Time to Dust of your Trombone, It’s Band Season!
Chris Zasada August 29, 2005

It’s that time of year again, the time when the hazy sun warms the air with a delicate laziness as it speeds across the sky faster and faster as the days draw on. Children play happily outside as they secretly dread the approach of school, while the grownups count the days when the fall and winter holidays make their lives more hectic than usual.

Out in the country, just on the outskirts of an Ohio suburb, the birds chirp merrily as they bask in the pleasant light, waiting for the frost of winter to motivate their whisk to the warmer southern regions. The wind blows gracefully though the blooming trees, providing a fitting ambience to the symphony a fine August day.

Suddenly, a startling, unnatural rapping echoes into peaceful sky, causing the birds to stare towards the source, wondering what all the fuss is about. The rapping is joined by thumping and a variety of calls that sound like a very unpleasant animal giving birth to five babies at the same time. Just then, a shrill whistle, then shouting, then silence.

Just when it seems like this strange occurrence is over, a wave of sound blasts through the air, prompting the birds to scatter into the sky with a noisy rustle, not wanting to take their chances with whatever thing could make such a racket. The sound gets louder and louder, and before long, its source is revealed. An army of high school students wielding a variety of musical instruments rounds the corner, belting out an off-key rendition of "Devil in a Blue Dress" as they trudge on. Any who are foolish enough to stand between them and their goal of the practice field risk being trampled under their unswerving might.

Yes, marching band season is once again upon us.

Which brings me to a confession. We have all done things that we aren’t proud of. We regret scuffles and betrayals with family and friends, odd and embarrassing activities fueled by drunkenness, or (arguably worse) odd and embarrassing activities conducted while sober, sometimes involving goats. I have such a deep, dark secret that I prefer to try and forget (and no, it doesn’t involve garage sales. I have been candid and to-the-point about that already, and it doesn’t support a third article on the subject). But it wouldn’t be very fitting with the spirit of Pocky Box to hold something like this back from my audience, who so far have been loyal in as far as they have not sent anthrax directly to my home. I believe they deserve to know the truth.

Yes, dear readers, I was in a marching band in high school.

I want to state for the record that it was not completely by choice. Okay, I could have quit whenever I wanted, but I have an obligation complex and feel the need to stick things out so long as they don’t inconvenience me too greatly. So I stayed in the marching band for three years, with a total of seven years of my life being devoted to the Oregon City School’s band program.

I started out in the fifth grade playing the saxophone for the excellent reason that my dad played the sax when he was in school and still had the instrument on him. When I say I “played” the saxophone, I mean I played maybe one note the entire year, and not particularly well. I later moved to trombone, which I played (though I actually belted out the correct sequences of notes some of the time, I still wonder what I was doing could be classified as playing) for the remaining six years, half of them spent in the Clay High Fighting Eagle Marching Band.

If you haven’t heard of the CHFEMB, they’d be rather surprised, because as far as the band was concerned, their opinions affected international policies. Clay High was semi-famous for its marching band, headed by the legendary Charles Neal, who led the band into honors for 32 years, eventually retiring in 1999 and replaced by one of his former students, Brian Gyuras. Before I go into the story of my time with the Clay band, let me lay the foundation and take you through the follies that made up my school band life.

As I mentioned, I started out my band career in fifth grade at Starr Elementary, when some group with obvious ties to the musical instrument racket came in and spoke objectively to the entire fifth grade about how great being in the band is and how “cool” we’d all be if we joined. I got pretty excited when they started passing around the instrument order sheets, even though they contained numbers that were beyond my comprehension as a fifth grader. The figure “$399.95” didn’t even register in my brain, because that was grownup money, enough for a car or even a house or something. I just merrily accepted that I was going to be in the band, and my mom was going to pay for it.

I want to interrupt the story and mention that a young C also bought into the hype, opting to play the trumpet based on the fact that it only had three keys, so how hard could it be? You have no idea, and neither did he until he tried it for half a year and dropped out, leaving me alone and forgotten. And you wonder why he doesn’t have more material on the site. Dorkhead.

