There’s a feeling, one that tricks you into thinking a dog or some similar creature was chewing on your heart while you slept. It’s the feeling you get when you see a good movie, or when a pretty girl tells you she likes you, or when your marching band yields for the last time in a season. 

And that’s the one, the one from the night before. We saw the flashing lights, and the grunts in the Homecoming uniforms and the corsages pinned to the breasts of the Seniors. They cheered when every Senior was announced (some got louder cheers than the one next to them) and saluted their final salute, and they cheered louder when the band behind them marched sixteen beats into a green and white twenty, much to the surprise of the retiring members. And even louder, still, when the Seniors joined the rest of the band for the last time and the drum majors climbed to the tops of their ladders and blew their whistles. 

Instead of tweet, tweet, tweet ...up it was, tweet, tweet, tweet...blegh. And when the band zombied around in no particular formation, the crowd heard the announcer tell them which song was next. Thriller, by Michael Jackson, for the Senior Tribute.

And believe it, the screams were extra loud during the chorus, and when the members of the band set their instruments down in perfect sink and began to do the dance, the metal bleachers shook. For the crowd, it was quick, fun, exciting, loud, impressive. For the young men and women in helmets who stood on the artificial turf, things were significantly different. They were stricken with band cool, and felt prouder for themselves than anyone else could. That was unique to the group, but it’s perhaps what made it so wonderful. Only those who wore the white vest and the plumes that always blew away and the slacks that were to be folded strictly on the perma crease could feel that certain energy. They were an exclusive club, a team, a family, one about to lose their best class, one about to complete the season, and go back to the grind of learn-little High School curriculum.
But that didn’t matter, because they were proud, and held hands, and marched in unison and ate apples and spilled water and sang and screamed and got laughed at and shook the stands and practiced and ‘ran it back’ and ate their director’s face on a cake and diddled on the piano and loved each other. 

“Hey, band!”

“Hey, what?!”

It was a roar every time. 

A whistle.

A “ten hut!” and a snap to attention.

No matter what, they were in love, and didn’t even complain when the Junior Drum Major forgot to call them to parade rest and they had to stand at attention while the Seniors were recognized. 

But that didn’t matter, because drum line was playing, and the crowd was cheering, and Damon and Sam were jumping off their ladders so they could do it with them. 

It was time for the dance, and while everyone in the world watched and enjoyed, the steps from that first practice rang in the ears of those on the field. 

Down two, three, four...up, two, three, four. 

Tick...two, three, four...tick, two...three, four.

Zombie….zombie...zombie...zombie…

Swim...swim...swim...swim…

Jackson wiggle, three, four....up two...shrug...one, two...clap!

Jackson wiggle three, four...up two...shrug...one, two...clap!

Wiggle two, three, four ...wiggle, two, three, four…

Arm swing...spin! Arm swing...spin!

Thriller move!

Knees!

One, two, three, four, five, six...he hee!

March forward eight counts and down, two, three, four...up two, three, four…

Jackson spin kick on eight!

The song eventually ended. Everything was loud. The band played the fight song off the field and the Wildcats returned to the bench. 

Two quarters, the fight for a playoff spot; the biggest game in fourteen years. 

The fourth quarter ended at 14-14, and for the first time ever, the band remained four the final seconds. The excitement was unlike any in recent Alpena history. 

Overtime. 

Red Wings bump to 21, but the Wildcats offense takes it to 20-21. 

They’re going for the two-point conversion. 

The whole place is dead quiet, and even the band forgets which letter they’re on in the A-L cheer. 

Moments pass. 

The baby powder is ready. 

Schultz is tackled on the one yard line and it’s over. 

Dead in the bleachers. 

The October air becomes dreary. 

When the band returns, there is a melancholy atmosphere. While the Seniors take pictures and fold their pants on the perma crease for the last time, the director pretends he isn’t crying...because that’s simply not what twenty nine year old men do in front of their students. Even if those students are simply the best. 

Everyone leaves. 

Some go to the band party. 

Some go home. 

Two saxophonists go to Taco Bell. 

It’s dinnertime at midnight, and they talk about the band, and the season, and how Mitchell should’ve told Voltz to kick, and how it will be very sad when Eva’s the only alto playing at graduation because all the others will be in caps and gowns. 

The Senior cheerleaders leave the gates. The Senior football players leave the locker room.

It’s a difficult end, but not a hard one. 

Things go on, and the same thing will happen next year. Perhaps that’s the hardest part of all. 

“Hey, band!”

“Hey, what?!”

“Who’s got a better band than us?!”

“NOBODY!”

It’s very dark outside the fast food place. Eva looks up from her phone. 

“There’s lettuce on your collar.”

“Good.” I say, because everything is.