July 31
Recipe for proud, self-proclaimed band geeks: Combine a large number of teenagers (we chose eighty) with one slightly cracked, but nevertheless inspired, director. Pour in the correct instrumentation in a parade block on the practice field; call to attention, and add knowledge of marching, playing and (for the color guard) twirling. Stir with drill charts, water breaks, flag poles, rehearsal numbers, silly inside jokes, shouts of "Go back and run it one more time!" and whatever else is handy, while baking in the sun for a time not less than one week and not exceeding two. Result: a mixture that, while it requires further blending throughout the season, is a very well laid foundation for a superior marching band.
Today we break out the recipe once again in the fine tradition of band camp, and the weather provides the perfect oven for it. The first two hours see the flute section whining about the heat and humidity, the low brass murmuring mutinously and the color guard captain choreographing a rain dance with the trumpet soloist on the way to the opening set-you get the picture. We're feeling so scorched that the midmorning rain shower does anything but dampen our spirits ("See? I love you guys so much I decided to cool you off!" shouts our director amidst cheering and laughter, while we color guard members drop our flags as the drum major points out that we are walking lightning rods). Soon, however, it begins to storm; we move the rehearsal indoors for awhile, take it back outside after lunch, and despite the redoubled humidity, we've set the entire opener on the field by the end of the day. We walk away hot, sore and exhausted, but nonetheless pleased with ourselves.
August 1
Two drill sets in a day and a half-for our band, it must be some kind of record. "We wouldn't want to take it to competition tomorrow," says our director, "but for right now, it's all good." Our work done, the afternoon is spent in the always-overheated ritual of fitting uniforms and taking formal pictures (why this is done when we all look our sunburned, sweaty worst is a mystery I cannot comprehend). Still, it's the first time we all appear together in uniform, and as I look around, we seem to be transformed-less like a struggling mob of teenagers and more like a real marching band. This time, when we snap to attention and shout "Pride!” we can actually mean it.
