The Victors

(to follow The Brothers)

And now we've come full circle. You can see that the final loss to Ohio State during my senior year at Michigan was certainly a heartbreaker. Perhaps my passion for Michigan Football and tradition had gone too far, but I don't regret that for a moment. And like I have said, the parallels between my senior years of college and high school have taught me to appreciate all that I have learned from my experiences, even if the end can't be so perfect.

Senior Altos with the "Senior Banner."

So, here we go. Now, after eight years of music, eight years of marching band, and eight years of heart-attack-inducing and drug-addition-triggering events, I had one final bowl game, and then I'd be done. We were slated to play in the Capital One Bowl in Orlando against the University of Florida. Here's the situation: Florida was the defending national champion, they were under the leadership of a Heisman-winning quarterback, and we'd have to play them in their home territory. We were huge underdogs, to put it mildly. This was slightly liberating, though. Since neither I nor any of my peers expected us to win, there was no tension. Our final bowl game would just be a relaxing few days of *FREE* vacation in Florida, a likely blowout loss in the bowl game, and then we'd head home.

Oh, yeah. I was a bus captain. Look how powerful I am.

As expected, the Capital One Bowl trip was more relaxing than trips in previous years. We were performing an easy modern Broadway show that didn't require much rehearsal. Most of our time was spent going to amusement parks or shopping. We spent New Year's Eve at Universal Studios Florida, where I managed to use my employee ID from my days at Universal Studios Hollywood to get 50% discounts for me and my friends. On top of that, I was REALLY impressed with the theme park. After working for a summer at Universal Studios Hollywood, I can vehemently and resolutely say that it is a HORRIBLE place. All of the visitors were always in a bad mood after waiting in endless lines for bad rides, only to wait in longer lines for disgusting food, and then hear me say to them, "Okay, chips and a soda will come out to.....$23.52." And then I would proceed to get verbally abused by them for hours on end, then I'd feel dumb and have to escape backstage to wallow in my own uselessness, and then I'd sense some slight comfort when the Dora the Explorer fuzzy character walked by, but then I'd freak out after she'd take off her mask and reveal a greasy looking guy from South Central with a black eye and a chip on his shoulder because "the man" wouldn't let him join the navy after he refused to confess to joyriding in a stolen vehicle.

Whoh, I got way off-track there. So, yeah. Universal Studios Florida. New Year's Eve. Better than expected. Huzzah!

Universal Studios Florida

When January 1st rolled around, the time had finally come to get spanked by Florida. To be honest, part of me still hoped for a win...just so Lloyd Carr could end his coaching career on a well-deserved high note, and also so the senior football players would earn a fulfulling win after four years of hard work and dedication. And just before I'd start to think that maybe...just maybe...we could actually win this thing, I'd remind myself that we were playing Florida, and then I'd pop some pills and cut my wrists a little bit and everything would go back to normal again.

From the beginning of the game, our offense looked a little different than usual. We were spreading the field more and throwing the ball more often. We scored a touchdown early, and, once again, my hopes lifted. Sure enough, Florida answered with two touchdown drives, and we were down 7-14. We managed to even it out with another touchdown, and then finished the first have with a remarkable drive to go up 21-14 with just eight seconds to go. We were BEATING Florida at halftime. Could it be too good to be true?

Me and Dustin at the game.

After some Wicked and Hairspray tunes, and some disco booty-shaking to "Dancing Queen", the second half was underway. A Mike Hart touchdown run stretched our lead to 28-14, and Florida subsequently tied it back up at 28-28 going into the fourth. In the final quarter, Florida's Percy Harvin scored to send Florida up 35-31. This was it. It had gone too far. My emotions had overcome any sense of reason, and I knew that my fellow seniors were in the same boat. We couldn't lose now...not with a win in reach. At this point, a loss would be like twisting the knife that Ohio State had so thoroughly plunged into our hearts.

Never fear, though, because Chad Henne and Adrian Arrington connected once more to solidify their career days with the final touchdown of the game. One late field goal completed the spectacular victory for the Maize and Blue. Final Score: Michigan 41 - Florida 35.

The feeling was sublime. It was unreal. Yet, it was so elegantly and perfectly appropriate. The coach and players deserved this win, and the world knew it. It was as if fate or karma was correcting itself; as if the lives of these individuals had perilously veered off track, but managed to steer back right before it was too late.

The Altos after the big win.

My fellow bandmembers and I stormed the field and joined the players in jubilation. If you asked me how I felt at this moment in time, I'm not sure I could give an adequate answer. Maybe there are no words than can really describe the emotion, or maybe there was no emotion to be felt. Happiness? Bliss? Perhaps at this point, we were simply beyond "feeling", and, here at the end, we had simply reached an "understanding;" an understanding that this was the way this particular story would end; this was the finale; this was the reconciliation between four evanescent years of dreaming and the final and absolute reality.

And as our eyes welled up and we began to truly appreciate this reality, I saw the players raise their beloved coach onto their shoulders. The rain was drizzling, as if serving as a gentle reminder of the obstacles overcome to get to this point. There they stood beneath the setting sun - the valiant leader and his victorious team. He hailed his players, and they hailed their mentor.

Far did our praises sing, as we bid farewell to an amazing coach - a true Michigan Man. We marched off of the field, fully sensing the finality of each step, because we knew this was it - we'd never come back to this. And, in recognition of the glory they bro't us on this final stage, among these friends and fans, we proudly hailed the victors one last time.

The Victors.

The Brothers

(to follow The Bay St. Louis Blues)

When it comes to my music experience during my junior year in college, my performing actually took a backseat to my leadership work and my life as president of my fraternity chapter.

My fraternity, Kappa Kappa Psi, is a national fraternity that focuses primarily on service to college bands. When I joined the brotherhood, I thought it would be a cool way to synthesize my musicianship with my desire to do service. Still, I wasn't very enthusiastic at first. I thought it would be a good way to meet people, but I didn't see myself becoming too involved.

And so, of course, I soon found myself running for president. Some of my friends and former leaders in the fraternity urged me to do it, partially because they thought I would do a good job, and partially because there didn't seem to be anyone else willing to step up. Whatever the reason, I reluctantly ran for the job, and won.

Clearly, I went into this position with the wrong attitude. Not only was my heart not completely in it, but I think I felt like I could do no wrong since some of my friends had practically begged me to run. I didn't seem to recognize the fact that I could make any bad decisions. I thought my brothers should just be happy to have me as an officer.

It didn't take long for me to learn my lesson. Some of my fellow officers questioned my opinions on our projects. At first, I simply disregarded them. After they persisted, I began to resent them for rejecting my ideas of what was best. In reality, I was a little intimidated, and I was in denial of my own shortcomings. Sure, a lot of their concerns and arguments were petty, but after a while I realized that there was some truth in their opinions.