Fortunately for Mom’s wallet, my dad used to play the saxophone, so I used that instead of buying one with money that could cover the cost of my luxury car one day. I was pretty excited about the sax up until the first band practice, when it became clear that I was the only saxophone player, and no one was going to bother showing me how to play.

I attribute most of the blame to the teacher, who is actually a central figure in my story because he taught the middle school level and assisted with the high school level, essentially shadowing me throughout my entire band career. For reasons that will become painfully clear, I’ll respectfully refer to him as BFBD, though you probably could just as well figure out his real name by checking out the Oregon City Schools’ website. And I’ll give a million dollars to anyone who understands the meaning behind BFBD, and, sorry C, website contributors aren’t qualified for the contest. Visitors either.

Anyway, I spent one or two days a week in Starr Elementary’s dark, foreboding basement belting out a simplified rendition of “Barbara Ann” for the next year. At least that’s what I was supposed to do. The problem here was BFBD never pushed practicing or even playing correctly and didn’t bother showing anyone how to begin to play any instruments, so I was successful in playing the single note that I figured out on my own, but nothing else. Without any suggestions on where to go for tutoring, and considering the thermal nuclear reactor-like complexity of the saxophone, a standard fifth grader like me had little hope of mastering the instrument on his own. When the first and only band concert of the year came around during a parent’s day or some such, I didn’t even bother going up on stage, because I knew better than to lie about my qualifications, which is why I’m working on this website now.

For some reason, I decided to give the band thing another shot, though I’m not sure why. I suspect it was my mother, who wasn’t allowed to be in the band when she was in school, so she decided to live vicariously through me. I believe she’s given up on that now and started living vicariously through TV, which seems to be working better for her.

In any case, Mister Neal sent out a notice that he needed brass players for the marching band and offered free summer lessons to anyone who wanted to play those instruments. This grooming technique worked on me, since I took him up on the offer. Shockingly, there was a demand for trombone players, so I decided, what the heck, to go for it.

I’ll take this opportunity to talk a little bit about the trombone. Yes, the slide action is a little unusual, and yes, you can stab people and hook things with it, but let’s look at the serious, artistic qualities of the trombone, namely that it’s fairly easy to play and you can make those cool “slide slurs” the moment you pick it up, without any intensive training.

The downside was, despite all appearances, the trombone was somewhat fragile. Like an Asian prize wife, if you take care of the trombone, it will take care of you (not that I would know from personal experience, of course). The problem is, this “care” required periodical spit valve re-corking, slide lubrication (yaa!), and the occasional trip to the band shop for when the slide got the least bit bent, which could result from the slightest touch or smacking of idiots.

I still remember picking up the trombone for the first time, holding the massive brass instrument, it’s simple, yet intricate workings beckoning me to give it a try. I put my lips to the mouthpiece, drew a large breath, blew, and was treated to the sound of air rushing uneventfully through a trombone. I kept trying fruitlessly, fearing a repeat of the saxophone and contemplating taking up the drums, which at least made noise when you unskillfully used them. That is until another student told me I had to buzz my lips, raspberry-style, to get a sound, which, as an eleven-year-old boy, I could definitely handle. I figured it out and the summer lessons went well, and I was on my way to the middle school band.

And so the trouble began once again. Headed by BFBD, which by that time was making it pretty obvious he had as much leadership capability as a Green Party candidate, made an effort to not waste any effort on stupid things like “discipline” and “teaching.” He would come out of his office, wave the baton, yell a little, and then retreat back into his hiding place until the day was over, sipping his coffee as a reward for a job well done.

The drum section, being made up of boys with similar intellect, though less behaved than the cavemen who invented the concept of the drum by smacking sticks on rocks, preferred to throw their equipment (and whatever else wasn’t securely nailed down to the ground) across the room for reasons only clear to them. And since they didn’t like me, one can only guess where they were aiming.

