This morning seems like years ago, and last year seems like yesterday. We remember what went wrong this morning; we remember what wrong last year. We learn from our mistakes. This time, we swear, it will be different. We will do what those before us could not. We will defeat the established powers, for we have nothing to lose. Now is the hour, and here we stand on the threshold of destiny.
      We hold our heads high in our pride, every muscle locked. Silent as death on a winter's eve we stand in the end zone?
      ?But we are far from dead; we are more alive then ever before. There is no deathly cold here; there is the fiery heat of strength which is not of this earth. No stench of death permeates the air; it is the smell of anticipation that burns our nostrils like dragon's fire. We hear our blood rushing in our heads. We taste the cold, uncaring air. We feel the energy which courses through every member of this immense, tightly bound family we have created for ourselves.
      The snare drum's tap rings like a cannon roar across the field and over the crowd, a crowd that our eyes perceive but our mind does not acknowledge. We move like one, each painfully restrained, measured step at a time, the black and white square that is us moves toward the far end of the field. The drum marches us into battle, even though we are alone on the field. We face the majors now, and see the lights in their eyes. The sound that we release is a warm-up only in name. It is the roar of a raging lion, the battle cry of a fearless soldier. ?Yes, world,? our instruments scream, ?We are here. Get out of our way!?
      There is nothing but the field beneath our feet now, as we set ourselves, digging in to lock horns with the world. Our instruments gleam like stars and jewels, every dent and scratch a badge of honor with a story to tell.
     The majors stand like gods on their podiums. Their hands move like striking snakes: sharp, quick, and smooth. The music begins slowly. Every step is counted. Then we release the hurricanes that howl for freedom in our lungs. Our music smashes the air like fists of iron, our legs move like great black pistons. Hand flourishes, a scream, a lean, with these we casually mock our pain. We are halfway to the end of our last minutes of true life now. We pause silently. We rest our burning lungs. But the fire in our hearts grows stronger now. The music builds again, like an avalanche it grows this time.
     Emotions spill over with the strength of our performance. Tears run down onto brass, wood and plastic, over lips, to mingle with the sweat on our hands and uniforms. We are here for our selves only, but we perform for others. We pour out our souls for the staff, for our brethren who have gone on before us. We dedicate this performance to our wounded who cannot be with us, for they have made the greatest sacrifice, and for those who are wounded now, who grind their teeth and go on without a word. They are an example to us all; their bodies scream with pain, the mind begs them to stop. They do not go on for themselves, but for the rest of us.
     Then the end is upon us. To us, it is Armageddon. We march off silently, drinking every last moment. We reach the busses. The great yellow boxes of memories sit unknowing, but they are as much a part of our existence as our instruments. The director smiles from her perch on the bus hood. The words are enthusiastic. Our joy is unparalleled by any other. Enemies embrace as brothers. The past no longer matters, only the now, and what we have done?
     The score hits us like a bombshell, no one can comprehend the reasoning at first, and slowly, one by one, the realization sets in: the score does not matter, winning is for those too hollow to find joy in simply performing and making memories with those they care about. We realize that we were alone with only each other on the field, and the opinion of one who was not with us does not matter. There is no better feeling than that of a job well done and no greater treasure than these memories made along the way.
     And so, with pride we say:

WE

ARE

C.P.!