I kept this in mind, trying to humble myself and change my attitude. Instead, I focused on improving myself as a leader rather than assuming I was already good at my job. And sure enough, I saw that my former mentality was actually common throughout my chapter. For years, our Kappa Kappa Psi chapter at Michigan had been one of the stronger and leading chapters in the midwest, but we were also complacent, and never really tried to find ways to make ourselves better. Why hadn't we won the Governors' Cup in years? Why didn't we get more awards and recognition? Complacency. THAT was our problem.

For the rest of the year, I tried to inspire a new attitude within the chapter to combat this attitude. We all tried to spearhead new and innovative projects, like a Band Directors' convention, and a high school Mentorship Program.

When March rolled around, it was once again time for the Kappa Kappa Psi North Central District Convention. This was an annual event where brothers across the midwest could attend workshops and bid for awards and honors. Once again, we were bidding for the Governors' Cup. Typically, this would involve a presentation to the Governors' and District Officers describing how great we are. However, this year we took a different approach. We described our issues with complacency, and discussed what we were doing to purge the attitude from our chapter. Additionally, as president, I was required to attend several Governors' summits, during which I had to share my thoughts on the fraternity with chapter presidents and national officers, and I was constantly being judged on what I was saying. It was an intimidating and stimulating experience.

Good thing we don't have any height requirements.

The final night of the convention consisted of the Awards Banquet. I was nervous throughout dinner. The Governors' Cup wasn't important to me because of the name and the prestige. Rather, it was important because I wanted my fellow brothers to have something to be proud of - something that would legitimize their efforts to change the way they looked at the fraternity.

It was the last award announced. The anxiety was building until they finally made the annoucement. "The 2007 Governors' Cup goes to...The Nu Chapter of The University of Michigan."

I walked to the front of the hall to pick up the award, applause all around. When I returned to the table, I saw the faces of my brothers glowing with pride and excitement. At that moment, I felt honored to lead such an amazing group of hard-working students.

They each touched the award and took photos with it. I think they all had similar thoughts when they saw the Cup up close. I mean, it wasn't really the nicest trophy. It was just...a thing. We all knew that the trophy itself didn't matter as much as what it represented. Our fraternity had changed a lot over the past year. We began to realize what "brotherhood" actually signified. Now, we were constantly growing and striving, and we knew we could always rely on each other for care and support.

And I guess the Governors' Cup itself was pretty cool to look at. Though, we would never dream of possibly using it to serve drinks, of course. Tra la la la. ;-)

The Bros.

The Bay St. Louis Blues

(to follow The Roses, Revisited)

I think I've made this point quite clear: My musical experiences have significantly enhanced and appreciated my personal growth throughout my life. I will forever value the opportunities that have been available to me as a result of this. And what better way to recognize the value of these skills than give others the chance to have the same sort of experiences?

During my sophomore year at Michigan, Hurricane Katrina terrorized the Gulf Coast. From miles away in Michigan, we could only hear stories and see pictures of the destruction, but we couldn't really fathom its enormity. We had heard that entire high schools had been washed away and were having difficulties rebuilding. My fraternity brothers and I spearheaded an instrument and music drive in the Detroit area to gather instruments for a high school music program that was destroyed and discontinued due to the hurricane.

By the time Spring Break rolled around, we had gathered $40,000 worth of instruments, and were preparing to caravan and deliver them to a needy high school in Bay St. Louis, Mississippi. While others were tanning in Cancun, we crammed 16 people into 4 cars, and began driving south. After my initial concerns, I was happy to see that Alabama and Mississippi weren't quite as backwards as I thought. I mean...they did actually have roads, and electricity, and even a couple of democrats over down thar.

When we got to Bay St. Louis, the destruction was mindblowing. Seven months after the Hurricane, it looked as if the area was devastated only recently. Clearly, reconstruction was a formidable task, and Bay St. Louis was not getting as much attention as the bigger cities like New Orleans. We delivered the instruments to St. Stanislaus High School, where the principal gave us a tour and vivid description of the extent of the damage. The band director was elated to see our donation, as he was laid off due to the fact that there was no band room in which to teach, and could now regain his position and better support his wife and newborn baby. To celebrate the donation, some of the students joined us in performing at the Bay St. Louis Mardi Gras Parade. I was part of the makeshift drumline as a cymbal player. Our performance quality fell somewhere in between "amateur" and "drunken USC Trojan band sound."

In addition to all of this, we did some volunteer work clearing debris, repairing electrical damage, and rebuilding a kitchen. My duties involved ripping rotten floorboards away and replacing them with better tiling. In all honesty, I was really REALLY bad at this. I felt like I was doing more permanent damage than Hurricane Katrina itself, yet the lead volunteers assured me that I was only slightly inept.

We also replaced an entire roof that was rotting away from the rain damage. Now, I could actually handle this task. In fact, I'd say that I did a pretty decent job even. Perhaps holding the powerful nail gun in my hands just amplified my confidence and efficiency. Maybe that's why these Southerners love their guns and NRA memberships. It gives them a false sense of confidence and strength that blinds them from their own incompetence. I mean...uhhh....yeah, guns rock! Hey, y'all, let's build us a dad-gamn roof and then head over to Applebee's for some beers and some ribs! And then we'll get drunk and go obliterate Auburn in the Iron Bowl! Go, BAMA! Go, DUBYA! Long live the Confederacy!

Ooops...focus focus focus. Anyway, in the end, it was a great and fulfilling trip. It really inspired us to value those opportunities that we often take for granted, like even having THE CHANCE to play an instrument in high school. Hopefully our work was successful in offering these Mississippi students a sense of normalcy since the hurricane.

Since we left, the donated instruments have been put to use, and the high school band program has been reinstated. So, if you ever find yourself in Bay St. Louis, Mississippi, stop by and listen to the St. Stanislaus band and let me know how they sound! But, if you see any rebuilt roofs that have recently collapsed....well....no.....you don't have to let me know about that.

The Roses, Revisited

(to follow The EuroTrip)

Down 17 points with just seven minutes in the game, I started to think that it had all been too good to be true. There I was, six months removed from my life as a high school student in La Canada - only now the word "Spartan" invoked a virulent disdain in my mind. No, I didn't resent my high school roots. I merely shifted into my new life as a Michigan Wolverine, moving on from my red and gold band uniform to sport my new Maize and Blue digs. And on this cold night in October 2004, I was watching the Michigan State Spartans manhandle my beloved team 27-10.