I’m not kidding here at all. I had everything from drumsticks to tambourines thrown at me. I was actually struck in the head with the tambourine one time, though as far as BFBD was concerned, I was an annoying student with minor complaints best left ignored. Clearly, handling student problems wasn’t in his job description. If someone over in administration actually looked up BFBD’s job description, I’m sure it would cite two essential functions: drink coffee and wave a stick. Not that I’m bitter.

I’ll mention one more tragic incident that started in the band room. One particular drummer was being particularly aggressively stupid one day, and as my luck would have it, I had a class with him the next period. I decided the best way to handle his idiocy from band period was to lay down some insults about his parents, a popular practice in the old days, though those kind of insults rarely managed to rile anyone. It was a common, everyday speech pattern, like saying “hello,” except instead saying “You’re momma’s so fat, when she wears high heels, she strikes oil.” It wasn’t anything to pay attention to.

Well, this idiot apparently couldn’t be bothered to remember the rules that day, and decided the best retaliation was not a return insult, but a metal binder spine to the head. Really. The guy removed the metal spine from his notebook and whacked me over the head with it. He laughed it off and went to his seat as class started. As I registered the pain, I rubbed my head instinctively, and as I drew my hand back, I was greeted with a palm full of blood.

My eyes widened and I started to panic. I knew I couldn’t nurse my wound in the middle of class, so I excused myself to the bathroom and fixed myself up there. As I was pressing the wound, I did the next logical thing and contemplated how I was going to beat the snot out of the idiot. Later on, at lunch, I showed a friend of mine what happened, and he immediately panicked and went straight to the nearest teacher, who dragged both the idiot and me down to the office.

Now, in today’s modern world, where lawsuits are the new “your mommas,” the idiot, his family, the school, the principle, BFBD, the class teacher, the reported-to teacher, my friend, and anyone I had come in visual contact with would have been sued for millions of dollars over this incident. But this was almost ten years ago, so we were both given a stern warning. Yep, I come inches from incurring brain damage, and I get yelled at, just because I laid down some insults, even though I didn’t start the problem in the first place. And BFBD still works for Oregon City Schools, not that I'm bitter.

It wasn’t just me, but the entire band that suffered BFBD’s inept instructional expertise. I still remember one incident when he wasn’t satisfied with the band’s preparation for an upcoming concert. He told us coldly that we were all going to screw up in front of the audience and embarrass ourselves. Even at that young age, I knew that what he was just worried about was us making him look bad, which he would have done all on his own, had some clever student decided to bring in a hidden camera.

I’m frankly surprised I stayed in band with the first few years like this. It may have been determination, obligation, guilt, or any combination of these, but whatever the cause, I stayed in band because of some variety of stupidity. Apparently, though, there was a shining light at the end of the tunnel of middle school that led to high school.

The change was instantaneous and jarring once I started summer practice. Gone were the throwing of instruments, the blatant idiocy (not that I’m suggesting there wasn’t rampant idiocy, just more subtle), and the bumbling director. All of this was replaced by the almost-military command of Charles Neal, who managed to turn a group of about two hundred adolescences who would rather be doing something else into a well-oiled marching machine.

Neal bestowed a sense of pride and purpose in the band, making the students feel like they were part of something great. The problem is, their hormone-laden egos took this pride a little too far and placed themselves on a pedestal, an act that would lead to the band’s eventual downfall.

During my time in the band, I experienced things that left memories, both good and bad. For practical purposes, I can’t admit to enjoying the actual band functions, but I don’t necessarily regret them either. To truly understand what I’m getting at, you’d have to have been there, where hot weather, hot uniforms, and performance anxiety (and not the kind stemmed from a situation I would prefer to be in) all combined to tax the brain enough to make anyone question their own sensibilities.

The most frequent trial was the practice sessions. We’d start marching band practices before school started in August and hold them after school during the school year three days a week all the way to the end of the football season, which was October or November. Since the months of and between August and November were transition months from summer to winter, we band members looked forward to pleasant weather for approximately one practice. The other days, it could be blazing hot or freezing cold, and in either case, we were stuck out in the practice field for an hour and a half.

