The Day the Music Died

I can remember the nervous pride I felt standing tall in the uniform on the 50-yard line in the Gator Bowl on a Friday night. Hundreds of fans were screaming from the bleachers waving red and white pom poms with excitement and anticipation to see what we were going to pull off this week.

Three very tall, very sharp drum majors in starched white uniforms and 10-gallon shakos slowly strutted out of the center of the band, stopping in unison with striking precision. With 400 eyes riveted on the trio, batons raised and up snapped trumpets, trombones, sousaphones, saxophones, piccolos, clarinets, euphoniums, cymbals, snares and that big old bass drum. With the strong downbeat of the batons we were on the march again!

You see, because of diligent practice under the direction of a bandmaster who spent much more time with us than his paycheck reflected, and hundreds of hours after school, we knew exactly how long that step should be and how many steps it took to get from yard line to yard line. We knew when to pivot, when to rear march, right flank, left flank and when to stop. We knew how to make that football field come to life with circles and boxes, weaving in and out of rank and file, all the while filling the staduim with rousing Sousa marches, familiar classical melodies and this week's favorite pop tune.

Then one day the music died. The children hung up the beautiful uniforms and took off their feathered shakos and put them on the shelf. Into their cases they lovingly placed the trumpets, saxophones, trombones, sousaphones, euphoniums, flutes, piccolos and clarinets. Snares and cymbals were stacked like steadfast soldiers at the back of the band hall while they finally covered up that big old bass drum. The bandmaster who had decided to make music his life, and help children do so as well, took one more look around before he closed the door behind him. You see, someone up there had decided that the children really needed another PE, diversity or basket-weaving class and there just wouldn't be enough time for band, chorus, art or theatre.

Now during halftime, the football field is empty as the crowd shuffles to the concession stand to the grinding, redundant beat of the digital mess blaring from the press box as the trumpets, saxophones, trombones, sousaphones, euphoniums, flutes, piccolos and clarinets tarnish alone in their cases. Rust in Peace. ......musology