Here's the situation: We were just a few wins away from a Big Ten Title. A conference championship would mean a return to the Rose Bowl in Pasadena. For me, it was my chance to return to my home - to the friends and family that supported me unconditionally throughout my life - and show them what I had accomplished since high school, that I wanted to represent my community in the best way possible since I moved away, and that I was proud of my roots. With each passing week of the season, this prospect seemed more and more likely, but these Green and White Spartans were just about to prevent that dream from ever coming to fruition.

With around six minutes to go, kicker Garrett Rivas nailed a 24-yarder, narrowing the margin to 27-13. Even so, the crowd behind me didn't seem optimistic. Moments later, we successfully recovered an onside kick, making things more interesting. Then it happened: two quick plays, and Braylon Edwards caught a beautiful 36-yard pass in the endzone just a couple of yards in front of where I was standing. On the next drive, another beautiful touchdown pass to Braylon Edwards caused me to jump so high that I came down hard and thouroughly destroyed my chair. 27-27 at the end of the fourth. Tie game.

Three overtimes, one field goal, and two spectacular touchdowns later, I found myself storming the field with my fellow Maize and Blue-clad bandmembers. Words cannot describe the joy I felt as I cheered and gazed at a beautiful sight on the Michigan Stadium scoreboard. Michigan 45 - MSU 37.

The next few weeks passed quickly. Everything was falling into place. After Wisconsin's fall from grace, Michigan had clinched a bid to the Rose Bowl. My little brother, the Prap, would be marching in the Rose Parade with the Tournament of Roses Honor Band. It even looked like my older brother would be joining the party, as Cal Football seemed to be Rose Bowl bound, as well. On top of all of this, the theme of the Rose Parade was "Celebrate Family." Was it fate? Whatever it was, something glorious seemed to be happening.

Now, one thing stood in my way: "Final Look." This was the last challenge of the year in the Michigan Marching Band. We would be trying out for a spot in the Rose Bowl, and seeing as how my section was one of the most competative in the band, my chances were not good. Still, I wanted so badly to go home and perform for my friends and family that I prepared relentlessly for the challenge. I spent the weekend videotaping my technique, and even went to the practice field late at night to improve my fundamentals. In my mind, NOT making this game was simply not an option.

The night of Final Look finally arrived. I was confident, and I knew I had prepared as best as I possibly could. When it was my turn, I took a deep breath, waited for the whistle command, and stepped off. Like every challenge, the experience is so nerveracking that, once it's over, you can't remember ANY of it. All I felt was my confidence being replaced with anxiety. In a few hours, the results would be posted online. All I could do was wait.

For some wildly idiotic reason, all of the altos decided to get together and wait until the list was posted. I thought this was strange, since it was bound to be awkward. Half of the people in the room would receive happy news, while the others would be devastated. Anyway, my prediction turned out to be true. The list came out, some were upset, and some were ecstatic. And fortunately for me, I was among the latter.

Yes, I would be returning home to perform for my community. In fact, I was one of the only freshman woodwinds to even be selected to go. The pride I felt seemed to be everlasting. For the next month, every time I reminded myself that I was going to the Rose Bowl - that I would be marching in the greatest parade in the world for the third consecutive year - I could not help but smile...Which probably explains the awkward looks I received from others walking by me on the streets. Whatever.



The Rose Bowl trip itself was sublime. We actually practiced on my high school field, the very field on which I had graduated just months before, and the very field where I spent countless hours practicing with the La Canada High School Band. With my high school peers in attendance, I couldn't help but feel like I had come full circle. What were the odds that I would be there again? What were the odds that I would be marching the Rose Parade one more time? Only this time with hundreds of new friends, and a new fight song.

Each day of the trip was euphoric. We performed at Universal Studios, where I had led a parade just a year before. We played at the Rose Bowl's kickoff luncheon, where I waved at my friend Kara as she stood among the other Rose Princesses. We blasted The Victors down Colorado Boulevard, where I had marched for upwards of 20 miles over three New Year's Days. And we cheered our team in the Rose Bowl - the granddaddy of all bowl games - in one of the greatest and most exciting games of my life.

This entire experience is a testament to the value and importance of my musical education. It's amazing what opportunities can arise just from learning how to play the saxophone. For others, the "Freshman Experience" consisted of getting drunk, gaining weight, and growing a filthy beard. Mine was different. I used my musical background to become part of something great, which undeniably enhanced my college career.

Forget the fact that we lost to Texas on a last-second field goal. There are greater emotions than those that result from a win. I was proud of how far I had come over the past six months...even if I was standing in some of the same places I had been before. Spartan or Wolverine. "Red and Gold" or "Maize and Blue". La Canada, California or Ann Arbor, Michigan. Regardless of the label or mascot or colors, it's fulfilling to be part of a community of people who will cheer you on and support you no matter what.

Well, as long as that community isn't Texas. Their fans actually pelted us with sirloin steaks after the game. Good fans shouldn't take their victories over Michigan and rub them in our faces, though I understand that these things are 'rare'. Or maybe they were 'medium-well'. I don't remember.






The MMB visits The LC.

The EuroTrip

(to follow The Ties That Bind)

Quick Quiz: How do you get two hundred high school students, forty parents, a handful of instructors, and hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of instruments from Los Angeles to Prague?

Well, the correct answer looks like this:

During Spring Break of my senior year, my high school band did a concert tour through Prague, Budapest, and Vienna. Since we weren't able to secure 250 seats on one plane, we were separated into six different groups. Over the course of 24 hours, the La Canada High School Band was dispersed in airports all over the world, with layovers in Minneapolis, London, Paris, Munich, Amsterdam, and Frankfurt. The amazing thing is, we all managed to make it to Prague in the end. Except for one kid...some freshman flute player. He was probably dispensable, though.

Anyway, this may have been the most dysfunctional and disorganized trip ever imagined. Many, MANY mistakes were made. Even though there were forty parent chaperones, there was essentially no actual supervision taking place. Minutes after my group arrived in Prague, I had learned that a group of orchestra girls had already been seen bar-hopping through the Czech Republic nightlife. They returned to the hotel late that night, only to be greeted by several flummoxed parents in the lobby. The 'rents discussed punishing the girls and sending them on the next flight back to California, but decided to let them off the hook. My theory is that the parents were actually more lenient because they themselves were also drunk at the time. Whatevskis. Mistakes were made. Apparently all was forgiven.

Our trip to Prague consisted of a concert performance in a nice auditorium, and then some unsupervised free time in the heart of the city. At our concert, we finished with our arrangement of "America the Beautiful." This was not a good idea. At the time, the Europeans did not look to kindly on Americans because of Afghanistan and terrorism and whatnot. Most audience members grimaced or covered their ears, while a few even stood up and walked out. Yeah...we made sure to suggest removing that song from our repertoire.