In retrospect, I’m shocked that we managed to pull off these shows as well as we did. Sure, we practiced them for more than four hours a week straight through, but let’s consider the fact that most of the time, I was just following everyone else, and I’m sure I wasn’t the only one. And we did some complex maneuvers that required a degree of skill, which I can assure you I didn't have.

For example, every half-time show, we would “double-time” onto the field. This involves tilting up at a forty-five degree and stepping really high while running onto the field at top speed and stopping when we reached our spot. It doesn’t sound like much, but we were running in an unnatural fashion, tilted up in the air, lugging our instruments along and expected to stop on a dime. It was no small feat. We had a few collisions and spills (one brought to us by my girlfriend), but the double time usually went off without a hitch.

During my freshmen year, we had to do this maneuver that involved one person standing up straight and the other ducking. The standing person would swing the instrument to towards the ducking person, then the standing person would duck and the ducker would return the favor. Being armed with a trombone, if my timing was off at all, my partner would have been smacked in the trachea and could have been killed. Actually, I think the guy turned out to be a sex-crazed jerk (though not towards me, sicko), so it probably would have been for the best if my timing was off.

That’s not to mention all the formations we did and the marching to get to them on time while concentrating on playing. I’m still surprised so many people who could act so idiotic managed to pull all of this off while bearing the usual high school pressures, like what color eyeliner to wear to the upcoming Homecoming dance (usual answer: prostitute blue).

All of this was in preparation for the football halftime shows, where we would consistently out-perform the other meager bands. This was especially obvious at the home games, where we would also be a pre-game duty, blaring the national anthem as the other band huddled into their designated spot on the visitor’s side. After performances, most of the band was usually in the same spot, a massive white, green, and gold ocean against the puddle of whatever the opposing school’s colors were. We routinely made fun of the other band’s size and ability, sort of like a mass male ego trip. We were mean and terrible, and it was this sort of conduct that would turn around and bite the Clay band in the baritone later down the line.

I’ll be the first to admit that I think watching sports is as interesting as re-corking a trombone, which is as interesting as watching a pot boil, which is as interesting as watching paint dry, which is boring as spit, which is really, really, boring. I usually spent my time socializing with the few friends and acquaintances that I had, walked around aimlessly, grabbing something at the concession stand, or contemplating how stupid everyone in band was. In my three years of marching band, I probably spent at total of three and a half minutes watching the actual football game that hundreds of spectators were paying money to see. I was more concerned about the concession stand myself.

So I’d spent almost all of my fall Fridays in some football stadium or another, feigning enthusiasm. Despite it all, I have warm memories of the experience, probably because I was in high school and everything was fun most of the time. During my Freshman year, waiting to perform in near-freezing weather, I remarked to my other ailing squad mates that although we’re suffering now, we’ll probably look back at this exact moment and remember it being a fun time, to which, on a rare occurrence, they all agreed with me. Sometimes I get tired of being right.

I should mention the “lights out” games. Around Halloween, the band would perform with the stadium lights off. We’d be given glow sticks and usually decorated our instruments with glow-in-the-dark paint and streamers, showing off our band spirit with tacky decorating. It pleased the crowds and was fun, and that was the point.

Occasionally, we would grace other schools with our presence at their home games and pull out the buses. The bus rides were also strangely fun, though I’m still not sure why. Perhaps it was the mounting excitement of the event or the camaraderie, or perhaps because I might have been easier to please back then. I have a few memories from the bus rides, including some casual and non-intimate snuggling with the band slut and religiously listening to “Kagato’s Organ Recital” from the Tenchi Muyo! anime’ and wishing everyone would spontaneously combust. Mister Band Spirit, that’s my name.

