hear the cheers

My friends are out of town right now, so I’m checking in on their cat while they’re away. This evening I stepped out of my apartment to walk down the street to theirs, and I could hear and announcer and cheers not far in the distance. I was surprised that I lived so close to a school without knowing it, and I wondered where it was, but I didn’t really wonder what sport or what age group was playing. I played with the cat, and when I left, the announcer was talking again. I wondered again how close the school was as I walked, and then I realized that it was half time and the announcer was announcing the marching band. I couldn’t understand much of what he was saying, but I did catch that tomorrow the band is performing in the season’s first competition tomorrow.

I had stopped walking by then, and was simply standing, staring in the direction of the voice. I suddenly realized all at once what time of year it – I had been so busy in my own world, I hadn’t stopped to remember – and I felt flooded with the feelings and memories of this exciting time of year in high school. Like my freshman year, the very first time I stood on the field in front of an audience. I was absolutely petrified! But the music started anyway, my feet knew exactly where to go, and my fingers knew the notes exactly. By the end of our performance, I was absolutely hooked: it was the most amazing feeling to perform this show as a group – soon to be a “family” – in front of a stadium full of people. I didn’t want to leave the field! I didn’t want to have to wait a whole week to do this again!

I could hear the drummers keeping the band in step as they took the field, and I started walking in the direction of the sound. I knew I wasn’t going to find the school – I just wanted to be closer. And walking while I listened felt less silly than standing still in the street, staring off in the distance.

Before long, the crowd began to cheer, and I knew the band was ready to begin their show. I again remembered the exact feeling of standing down there, waiting for the show to begin. Standing at rigid attention, clasping my clarinet tightly, and feeling absolutely breathless as I stared into the crowds looking for a familiar face. I’m nervous, in my head I’m playing through the troublesome parts of the show that I just know I’ll screw up, and every bit of my body is at the highest tension and excitement as I wait for us to begin.

I rounded a corner and could just barely see the stadium lights through the trees. I couldn’t hear as well from this part of the neighborhood, but I could hear the announcer start speaking again. The show was over. I stood still and wondered, what exactly is it that I miss about marching band? it’s been six years no since I stood on that field. six years! it’s been ten years since the very first time I marched. I suppose the details are fading now….my body and my mind don’t remember the details of the marching steps or positions anymore, and my fingers and mouth certainly don’t recall the notes, skill, and detail of the music.

I suppose I miss all of the big, vague things, like belonging to such a tight group that became a “family,” or how all of us had the single goal and passion, or the absolute pride that I learned on that field. I miss my faithful little clarinet section and the dynamics within it that changed every year. I miss the field itself. It’s so simple; just yard lines and a hash mark, just eight steps between each one. It’s crazy to think of how very, very many hours I spent on 100 yards of grass, and that I could actually miss it.

maybe the details of the skills I learned are beginning to fade now, but the memories themselves aren’t. I still remember exactly how that field looked in the evening sun of August and September: the grass was brown by then, and clearly trampled in the parts of the fields we marched the most. There were a dozen different colors of dots and lines all of the field – absolutely meaningless if you just stood and looked at it, but every single one of us knew exactly which 50 or so of those hundreds of dots were MINE, and we knew exactly which order those dots belonged in.

There’s something about my personality that makes it difficult for me to let go of times that have passed. it does now feel that it has been years since I marched – but for the first four years after I graduated, I simply couldn’t believe that the time was passing without me on that field. Marching was so much a part of me, how could I possibly no longer be a part of it? And it’s exactly the same with Hanover. Most other people aren’t like this, and I haven’t pinpointed exactly what that piece of me is yet (even with all of my training in psychology!). I don’t know what it is or why it’s there, but I don’t think I’d change it about myself. I like that I have such passion, and I like the memories and meaning that I hold onto after the time period has passed, even though it comes with the heartache of no longer being able to play that role.