That evening, we returned to the hotel to find several 20ish year old Italian guys hanging out in the lobby. It didn't take them long to focus their attention on Amanda. They were blatantly and shamelessly flirting with her, but the language barrier proved problematic. My friend Elena was fluent in Spanish and tried to translate, but I don't think she was too familiar with trashy flirting and raunchy Italian slang. When the girls went back to their room for the evening, the Italians started slipping notes under their door, inviting them to hang out with them. They declined the invite, and after a while, the messages stopped.

While all the kids were loading the buses the next morning, Elena and I walked back into the hotel to grab Amanda, who was returning her room key. I was telling Elena how relieved I was that our experience in Prague had gone relatively smoothly, save for a few small issues. For the most part, everyone was innocent, well-behaved, and stayed out of trouble. Our conversation came to an abrupt halt when we walked through the lobby entrance, only to find Amanda full-on sucking face with one of the Italian Stallions. Elena and I froze, quickly processed our shock, and did what any good person should do when their friend is being macked on by a foreign stranger. We ran away. And, uh...left her there.

A few minutes later, Amanda emerged from the lobby with her hair slightly disheveled, and a strange look of pride slash denial. We made fun of her accordingly. Yes, mistakes were made. But no harm done.

This is where the EuroTrip began to veer off the path of innocence and onto the path of ineptitude. Our next task was to get all of these people from Prague to Budapest. Fortunately, we could all travel together by train. How quaint. How fun, isn't it? To travel through Europe by train? We'd be like wizards heading to Hogwarts! I think everyone imagined it would feel like that. Well...it definitely was not like Harry Potter.

First off, we were herded into a dilapidated Prague train station and basically told to sit and not move for several hours. When we entered the train, we were surprised to see that it did not have roomy cabins with dessert carts and chocolate frogs and horrible young British actresses. Each cabin was about the size of a bathroom stall, and contained six bunk beds. Believe me, once you managed to crawl into your bunk, it was foolish to try to escape. My situation was particularly difficult, because Eric, a nearly-blind freshman, was in my room and made a mess of everything. All I could do was try to fall asleep on my bed (slash wooden plank) and hope to wake up in Hungary.

At some point in the middle of the night, probably just moments after I was eventually able to fall asleep, I was startled by slamming on our cabin door. Suddenly, several men slid the door open and stepped into our minuscule room dressed in camo, with huge rifles, shouting at us in some Slavic language. We all freaked out and stared at the men, absolutely petrified. When they realized that we couldn't understand them, they just asked us, "Passports? PASSPORTS?!!" I told them that we didn't have our passports, and that the parents were keeping them, and then readied myself emotionally to be shot down on the spot. Fortunately, they merely grunted angrily and walked out the door.

After a while, students began to filter out of their cabins to figure out what all the commotion was about. No one knew what was going on, but the soldiers seemed to have come and gone. The only thing we knew was that it was unlikely that anyone would be getting any more sleep.

As we were departing the train, I could tell by everyone's faces that no one had slept much. Everyone looked beaten up and downright miserable. On top of that, the Budapest train station was the trashiest structure I had ever seen, and I feared it would collapse on us at any moment. As I maneuvered my way through the Hungarians and their MASSIVE HANDS, I heard one of our chaperones yelling behind me.

"Eric?! Where's Eric?!" Yes, apparently our quasi-blind freshman friend had wandered off alone in the crowded train station, and his mom was spazzzzing out about it. She grabbed my arm and scolded me for not keeping a watchful eye on him, and then sent me to find him. After about a minute, I saw him standing by himself on one of the nearby walkways. I asked him where he wandered to, and he said he just felt like walking around. Odd. Meanwhile, his Mom was screaming like a psychotic witch, and could be heard clearly from our walkway.

"Why didn't you walk back when you heard your mom screaming?" I asked him.

"I dunno. She screams all the time." Um...Weird. Were these people always this dysfunctional, or was the absurdity of this trip just amplifying it? Meh. It was just a simple mistake, I thought. All was soon forgotten.

Our performance in Budapest was by far the most disastrous. It was in an elegant indoor theatre, with a large backstage area. All of the students walked backstage to put their instruments together. I was in charge of setting the stage for each group, but I noticed that although I was placing the correct number of chairs, there didn't seem to be enough butts sitting in them. I checked the rooms backstage, only to find dozens of high schoolers sleeping on the floor. So, not only did I need to set up the stage, but I had to physically wake up each student and push them on stage.

On top of that, merely being on stage did not necessarily solve anything. Sure, the chairs were filled, but it doesn't do any good if everyone is falling asleep while performing. Each time a student had more than four or five measures of rest in the music, chances were they'd be fast asleep halfway through them. I even saw Amanda nearly drop her flute while dozing off on stage. Apparently, when that Italian sucked all the saliva out of her throat, he sucked out all her energy, as well.

To make matters worse, we still continued to perform the National Anthem, despite my admonishments to forgo the piece. Not only that, but one of our bus drivers insisted that she sing along with us, and her raspy American voice resonated painfully throughout the theatre. As I glanced from the stage to the audience, I saw the woman wailing "the rockets red glare," then saw the band members looking quite irritated that her cacophonous howling was interrupting their naps, then watched as the European locals once again produced angry faces and walked out of the theatre. The worst part was...I was so tired that I couldn't even roll my eyes anymore. Oh well. Mistakes were made. Hungary probably wasn't the most important political ally anyway.

We left for Vienna the next day. After the train debacle, we were glad that we'd be traveling by bus. Still, the ride got off to a strange start. Since we had left the city, we had been caravaning in dirt back roads alongside old and abandoned houses. After about an hour, we lost sight of the bus in front of us. The road started to narrow into one small lane, and the dirt road gradually transitioned into, well, just dirt. We came to a halt when we saw a large vehicle driving in our direction. This was a little worrisome, since there was no way it could get around a huge double-decker bus on such a small road. Nevertheless, it continued toward us, until it stopped just a few inches in front of us. When I looked inside, I could see all of my classmates - literally just inches away from my face. They looked as shocked as I was. Now, two buses in our caravan were stuck facing each other on a dirt road in Middle-Of-Nowhere, Hungary.

After some evasive and impressive maneuvering, the buses all turned around and we headed in the direction from which we came. After another hour, we were once again driving through downtown Budapest. What happened? Did we drive to Vienna in the completely wrong direction? Why were we in the same place we started TWO HOURS after our initial departure? Mistakes were made...and who knows what caused this one? BUDAPEST: You can check out whenever you want, but you can never leave.