I’ll slip in a note about the uniforms. We were all assigned and fitted with rather grandiose uniforms, which consisted of a complicated-looking jacket, suspender pants (which looked really stupid, especially alone), hats that didn’t fit because they came in small, medium, and not-large-enough, gloves, and spats, which were little white foot coverings designed to make us hate all of humanity because they never snapped properly right before a performance. We were given plumes (the feather thingies on the top of the hats) at the games. These were lovingly referred to as “chicken dicks” by the band members, which about sums up their intellect. We were expected to purchase are own shoes, which had to be dress shoes or something that looked like them, even though the spats covered most of actual shoe. And they had to be black, or we were killed. We also had to wear white shirts under the jackets and black socks (they would seriously check for this), or similar punishments for shoe color violations would be enacted.

The regulations for uniform use were sort of touchy. We weren’t allowed to drink “colored pop” out of fear that we moronic kids would spill it on the uniforms, even though we had to pay a mandatory dry cleaning fee at the end of the year anyway. We weren’t allowed to wear the uniforms for non-band sanctioned purposes. During my Freshman year, I announced I was going out trick-or-treating as a Clay band member (this is true). A friend of mine warned me if anyone let Neal know (and let's face it, even on Halloween, I would have been standing out in a get-up like that), I would be in serious trouble, so I backed down. You do not mess with a man who can keep two hundred teenagers in check.

These regulations were not only enforced by the director, but also by the band parents, a group of select band member parents who took their positions as religious duty. They would frequently sit in hot rooms, passing out uniforms with Nazi-like precision. I’m not kidding here. If one thread was out of place, these parents would know about it and demand it be fixed, lest the mighty Marching Band God smite them with a mighty blast from his Trumpet of Doom.

Once the football season ended, the band was forced into the drudgery of concert band season. While it wasn’t as exciting as the marching band season, we got our Fridays and after-schools back, the concerts were fairly infrequent, and, most importantly, it was a lot less work. We just sat there, looked pretty, and played our instruments. Ironically, though it lasted longer than marching season, the concert band only gets a paragraph of mention. That’s how boring it was.

We did participate in the occasional parade. We would annually march in the Oregon Fest, the city’s big yearly festival (not counting the German American Festival, which is Oregon’s premiere event, since it’s basically an outdoor bar with bratwurst) that assures area residents that Oregon is big enough to hold cool events like neighboring big bully Toledo, with its “Rally by the River” and “Rib-Off” and “Bigger Place on the Map of the United States.” It was a pretty pleasant experience, if marching around in the May heat in a full-body uniform while blowing precious life air into a tube sounds pleasant.

This was nothing, however, compared to the Fireman’s Parade, held in the middle of June. There was always serious concern of heat-related complications, such as spontaneous death, so participating bands were more lax on their dress codes in the name of safety of their performers.

Except us. With temperatures in the nineties, we marched fully-unformed down the parade root, sweat soaking into the uniforms like a thimble of water on a dehydrated sponge. Our only solace were the scurrying band parents, who would randomly dart into the formations (which looked more professional than wearing comfortable clothes) and squirt a thin stream of water into our mouths before moving on, which was as effective as putting out a forest fire with a Super Soaker.

I’m not joking when I say that a couple of band members passed out, but that’s probably because they didn’t have enough spirit. I’ll also briefly mention that Mister Neal dragged in the incoming Freshmen and the outgoing Seniors for this event, so we had a mix of inexperienced newbies and old fogies. It was a diverse crowd of white suburbanites.

We also took part in a few competitions, but who really cares?

The most exciting part of the Clay band experience were the long-distance trips. Every two years, the band would go to some far-off location, which meant no parents or school, which went over really well with the band members. We usually switched off between Washington DC and Disneyworld, both known for being really hip locations for high schoolers.

The DC trip happened during my Freshman year. At first, I wasn’t going to go, but some powerful force told me that I was missing out on an once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. I can’t remember if this force was the human tendency to jump on the bandwagon or my mother, but shortly before the due date, I decided to go along with the band.

