The
broad rays of the sun had poked from beneath the gray cloud cover that had
blanketed the Midwest that day. It was a
rich orange light that was infused with shades of peach and soft orange and a
hinting of a delicate hue of crimson. It was a bright sunset light that bathed
us all in our triumphant arrival at Marlington High School on Moulin Avenue in
Alliance on Sunday, November 9th, 1986.
The
clouds above were painted in this surreal kaleidoscope of every shade of orange
light imaginable, and the shades of gray in the sky were transformed into
subtle swirls of purple and more shades of blue than could ever be counted
because of their complexity, and beauty, and vastness. It was as if the heavens
above had been enlisted to receive our band family on our return home. It was
like the colors of our tartan were reflected into the sky above us in those
moments when we returned and gathered around the victory bell.
It
was an ocean of embraces, and tears, and laughter that I witnessed on this day.
Some of the tears shed on that day were for those seniors who knew that they
would never wear the Stewart of Atholl ancient tartan in competition again.
Probably for most of us, we couldn’t comprehend at that time how scarce and
precious and fragile time really was.
Many
of us were wearing our gold medals with the long bright red, white, and blue
ribbons around our necks. Tears of joy and laughter and finality were mixed
together and in all this celebration there was that self-effacing man on the
peripheral. His presence was discreet,
and his hands remained buried in the pockets of his jacket.
He was eventually pulled into the crowd of us, and I sensed his reluctance at being the center of any attention. He reached toward the large antique gray school bell mounted on the brick pedestal by the entrance our school building. He jerked the bell clapper firmly and the bell responded with the familiar old rustic long ring. Like a metallic croaky tone from an ancient voice, the bell rang out over the din of the crowd noise around all of us. The bell tolled our triumph in the sunlight and the ringing was to recognize those present and those absent, those in the past and those in the future who would be part of this family of music. He rang the bell and there were cheers, and clapping, and whistles. In turn, Ben and Jeremy our drum majors took turns ringing the old bell amid more cheers. As the cheering and rings from the bell subsided, he turned away from the bell and moved the small collar of his jacket up against the cold wind.
At
the victory bell with the Bands of America[1] trophies as a backdrop, he
said a few words to thank the parents for everything they had done to bring
this dream into reality -- The Bands of America 1986 Class 'A' National
Championship, the title that would now and forever be part of the Marching
Dukes legacy. There were camera flashes
from parents and local news media as he stood there silently collecting his
thoughts. The sound of his voice was gentle and filled with an undefinable
quality that made it carry into the distance. He seldom had to raise his voice
to be heard. He had a way of getting his message to us quietly.
"The
trophies and medals are all beautiful things -- I have to admit that they
certainly have an allure in this sunlight, don't they? But in everything we
learned this year, everything we accomplished -- in Morgantown, in Akron, and at
the Indianapolis Hoosier Dome last night -- I want this moment to remain locked
in your heads forever because it is in this that you can understand what it
feels like to give it away, to give all of yourself for something larger than
self. This is the reward that will never
collect dust, that will never be lost, that you can never forget about as long
as you live. And some day, I'll want you to teach others this."
He
waited before continuing, and this always had the effect of drawing us in
closer to him, closer to his heart, closer to his message.
“Our
goal is not to win a trophy or defeat a foe, but to pace each other on the road
to excellence.”
He
paused again in that sunset and looked around at us all. His hands were still buried in that orange
satin band jacket that he wore on our road trips. There was a hint of winter cold in the breeze
as it swept down upon us. He smiled and said:
"Give
it away. Now you know."
He
drifted away into the crowd of parents, students, reporters, and families
gathered there and these were the last few moments of the 1986 marching band
season for Marching Dukes of Marlington High School.
Into
a tangled jumbled mass of cars, trucks, and buses spread out around the school
in the brownish harvested fields of broken corn stalks, all of us eventually
wandered. Car doors were heard closing and the equipment truck was unloaded and
drove away; the buses returned to the roads and distant parking lots. As the
autumn night descended, the victory bell was silent again and the school became
empty, but the light of that day is still clear in my eyes, and the feeling of
us together still warms me all these years later.
In New Jerusalem
I
am convinced that one day we will hear that bell again, beckoning us to gather.
In a moment in our eternal home, in a new city of Jerusalem we will hear the
ring of that bell from a distance, and we will know. Some will follow that
sound and gather around the victory bell again, in that light of the sun that
never descends into darkness. We will
embrace each other like we once did, and our love will be there binding all of
us into our family. After celebrating our reunion, we will see the equipment
truck there and our instruments will be ready.
We will unpack and find our way to the practice field where we had
learned so much. We will still know what
notes to play and will remember every step to take, and we will again let our
music be heard as it once was.
A
few of us are already there… waiting…
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