We finished the three-hour drive to Vienna five hours after we first left Budapest. That evening, we had our first meal that didn't consist of salty chicken! Instead, they served us random meats, substances, and roughage, all completely fried in batter! At this point, everyone was in better spirits. The trip had been so poorly planned and disorganized that we all finally found it hilarious. Even the parents were in better moods slash completely drunk. One chaperone came up to me with her camera and showed me a photo of her and the four orchestra girls that were busted on the first night.

"LOOK! IT'STH ME AN' THE NAUGHTY GIRLS!" she slurred drunkenly. Way to go, parents. We need more Mormon chaperones.

After dinner, we drove back to our hotel. Well...almost. For some reason, the buses stopped about a mile away from where we were staying, and the parents and drivers made all 200 of us get out and walk through a cornfield unsupervised in the pitch black in a STRANGE FOREIGN COUNTRY. When we got back to the hotel, the parents were all in there laughing and smiling. Why did we have to walk back?

"It was all a joke!" another drunk parent grunted. Um...what? A joke? How is that funny?
Meh...whatever...mistakes were made. I still wanted more Mormons, though.

During our final night, Mrs. Hamre asked me to plan some sort of activity, basically to prevent anyone from getting into trouble. My friend Colin coordinated a complex boy band song and dance routine for us, along with three of our friends. Everyone crammed into the lobby and watched me make a fool of myself as I rocked out to "Bye Bye Bye" and "I Want It That Way."

As I embarrassed myself thoroughly, everybody finally seemed to forget about the frustration of the trip. Sure, it had been poorly organized. Sure, all of our performances were near-disasters where I had to physically wake my friends up to go onto the stage. Sure, that bus driver had an egregiously heinous and wretched voice. Nevertheless, in the end, we did experience three uniquevEuropean countries and cultures. We may have been hindered by one problem after another, but we survived.

Mistakes were made, but what can you really expect when you're one of 250 travelers in a group? After splitting everyone up once again into six different groups, spreading ourselves across the world, and flying back to Los Angeles, it seemed that everyone had made it back okay. Actually, I'm not positive about that one flute player...but...who really cares anymore?

As we were preparing to leave the baggage claim, Ben, a cellist, was looking slightly perturbed.

"Where's my cello?", he asked. We watched as one of the airport Mexicans carted over a cello case. He apologized, saying that the cello had been damaged after being RUN OVER by an airplane on the tarmac. The case seemed fine, but when Ben opened it, his $20,000 cello was indeed smashed into millions of pieces, absolutely destroyed beyond repair.

"It was a freak mistake," the worker said. Yeah...mistakes were made. It figures that the worst one would happen just before we were all home and safe. Curse you, Los Angeles Mexicans! Curse You!!!

The Ties That Bind

(to follow The November Rain)

So there you have it. There are some interesting ties between my final performance senior year, and my last game in Michigan Stadium, exactly four years later. On the surface, this parallel may seem painfully depressing, but I assure you that it's not. We learn the most from moments of adversity, as they teach us to appreciate things more important than a win, or a first-place trophy. This loss taught me that success can be measured in more profound ways, such as through unswerving dedication, or by overcoming failures, or forging a lasting bond with your peers.

While exiting the basketball arena at my last competition, I thought about my friendships that had endured over the past four years. I remembered the moments just before our performance, when each senior stood up and reflected their thoughts on their marching band experience. Each one implored the younger musicians to make the most of their four-year endeavor, because it would go by faster than they think. We urged them to maintain focus, not on the glory of a win, but on their development as musicians, as leaders, and as friends.

That, ladies and gentlemen, is what separated me and my peers from the 'Gregs' of the world - those that were far too willing to sacrifice what was truly important, all for selfish fame or personal recognition. For us, our persistence, our teamwork, and our appreciation...those were the ties that bound us together as a group, and the values that would make us stronger individuals for the rest of our lives. The finale may not have been perfect, but maybe the end just isn't as important as the means. After all, "it's not the end result that matters. What matters is the journey you take to get there." One thing is for sure: we always made sure to have fun whenever we could.

And so, after marching season was over, we did what many groups of friends have done when they just want to have some fun. That's right. We went to Prague...

The November Rain (and Armpit Stains)

(to follow The Dream, Blast!ed)

November 17, 2003.

I ascended the uncomfortably narrow aisle to the upper levels of the overcrowded gym. As I looked up the stairs, I could see the cold rain pounding on the window in the distance. It never rains in November. Why did it have to rain today? The sound of the downpour was just a depressing reminder of the sour note on which this season was apparently going to end. Not exactly the end I had hoped.

I turned around in the aisle and glanced down upon 160 of my fellow high school musicians who stood looking at me with their overwhelmed looks. The judges announced that they were ready, and I gave my usual drum major salute. Oddly, a man to my right was particularly impressed, and idiotically shouted at me: "Whoh! There's a lot that's gonna be goin' on right here, isn't there?"

The hell? I was slightly amused, and for a second I forgot the rain. I was about to conduct my last field show, albeit at a rained-out field competition. Right then was probably not the best time for him to be chit-chatting. I shrugged it off, and raised my arms to begin conducting. As I did so, I felt a soreness in my left elbow. Maybe my friend Ben, a fellow senior and trombone section leader, noticed my slight discomfort, because I thought I saw him crack a smile at me from down on the gym floor. A few hours before, he and the other senior guys had given me a rather painful group hug in the parking lot, babbling, "We love you, Paul!", "You're an awesome drum major," et cetera.

I sucked it up, called the band to attention, and began conducting my last show. My swan song. My last performance as the Drum Major of the LCHS Marching Band...



And Flashback: Four Months Earlier.

The whole Band Council was cramped in Amanda's pool house amidst the arid August heat. She was talking about something Band President-related. The rest of the council just stared on, perhaps listening to what she was saying, but most likely once again focused on her notoriously large breas-...uhh, pool house. Yup, her large pool house. It was very well...developed. Maybe even Double Developed.

My mind was elsewhere. Across the room, I noticed Ben, the trombone section leader, scowling at me. I tried to ignore it, but his glare was intense, as if he would stand up at any minute and punch me in the face. Clearly, he didn't like me at the moment, and incorrectly thought I had sold out Virgile, the previous drum major. I had a lot of damage control to do.

We just finished discussing the theme of the show: "The Seven Seas," featuring music by Joseph Curiale. Both Mrs. Hamre and I were relieved to have a new marching instructor, particularly because he wasn't Greg, which already made him an improvement by default. The new guy's name was Mike Freed, and he was a marching instructor at Thousand Oaks High School. I had friends in their band, and I knew they had a strong program, so I was optimistic about the season. Except for the whole part about everyone hating me. Yeah, that sucked.