It wasn’t too bad. I spent the bus ride sitting next to a cute Senior who I made (too much) small talk with. A couple years later, a friend of mine swore to me that she liked me, but thought I was too young to date. Oddly, that friend escaped death by my hands for the crime of not informing of this information during the fact. She was cute, too, unless my girlfriend is reading this, then I’m infinitely relieved I dodged that dog of a bullet. Love you, honey-bunny!

I spent most of my time tagging along with the band, visiting historical landmarks like Bush Gardens. Bush Gardens was an interesting experience, especially since my closest friend in the band was currently dating a girl who was surrounded by harpies that hated me, one of which was clearly the Queen of the Harpies and hated everyone. When I tried to pry him away, the Queen sent one of her drones (our hotel roommate) with my friend and me to make sure I didn’t knock any of their programming out of his head. After approximately twenty-seven hours of wandering around aimlessly and listening to my friend whine unendingly about how he missed his girlfriend, I decided to violate the band rules and go off on my own, which posed a serious risk of me thinking as an individual, which was a cardinal sin.

For those who you how find my lacking of sympathy towards my love-stricken friend appalling, especially considering the fact that I’m a programmed love-stricken drone myself (I don’t really mean this, Christy! I love you very, very much! Of my own free will!), there’s a little more to this story. Not too long after the trip, my friend broke up with his girlfriend, later claiming that he only went out with her on a dare, and went along with the charade until he “woke up and saw her face.” Aww!

Anyway, I remember spending the entire day wandering around aimlessly, avoiding every single one of the attractions, which was actually really strange for me to do, but I suppose exasperation tends to crimp child-like wonderment. The rest of the trip was pretty much a blur. I remember going to the Hard Rock Café in DC and taking some tours of the Capital Building (or something like that) and thinking how easy it would be to sneak in a weapon if you used a wheelchair as the carrier (as visitors are wont to do in Washington DC). There was also something involving the capital steps and me being mesmerized by the falling cherry blossoms, since I was into anime’ for just over a year by that time and fatally vulnerable to anything Japanese. Oh yeah, I think there was something about playing instruments in there too, but this is only an assumption.

Two years later, we had the Florida trip, which many of the band members were excited about because they could, for a brief moment, pretend they were college students on Spring Break, getting drunk until they go blind and participating in recreational sex in public, minus the last two things. Recalling how annoyed I was with everyone on the trip last time and the mounting tension as the result of Bryan Gyuras taking over (more on that later, believe me), I decided to sit this one out. I was probably the only band member who completely of my own will decided to stay home.

So while everyone was down in Florida soaking up the cancerous rays of the sun and having their internal organs cooked under the thick covering of band uniforms, I spent my band period in study hall, and to tell you the truth, I probably had more fun than a good portion of the band. The only highlight from the trip for me was a tape my friend made of the female band members in their swimsuits that some of them took great offense to. I remember being melodramatic and heroic about how I was going to get the tape away from my evil and chauvinistic friend and preserve their dignity, but I’m pretty sure the only reason I volunteered for this was so one of the girls would go out with me. Ah, high school…


Never did get that stupid tape, which would probably be worth something on eBay.

The other big part of the band experience was the people, and most of you could probably guess right now that aspect was a black mark. True, I met some interesting folks, but most of the band members were ego-crazed conformist who firmly believed that they were part of some elite group and better than everyone. Truth be told, a lot of band members were social outcasts who latched on to the glory and talent of a few of the socially acceptable members and relied on the halo effect.

Needless to say, I hated this system and frequently refused to be a part of it, making me the most disliked member of the band, easily edging out one slightly mentally-challenged guy who would nonchalantly give oral pleasure to his clarinet in the middle of class (I really wish I were making this up). The trombone section, known as being a close-knit group, valiantly endeavored to make sure I was constantly aware of this ire. No kidding, most of them were jerks, and my only solace today is the possibility that they’ll all be working at a book vendor, shelving copies of my fifth best-selling novel, which will probably kill them, what with all the re-stocking they’ll have to do when those babies fly off the shelves.

