It was the day of the last marching band invitational of the year, an important one for qualifying for state finals, and I was not looking forward to anything we had to do that day.  As is customary for most competing bands, a 4-6 hour practice prior is not uncommon in preparation for the scored performance later that night.  With this knowledge, I, seemingly being the only one to dread what lay ahead, trudged into the band room and weaved my way through the in and out traffic of the instrument locker room. I carefully placed my feet to avoid stepping on someone’s case, and found an open place to set my own case.

Just as I began to put my trombone together, one of the Drum Majors called out “Band TEN HUT!” and with a less than enthusiastic attitude, I pulled the half-assembled instrument up to attention.  They announced with authority that we were going out onto the field to practice.  After some hesitation, I joined the rest of the band in journeying to the football field.

Once we were outside, Ivan, our marching instructor, called us around and started talking about things like “Making this practice our best”, and “making a mark on the audience when we perform”.  I, however, just took it as his futile attempt to make us think we had a chance against the other bands.

Upon finishing his speech, he gave us our instruction as to what to do, but I, making some joke to the other trombones, wasn’t paying attention.  He started us off with the glock block and I stumbled around, thinking I knew what to do... only to find that I hadn’t guessed very well.  This pattern went on for most of the rest of the practice, and I felt that I had done quite a good job hiding my mistakes.  At the conclusion of the practice, the directors once again tried to convince us that we were doing well, but I again dismissed their “attempt” as just a pointless motivational speech.  They dismissed us to go inside to get ready to leave.

We were heading to Lakeland High School, which is only a short 20 minute ride from school.  Because of this, I had barely finished getting comfortable before the Drum Major that was assigned to our bus shouted out to begin getting our gloves, gauntlets and shakos (marching band hats) on.  Not long after, we pulled into the L.H.S. parking lot.  Everyone stood up as I still fumbled getting my gauntlets on, so I exited the bus behind everyone else, still trying to adjust my gloves.  The student guides showed us to our practice area on the northwestern side of the middle school and let us begin.  I was still exhausted from our grueling practice, so I made up for the exhaustion by slouching during our basics block exercises with Ivan. 

Before I knew it, the guides returned and directed us onto a road that lead around the pond that separates the high school from the middle school and elementary.  We continued on this road to the southern side of the high school and made our way to the field. From there, the directors ordered us to wait in the end zone until a certain time (to prevent a penalty).  A few of us standing together remarked at how the sky was beginning to look uncertain, it seemed to be in the process of making a decision.  The directors gave us the call to attention and battery tapped us off.  We marched with absolute mediocrity onto the field.

I reached my opening set and turned to the back sideline to participate in the on-field warm up, I felt the icy stare of the audience.  They seemed anxious, and they had reason to.  We were the first Flight One band to perform.  We would be setting the bar for the rest of the performances that day. 

The cool mid-autumn breeze flowed through the feathers of my plume and ushered in a spit of rain that beaded up on our uniforms and put a slick layer of water on the artificial turf of the field we stood on. I could hear the audience’s slight murmur behind me as I participated in the few long tones that was our warm up.  Just minutes before, it was a sunny, Indian Summer day.  Now, the sky was black with the sun hiding behind the opaque forms of the clouds hanging like they were on strings suspended from the ceiling.  Suddenly, the cool air dropped its temperature significantly, causing the spectators in the stands to zip up their coats or huddle together for warmth.  Normally, I would have complained about the cold, but I was glad to have some relief from the furnace that was my uniform.  As the conditions of the weather (and our overall morale) gradually deteriorated, I knew that these next eight-minutes would be the most demanding yet. 

“Now on the field”, the announcer rumbled through the speaker system, “the  Marching Band!  Their show is ‘The Museum’ which features the following musical selections…”  I had heard this presentation many times before, so I focused my attention to the sky above.  Every second I marveled at the mass of water vapor that now enveloped the sky, the more hope I lost that mother nature would let us go unscathed. 

“...MCBA is proud to present in performance, Drum Majors Jennifer, Christian, Spencer, and the Marching Band!”  He then turned the field over to us and the spectators fell silent, waiting for us to begin.  The Drum Majors conducted two pickup measures to start us off, and we responded with a scatter of out of beat and out of tune notes.  With that, the wind picked up and the spits of rain turned into a torrential downpour.  We were unaccustomed to fighting through this breed of weather, so most of the beginning was an unguided mess of panic and total chaos as we stumbled around in the rain. 

The second movement was when I truly realized what was happening.  I glanced over (no... squinting was all I could do without being pelted in the eyes with ice shards) at the color guard on the front sideline as they tossed their flag up into the air, only to watch as  it flew away down the field like a kite in the wind.  I hoped the judges hadn’t seen it, but unfortunately, they were focused on trying to hear through the roar of the precipitation.

As the combined mix of the three worst weather events that a band could be unlucky enough to experience during a performance (Rain, Wind and Hail) began to strike before my eyes, I promised to myself, remembering suddenly what Ivan had said earlier that day about “making it our best”, that I wouldn’t slack off on my part, no matter how much I thought that doing so would have no ultimate difference.  I figured we were ruined beyond return, and were a lost hope as far as state finals went.  My thinking was “if we don’t go to states, I might as well do my share here.”

I proved to myself by the show’s conclusion that I had done the very most towards perfection I could.  As we were marching off soaked to the bone, I noticed that the audience was giving us a standing ovation.  As soon as we placed our feet on the track, the hail stopped.  The next band in the lineup was nearly ready to march out from the end zone... only now, the only opposition from the sky was a slight drizzle. 

Once we were all inside the school, our marching instructor and “motivator” Ivan told us to gather around him.  Once we were, he just looked at us for a second or two, then said slowly in a tone that describing could never do justice “That was awesome!”.  I zoned out for a few seconds and I gave that phrase a long thought.  Spontaneously, I realized to myself that in order to achieve “excellence”, as Ivan later described it, I couldn’t just “half of the time give it half of my effort”.  I had to consistently do more than expected, because the other bands across the state would have people doing the same.  Since then, I have made a conscious decision to do better and better every time I practice. It is a mental obstacle to get past, but it has proved to be an effective policy for both me and those around me.  Instead of complaining, I now keep it to myself and encourage people to do the same.  It is a valuable lesson that I will never forget.

The score we achieved that day at Lakeland High School was the highest we got all season and qualified the Marching Band for 2013 State Finals.