On the first day of our band camp, I had a discussion with Mike Freed about our plan for teaching marching. It was all very...awkward. In a lot of ways, Mike was the anti-Greg. Now, that's not necessarily a good thing, either. Despite all of Greg's problems, he was extremely charismatic. Mike quite possibly had the intellectual and social capacity of an 8 year-old. "Dork" would be a huge understatement. He was always dirty, spit when he talked, and frequently had snot dripping out from his nose.

I told him that I thought we should spend the entire first week focusing on marching fundamentals, because that was always our weakness. We shouldn't worry about learning the show until the second week, when we would have a good foundation to build off of. Mike disagreed, and explained why. It was something to do with the way Thousand Oaks High School does things, and how wonderful they are, and how he has been teaching for years blah blah blah...but alas, let's remind ourselves that I was just a 16-year old boy during all this. I didn't really have the focus or the patience for his flawed reasoning. Plus, he always did this thing where he talked a lot with his arms, allowing everyone to see his massive yellow armpit stains flapping around. And these were not small stains. They seemed to spread all the way down the sides and back of his shirt. I actually made sure to stand 2 feet away at all times, out of fear that his yellowed stains would somehow spread onto MY clothes. Meanwhile, during this whole discussion, Mike had some assistant guy next to him, contributing nothing to the conversation besides an occasional head nod. To this day, I don't know who or what this assistant was. I guess he was a little man, shorter than me (which is saying something). I never heard him say a word, and after a few days, he simply...disappeared. It's possible he got caught up in an epic Dungeons and Dragons game and is actually still playing it right now.

After our conversation, Captain Pitstain and his pet hobbit walked off together to chat. I heard Captain Pitstain mumbling to his little friend/pet, "This kid is a typical drum major. He thinks he knows what's best. He's in over his head, blah blah blah...," as they trailed off. I'm surprised I'm not permanently blind after rolling my eyes so much that day.

Maybe that's when I realized it. There was a reason we could never seem to get a really good marching instructor. They simply don't exist. Anyone that's talented enough to be good at teaching it would surely have at least a slightly better career. We were always going to be stuck with either an jerk, or a level-5 dungeonmaster with a homemade Agility+2 broad sword.

For the next week, the section leaders and I taught most of the marching fundamentals on our own. Slowly, their resentful glares toward me began to soften a bit. Nobody really listened to Admiral Armpit for the rest of the season, and he gradually became irrelevant. I'm a little grateful for it, because his incompetence may have been one of the reasons the angry section leaders actually accepted my leadership.

Late one evening toward the end of Band Camp, all of the seniors gathered in an empty hallway in our dorm. We joked about Uncle Underarms and his little friend, who had strangely, but most appreciatively, vanished. My senior class was much different than the seniors from the year before. While the last class was a large, accomplished group, we were much smaller and far less musically gifted. The advantage of a small class, though, was that we were all very close. We were basically 15 immature boys, and Amanda was the one girl who somehow was able to get what she wanted out of us. It was strange...she seemed to possess, some sort of feature, perhaps, that always drew our attention. Anyway, after a while, the conversation drifted toward Greg, and Virgile, and what had happened at the beginning of the summer. Richie, the baritone section leader, turned to me and asked, "Yeah, Paul. So, why did you rat out Virgile?"

Suddenly, the scowling returned. It seemed that they all wanted answers. With all of them together, it was my opportunity to clear up the truth once and for all. When I described the series of unfortunate events that led to my ostricization, then explained that it wasn't me who sold Virgile out, and that it was all a colossal misunderstanding, they believed me. "Yeah, I didn't think you would ever do something like that," Richie added at the end. It was a huge relief. Like going to the bathroom after Thanksgiving dinner. Or like...finishing a nonstop 48-hour hike up a steep mountain, and finally going to the bathroom for the first time in two days. Or like... spending a really, really long time explaining to your friends why you're not a narc, and then going to the bathroom.

A few days later, I had one of my biggest setbacks of the year. After band camp, the whole band travels back home to perform everything we've learned so far for our parents. After working nonstop for two weeks, I was severely exhausted at this point. All I had to do was conduct one show, and then I could go home and sleep for two or three days. However, when we arrived at the football field, there were no yard lines. Marching on a field WITH lines is hard enough as it is. A performance without lines....well....let's just say I contemplated changing the show theme to "The Village Idiots' Convention: Presented by the La Canada School for the Blind."

I worked up and down the field, using whatever I could find as yard markers. When it was time to perform, I climbed the podium as the band members marched onto the field. Several chunks of the band were at least 5 yards off from their correct spots. Everyone looked confused. My makeshift show theme was sounding more and more attractive.

I readied myself to conduct the show. A few seconds after I began, I realized that I started the piece at least 20 beats per minute too slow. I tried to speed it up, but only a few people were looking up at me, while others were frantically searching the unlabeled field for their spots. Soon, there were two tempos going. Then even more. I looked to my left, and Professor Perspiration was waving his arms trying to get some poor freshman clarinet player to move over, his stained shirt billowing like a giant yellow surrender flag. Maybe our "Seven Seas" theme was actually appropriate here. I could see him sweating profusely from where I stood conducting, like a ship taking on water. We miraculously managed to finish the show. Mike Freed's shirt was now repulsively transparent. Apparently, our ship had sunk.

Afterwards, I walked down from the podium, probably ready to vomit at any moment. Mrs. Hamre intercepted me on the way to the nearest garbage can. She was trying to make me feel better: "Wow, Paul. You really lost it. But, believe me, I've seen much worse at these things." I didn't feel better. I felt demoralized. Some of the seniors came up to me and tried to cheer me up. After some time, we were all joking about the countless mistakes we had all made during the show. Man, we had a lot of work to do. Good thing November was over two months away.



And, Fast Forward!!! By November, our group of seniors had clicked amazingly well. No, we weren't perfect, but we managed to accomplish a lot while having fun, a feat that last year's class was unable to complete. We had our second to last competition at the Hart Rampage Tournament in early November. We even won 1st Place in our division!!! Out of One! Regardless of that fact, our show had improved significantly since the disaster after band camp. Now, we had one more competition left. I would be the last regular competition of my high school career. If we scored high enough, though, we would qualify for Championships.

Since we had finished learning all the moves in the show, we were essentially just cleaning things and making tweaks to boost our music and general effect scores. During the week of our last competition, Mrs. Hamre was called in for jury duty and placed on a case. She knew that there was a lot of accomplish, and she couldn't trust a substitute teacher to teach marching band adequately, so she asked me to take over the classes. The problem was that there were two periods of band, and I was only in one of them. For the other class, I was supposed to be in AP Physics. It was probably a mistake on my part, but I ended up missing physics one day to go teach marching band. I didn't think Mrs. Waters really cared, because she seemed sadly aware of the fact that she was a horrible physics teacher. I could never understand what she was saying through her thick Scottish twang anyway.