I’m just kidding. I’m not still bitter! Wait, no, yes I am, so I might as well talk about the trombone section for a little bit. These group of perverts enjoyed shouting out loud about their “boners” and attempted many times to poke people in the butt with the slides. Of course, when I attached a custom-made anime’ Pog (yes, I admit it: I owned a Pog maker) to the logo of my trombone, they immediately ridiculed me and had it ripped off by one of the idiots, because my form of expression was so much more inferior to theirs and I needed to share in the band spirit of making double entrendre about my instrument. Damn me and my creativity and resolution of self! But I’m not bitter…

You know, I’m starting to think if I just set the band room on fire with everyone in it, I would be a different person today. Incarcerated, but strangely at peace.

Anyway, I did manage to meet few people that I don’t necessarily regret meeting, but really, that’s a lie. When it came right down to it, most of the people I socialized with turned out to be nasty and/or sluts. I’m starting to wonder if it was me. Naw.

I’ll mention two people that I met who I wouldn’t want to have missed. The first is the girl that I came very close to dating, but then I ended up getting rejected and jaded. This might not seem like a positive (even with my previous statements taken into consideration), but we settled on just being friends, and if nothing else, I got a very good story that turned into Band Girl and enough life lessons to muster the courage to meet the next person.

I met my wonderful Christy because of the band, but not really in it. She was in a different class, so we never really saw each other, but a girl I knew in band decided to use the ancient woman technique of hooking me up with some other girl so she wouldn’t have to put up with me asking her out (I’m onto you all…), and this innocent victim eventually became the girl I love and cherish. So, buck-passer, I thank you for your help in uniting me with an angel, even though you did so for such superficial reasons. Thank you! Jerk…

Did I mention the band’s ego? The egotistical tendencies of the band serviced its members well, giving them a sense of purpose and a drive that lead them to conquer many challenges. Under the direction of Mister Neal, this force was captured and used for the good of the organization. He was in control.

Then he retired. My Junior year was the introductory year for Bryan Gyuras, who brought with him some new ideas, but a promise the keep the traditions of the Clay band intact. The band did not like this. They considered Mister Gyuras as an inferior replacement for Mister Neal, not the leader of the Clay High Fighting Eagle Band, and resented him for it. Really, the only way he could have gotten any respect would be if he mutated into the exact likeness of Mister Neal, killed all those infected with Neal’s brand of spirit, or had a serious and fulfilling discussion on change and acceptance. He would have done well to kill us all.

Honestly, I have some respect for Mister Gyuras for trying to take the reins of the Clay band and steer it into a new direction while keeping in line with the traditions of the band. The band wouldn’t have this, believing any little change, whether it be music, routines, or the calories in the clear pop we were served at games was Gyuras’s attempt at destroying the traditions of the band and twisting them into his own vision. This is kind of funny when you consider the band member had been immersed in “Clay band tradition” for only two years at that point and are probably off doing other, non-band related things as we speak, not a care of the band left in their heads. Such a strong fight for so little…

I think if the guy was given a chance; the band could have pulled out of the transition without as many problems and scars. The incidents escalated, back and forward, each whiny protest over something menial leaving Gyuras with little choice but to retaliate, which set off more protests, which caused more retaliation, which lead to a downward spiral that could have been prevented with a little patience. Instead, the band demanded it their way now, and I think this left Gyuras jaded and bitter (hell, look what it did to me), which left the Clay band’s glory faded. Former members to this day ridicule the performance and size of the Clay band now, the same way they did to other bands when everything was their way in the good old days when Neal was pumping their egos.

And that was the main difference between Mister Neal and Mister Gyuras. Neal taught by near-fanatical encouragement, blocking all reality and assuring, no, TELLING the band that they were “the best band in the land.” It’s pretty obvious that while this got the band members riled up and motivated, the power got out of hand.

Gyuras refused to stroke the band’s ego and was more realistic, teaching by example and trying to make the band see that they weren’t infallible, but they could be the best if they worked at it. The problem is, this came off as ridicule, and you better believe the band wasn’t going to stand for it.

