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Much to the Great Larson’s displeasure, almost an entire month has passed since my last post.  These past few weeks have been so incredibly intense and band-action-packed that even the abridged version would have your eyes falling out of your head before you finished reading, so you might want to wear goggles, because here goes.  The weekend after Cap City, we had our first two-part contest, Westlake.  The week leading up to Westlake was definitely our most focused week up to that point, and even this past week may not quite beat it.  It can safely be said that we owned at Westlake, sweeping our class completely and ranking fourth overall.  Besides the performance aspect of Westlake, we all enjoyed our lunch at Brodie Oaks.  I had an extremely satisfying burger at Fuddrucker’s, along with the best chocolate shake I’ve ever tasted.  Wouldn’t you know that, with our extra time, half the band decided to go on a foray to the most entertaining store in the area- Toys R Us (I’m pretty sure we freaked out the parents shopping there by our mere presence, but you can’t help reminiscing a bit when you see huge stacks of Lego’s).

The next week of practice started out rough.  Heads slightly bloated from Saturday’s triumph, Monday’s practices were less productive than they could have been.  However, focus returned to the band quite abruptly when it was decided to reinstate the full-band push-up policy.  We had no contest Saturday, and I’m sure we all enjoyed the sleep- except for the admins of Octuba, that is.  The dance was amazing, and come Monday morning, we dance-goers were limping and hobbling, legs debilitated by Saturday night’s constant movement and numerous bouncing moshpits.  Our performance at UIL Monday night was, apparently, typical for the occasion, and not in a good way.  After the glow of praise that accompanied each performance at Westlake the previous Saturday, the disappointment we felt coming off the field Monday was particularly sharp.

Starting bright (or dark) and early Tuesday morning, we somehow overcame Monday’s scattered concentration and managed to clean and add to the show like fiends.  Saturday at USSBA State (a contest of a good 15 bands- you’d think it was Rhode Island) we were finally not the one band that had no GE.  Saturday’s morning practice was another best for the year- we seemed to be inspired.  After two long hours on the road to Schertz and however long it was that we languished in the buses due to our punctuality and the contest’s lack of it, we went and warmed up in a gym with just about as bad an echo as Hendrickson’s.  the second we stepped on to the field, band-wide groans went up.  It seemed that Schertz high school had managed to  procure some strange and magical turf which actually sucks the life out from the bottoms of your feet.  Yet, even while the spongy turf drained us of our life force, we were able to reproduce to intensity and concentration level that had characterized our morning practice.  Our score was at least five full points above the second place winner in our class, and when thrown in with the bands up to six open, our score had us at third overall, beaten by Hendrickson and Steele.

As I’m sure everyone within twenty miles of Dripping has noticed, this morning was the Livestrong Challenge ride.  That anyone at all would, after getting home past midnight the night before, be back at the high school before seven says so much about our band.  After playing at a few different pit  stops for awhile, the separate groups joined together outside the band hall to welcome in the riders, yelling out a ragged chorus of “Hey, Baby” as Lance Armstrong rode past with his police escort.

I can’t quite register the fact that in just one week, all of this will be part of the past- that Three Isms will be nothing but a video on Youtube and a collection of dusty props.  We have one more contest, the culmination of this season’s long, long, long, and hard work.  Personally, I am looking forward to the best week of the season, and the hardest work which can be dredged up from the depths of our sleep-deprived beings.  Centennial could be the perfect end to this amazing season.

I’m not looking forward to putting up my marching horn and bringing out the chairs, stands, and sixteenth-notes, but at least it will be a gradual process.  Our undefeated football team is most definitely attending playoffs, and the new drill and extra dose of Friday nights in the stands is probably better than trying to stop marching cold turkey.  And yes, to me, marching band is not only my cult and my life, it’s an addictive drug.

This past Friday, Saturday, and Monday were so band-filled that to go into detail on each would mean another drawn-out, four-paragraph blog which would strain any reader’s eyes.  If my own middle school experiences are anything to go by, every seventh and eighth-grade bandy spent most of last week anxiously looking forward to Friday night, when they’d actually get to walk onto the football field at halftime and play with the high schoolers.  It felt strange, being on the other side of the wall that separates our cult from the rest of the world, and watching the often confused middle schoolers brought home just how far I’d come since band camp.  Besides the visit from the middle school, we witnessed a historically amazing game- a blocked kick in overtime and an insane catch for a winning touchdown.

Saturday’s pre-contest practice was horribly reminiscent of our long summer practices under the heat of the June sun, except without the water. At least partly because of the band-wide thirstiness, practice wasn’t as productive as it could have been, but all things considered, it wasn’t our worst.  After hours spent on the bus to Hendrickson, we arrived at the site of our first contest.  We had ample time after our arrival to pump ourselves up for the show, and standing in the block, ready to march into the stadium, the gravity of the moment hit me.  This performance was our first chance to really measure the worth of two months’ hard work.  The culmination of every drop of sweat, every ounce of concentration, every prolonged second of straining to keep a horn in the air, was just seconds away, waiting for us with tape recorders and critical eyes.  My world narrowed to exclude all but the drill, the music, and the drum majors’ steady hands, and the show began.  No one around me tripped, fell, internally combusted, or otherwise killed the performance, and though it is clear that we have marched better as a band, we all made it through the contest alive.

As of Monday morning, we now know every set of our show, and it’s time to begin the process of perfecting our performance.  The prospect of pitted weekly against every marching band has lent some intensity to the band, and the pace of our practices is picking up its pace.  We have the capacity too do great things this year, and we will see in the next few weeks just how much greatness our effort earns.