So, I went to teach marching band. I took advantage of this time to work on some musical issues that had been bothering me, and add some stylistic elements to the show. We actually got a lot done, and it would certainly help boost our scores at the final competition.

It didn't take long before I was called into the Attendance Office for "ditching class." I was probably unjustifiably frustrated by this, because I was clearly guilty, but I couldn't help but resent the fact that I was being reprimanded for missing one class to go TEACH another class, while my friends were cutting school to go to the beach, or go out to eat, or simply to take a nap. I needed Mrs. Waters' signature to clear my name, and I explained to her my situation. She gave me her usual sarcastic look and said, "Wull now Paul, yeh shunt be dun thiz so' ouf Bit 'snut guh fo' yo' recor un' Bit an' yo' sho' know thiz Bit fo' th'exam bit in may an' yo' prolly gun' geh oul tho' attendance hoffice folk righ' up mental wud me an' ah dun need tha' Bit righ' now."

See, her lips were moving, but everything just sounded like "Bit Bit BIT BIT BIT." I just sort of stood confused, and then innocently handed her the paper, hoping that she had agreed to sign it at some point during her incoherent babbling. Then she leered at me and said something like, "Was thiz bit? Ah bit the bit bit bit bit." I had no idea if she was even speaking English at this point, and then reached out further with my attendance office slip. She snatched it, angrily piercing me with her eyes, sighed, and spoke to me with a punishing tone, "You should come to class, Paul." Yeah, I understood that last bit.


By the day of the last competition, I felt very confident. Our show was much better, and everyone was really eager to perform. As we loaded the buses, I could feel the excitement from the students around me. And in just a few hours, they would be able to show that audience just how hard they had worked since the last competition.

Then the rain came...pounding against the bus windows on our way to Moorpark College. I began to worry. I had heard about competitions being rained out in the past, and then subsequently moved indoors for a standstill performance. According to the rules, scores given at rained-out competitions could not be used to qualify for Championships. We would be out of the running by default.

After we pulled into the parking lot at Moorpark College, I dashed over to one of the other buses to ask Mrs. Hamre what was going on. She told me exactly what I couldn't bear to hear. The competition was rained out. We would play a standstill performance in the basketball arena. Our Championship dreams were effectively quashed.

Before I could walk back to the other buses to inform my fellow band members of the sad news, the seniors walked out into the rain to ask me what was going on. I explained our situation, and they responded with disappointed and despondent looks.

"So all our work over the past two weeks was a waste?," one of them asked. I just shrugged. Finally, one of the section leaders spoke up and said, "Well, nothing we can do now. This is our last competition. Let's make it fun." Then they all started hooting and shouting and jumping around me saying, "WE LOVE YOU PAUL" like a drunken mob. I felt an arm bash into my left elbow, but I didn't care. I started laughing, and maniacally so, after one of them started tickling me. My friends knew I was exceptionally ticklish, and they all joined in. I laughed uncontrollably until I fell to the ground, clutching my elbow and practically having an asthma attack. Ha...I could barely breathe. It hurt so good.

The evanescent cheer ended when I returned to each bus to tell the marching band members the unfortunate news. Some were confused, but most just looked on, disappointed. They begrudgingly grabbed their instruments, and walked into a nearby practice hall. Since there was no need to go over much of the marching or visual effects, we had a lot of down time. There was a chance for the seniors to speak to everyone and share their thoughts, but I'll touch on this later. After some time, we picked up our instruments, and marched toward the basketball arena.

During the march to the gym, everything began to hit me. I had pictured how this day would turn out for a while now. I envisioned us performing the best show of my four years, blowing the audience away, beating our rivals to take the first place trophy during the awards ceremony, celebrating as a band after the joyous result, and then heading home satisfied with the season and with a ticket punched to Championships. I figured that had to be the natural result of four years of hard work, dedication, obstacles, and frustration. All of the anxiety and sleepless nights caused by Greg had to be for something. We earned the glory. How could I expect anything less?

As I walked up the basketball arena risers to take my place as conductor, I thought longingly of the ideal end - that grand finale that I had wanted for so long. I didn't know how I was supposed to feel, now that my dream and reality were officially and irreconcilably different. I raised my arms and began conducting my last show. I may have even teared up slightly during our rendition of "I Have a Love," our beautiful ballad. After the final note, I bowed for the judges, the audience, and my 160 peers on the gym floor. I stepped down and led the way as they followed me one last time off our stage, out from under the glow of the flourescent lights, and into the rainy November night.

The Dream, Blast!ed

(to follow The Stock Market Cymbals)

Putting my junior year into words is not going to be an easy task. Unfortunately, compared to my last post, this one is probably going to be more of a downer.......

It was requested from me that I remove this post. If you would like to access it, please email me.

The Stock Market Cymbals

(to follow The Tears and the Years)

While I sit, anxiously waiting to get blown out by the Gators in the Capital One Bowl, I think I'll recap the highlights of my marching band experience over the past eight years. Let me begin with my sophomore year in high school, when I was a member of the La Canada High School Winter Drumline. I was one of four kids on the cymbal line, and we performed and competed in the Southern California Percussion Alliance. The theme of our show was actually really cool. It was entitled "18 Wall Street", and portrayed the Stock Market Crash of 1929.

Now that I'm looking at the name again, I don't think the New York Stock Exchange is even located on 18 Wall Street. Let's see here...Yes. I'm right. Wikipedia is telling me that the address was 18 Broad Street in 1929. Interesting how no one thought any of this at the time. Whatevskis!

Here was the makeup of the battery section of our Drumline:

Snares (3): Mike, Peter, Robby

Tenors (2): Dan Dawg, Johnny

Basses (5): Evan, Vijay, Scott (aka my brother, aka Cow), Alex, David

Cymbals (4): Virgile, Kevin, Amanda, and Me

I spent the majority of my time with my fellow cymbal players. I guess we each had our own...uhhh...talents. Virgile, a junior, was probably the best musician out of all of us. But Kevin, a sophomore, was probably the best at actually playing cymbals. Amanda, also a sophomore, had very large breasts, which were particularly conducive to muffling the sound of the cymbal crash. That leaves me, and I'm struggling to figure out my talent here. I guess I was able to hold the cymbals up longer than everyone else. That's...something. On the whole, though, I would say that our combined musical skills fell somewhere in between mediocre and blithely ignorant.

Most of the people reading this probably don't have a lot of experience playing cymbals. Let me describe the basics: First off, and I don't mean to offend any cymbal players, as I feel that after playing cymbals for three years I can say this...but cymbals are pretty much the least musical instrument EVER. It really doesn't require much skill. Yes, there are over a hundred ways to crash a cymbal, but there are also over a hundred ways to destroy my apartment, and my hamster perfected 78 of them.