Just as the “shot heard around the world” was considered to start of the Revolutionary War, there was a single incident that was the preverbal straw on the back of the band. During an away game early in the season during Gyuras’s first year (to make it all the juicier, this game might have been played against the school Gyuras taught at before coming to Clay, if my memory serves me correctly), the home band just happened to be playing the same song as us (to make matters worse, it might have been one Gyuras introduced). When they finished, Gyuras commented “I think they beat you on this one.”

The band was mortified. It was at this point that they lost any semblance of respect for Gyuras. Arguments between some band member and him weren’t uncommon, and any change from the tradition way of things was put down as his egotism, the rookie coming in and changing the band’s band. The situation brewed all year, until one incident occurred, an incident that I’ll always remember, if just for the fact that it summarizes the situation so perfectly, both with the band’s lack of acceptance of Gyuras and any opinions other than their general consensus.

It was over halfway through the year, and the Florida trip was looming closer. I assembled my trombone per the routine and waited to play. I’m not sure we even got started playing and I’m not sure who called this incident into order, but at some point early in the period, we were having a meeting, and the percussion section was extremely ticked off.

From what I was able to piece together, someone reported to Mister Gyuras that they had heard that percussion section was planning on bringing “magic mushrooms” with them on the trip. Gyuras decided to have a closer look into the situation and decided on some kind of punishment or restriction for the section, though the exact details escape me.

Whatever it was, it provoked the percussion section to angrily shout about how they’re being singled out and they demanded the name of the person who reported this. I knew there was no way Gyuras was stupid enough to divulge this, since the percussion section would have lynched their accuser then and there. They complained about the things that the band as a whole secretly complained about in regards to the sad direction the band was taking, always getting back to the demand for that name.

At one point, I couldn’t take it anymore, so I stood up and told everyone how idiotic this situation was and how we’re wasting practice time (not that I normally would’ve minded) on pointless arguments. My supportive fellow tromboners backed me up by telling me I was stupid and to sit down right now. I complied only after I finished my piece, and the moronic argument raged on until the bell rang.

The pathetic thing about the protest was two of the “respected” drummers who the others looked to as leaders were extremely dissatisfied with Gyuras’s lack of cooperation with their demands, so they stated that if they couldn’t have it their way, they were going to quit them band. At that point, they walked right out the door, something you just didn’t do in the Oregon school system.

I admit I was taken aback by all this and had a shred of respect for those two, that is until the next day, when I saw that these brave martyrs had come right back to band, apparently not convicted enough to follow through with their heroism. My friend explained that they weren’t allowed to get out of the class so late in the year, but I just rolled my eyes, knowing if they really meant their protest, they wouldn’t let that stop them. My respect level dipped deep into the negatives, not just for them, but for the entire band, and I knew for sure that the organization was a sinking ship.

I left the band my Senior year and joined the Visual Communication class’s maiden year, where I actually learned useful skills that prepared me for a career working for six dollars an hour when I should be paid twice as much. Interestingly, one of the trombone-playing idiots that made my life miserable with his incessant mockery questioned why I left the band, and when I replied that it was obviously what they wanted me to leave, he denied it, though he couldn’t justify the insults. I worked with the band to create a year book CD for them, but few people purchased one, either out of ignorance or the fact they didn’t want to remember the year. I can’t say I blame them.

The Clay High Fighting Eagle band has seen better days, but they play on, always trying to reclaim their glory from days before. I can’t say I regret joining the band. It was a life experience, and though it was challenging, degrading, and really annoying, there were some parts of it that I, in some deep way, enjoyed somehow. It’s a shame that such an organized and dedicated group let their own artificial pride destroy them, but I’m fairly certain none of them care anymore, since band was just a high school activity to most of them. It was to me, and I’m still bitching about it, but that’s just me.

If you’re interested in more information about the Clay High Fight Eagle Marching Band (and how could you not be?), check out their section on the Oregon City Schools’ website.