevere, to be the best. And we have done it, just like every time before. As we head back to the buses, my friends run to catch up with me and discuss the big news, the rest of the night and all the memories of our performance fade into black, as though it never even happened at all.