One of my favorite parts of cymbal-ing is when you accidentally crash it too close to your body, and you'd pinch your skin between the cymbals. Sometimes we would be standing and practicing and the person next to me would pinch himself, and then scream from the searing pain, and fall to the ground. It was hilarious/horribly, horribly painful. By the end of the season, I'm sure all four of us were pinched and bruised all over our arms and chests, and the marks took months to disappear. The cymbals were also good at completely disabling nearly all of our hand capabilities. It was frustrating to be unable to scratch my nose without bashing a huge piece of metal into my forehead...or answer my cell phone...or plant a garden...or aim into the toilet.

So, back to "18 Wall Street." Looking back, I think that none of us really realized exactly how good we were. In fact, apparently by the end of the season, we were REALLY good, yet, always and forever - blissfully ignorant. The climax of the Winter Drumline season came at the SCPA Championships at Cal State University San Bernadino. We met before dawn on a Saturday morning at LCHS to pack the equipment into the truck. Then we loaded the bus and drove 2 hours to CSUSB. Just like every other drumline competition, we unfolded the drumline floor, and spent a few hours practicing and running through the show. Folding the floor back up was always a huge hassle that no one wanted to do. In order to do a good job, it required about 20 people folding at once. Once folded, the floor weighed over 150 lbs and had to be pushed around on a cart. After we finished, we lugged ourselves and our despised floor to the basketball arena to perform our show for the judges.

Here's how this works: Before a drumline starts performing, the floor needs to be unrolled, then the pit equipment needs to be moved on top of it, then come all of the props, and then we need to pick up our instruments and get into position...all in about a minute. It's unbelievably hectic, and once we're finally ready to perform, we're already out of breath. After setting up, we performed our stock market crash-themed show, and quickly and frantically removed everything off of the floor. Plus, since we don't have enough time to nicely fold the floor, we just quickly rolled it up into a long mess. About 20 of us stood in a line alongside the floor, picked it up, and sprinted with it out of the gym. Once we were outside, we left it in one big heap in the rain.

At this point, we were ready to eat lunch, and go home. We knew we wouldn't have to worry about performing in the finals, and we didn't really want to stay to watch the evening performances. Several thoughts involving burning the Floor were also floating around. As we were eating, Mark, our instructor, walked up and told us to get our instruments and start practicing. We all stood confused, which may not have actually phased Mark, because we were perpetually confused about everything for five months now. Apparently we had placed second at prelims - well over the qualifying mark for finals. Our shock transitioned quickly to excitement, and back to shock again, after someone shouted, "Oh, crap! The Floor!"

No, we didn't burn it. But it was lying in the rain and dirt, completely drenched. After practicing for an hour or so, and after the rain subsided, we set out to cleaning the Floor. Alas, our resources were extremely limited, both in terms of cleaning supplies, and mental competence. Most of us got on our hands and knees and started rubbing it down with paper towels. The parents helped out, too...and I even remember Mrs. Hamre wiping the Floor down.

You may have also noticed that I started capitalizing "Floor". Halfway through this entry, I realized what a significant impact this particular floor has had ON MY LIFE. Surely significant enough to warrant a capital letter. If "The Depression" gets to be capitalized, then "The Floor" deserves it, too. Perhaps even italicized. And underlined twice. And sandwiched in between several crying and angry-faced emoticons.

Anyway, back to cleaning :-( !!The Floor!! )-: . We honestly weren't sure if it was even working. It was already dark, and there was no outside lighting. Some of the drummers thought it would help to spread out the pit covers over The Floor while Elena and Andrew, two very very small freshman pit members, sat on the covers so we could drag them across The Floor, hopefully absorbing some of the moisture. After dragging the freshmen back and forth across it several dozen times, and after running out of paper towel reserves, we stood in the pitch black staring at the barely visible Floor, and proclaimed it clean.

At this point, my nerves were catching up with me. Since we didn't ever think we were good, there was never that much pressure on us during our performances. Suddenly, we had the opportunity to place at championships! We had the opportunity to beat Arcadia High School, one of our rivals. We focused ourselves, marched our equipment back over to the gym, and waited for our turn to take the stage. Typically, we would stand in a circle, pray and hope for a good show before all of our competitions. This time, everything mattered so much more. After we wished each other luck, we stood waiting to ready the gym. Just like always, we sprinted on, unfolded The Floor, set up the props, positioned the pit equipment, picked up our instruments, and waited for the judges to tell us when to start.

As I reached for my cymbals, I distinctly remember Peter next to me saying, "Oh.....Shit!" He was staring at The Floor, his jaw dropped. I looked at The Floor in shock. It was completely covered in a clearly visible and thick layer of dirt and sopping wet filth. Obviously, there was nothing we could do at this point. Hopefully it wouldn't really affect our performance. After the judges' "go", we started. From the get-go, I noticed some of the drummers having trouble maintaining their traction on the slippery floor. Each step prompted a squishy sound and seemed to flick water in every direction. I specifically remember nearly face-planting on a touch-and-go early in the show, and then later helping Rachel up when she slipped behind a prop.

By the end of the show, we seemed to get the hang of the slippery surface, and finished a strong performance. Once again, we quickly cleared The Floor, picked it up, and ran out the door. This time, we had absolutely no qualms about leaving The Floor outside in a wet, disgusting, unholy heap. Several drumline members even attacked The Floor, kicking and cursing at it. Though I'm usually a calm and subdued person, I may have even thrown a punch or two.

At the end of the evening, we went to the awards ceremony. For championships, all of the drumline members from every school line up on the court to hear the results and to accept medals. To our right was Ayala High School, the drumline we knew would win First Place. To our left was Arcadia High School, our rival that we hoped to beat. On one side, Arcadia's drummers were giving us dirty and angry looks. On the other, Ayala was all smiles, congratulating us on our performance, and saying things like "Go USA! Go Everyone! We're All Winners!". Ugh...I couldn't stand either one.

One by one, they announced the results. Eventually:

3rd Place: Arcadia High School

2nd Place: La Canada High School!

1st: Ayala

We were all elated! It was such a great end to a crazy day, and a long season. We wore our silver medals proudly, and exited the arena. We thanked all the parents, boarded the bus, and headed home.

During the ride back to La Canada, the excitement slowly began to sink in. I realized how much we had accomplished over the past season. Our long hours and strenuous practicing had paid off, and we developed a strong sense of camaraderie and work ethic. All in all, it was a truly fulfilling experience, and quite an achievement for a group of high schoolers. We got back to LC around dawn, thoroughly exhausted from the days' events. Nevertheless, we all wished each other goodbye and headed home feeling proud, our stock higher than ever.