Crim marching band drum-line had rags to riches story

Editor's Note - As part of this weekend's celebration of Yuma High School's 100th anniversary, The Sun is publishing stories about or written by Yuma High alumni. Chris McDaniel was a member of the Class of 2003 and a member of the school's championship marching band drum-line.
 
It was August 2002. I was 18, a new adult, and after three long years of waiting, the Yuma High School Varsity Marching Band Drum-Line was finally in the hands of the class of 2003.
 
We would go on to win the Arizona State Competition in Phoenix that year, but there was no way that we could have predicted our victory just months before.
 
This year started off like any other, with sweltering humid weather and endless sunlight. The band room was the same, rife with the smell of sweat and brass polish.

The snare drums sat patiently on their shelves, waiting for some young kid to put them on and march around like toy soldiers.
 
The cymbals gleamed from their compartments, and the fat bass-drums and quad-drums were hidden away, snug in their cases.

It had always been like this. The drum-line would convene weeks before school started in order to practice and perfect our music for the football season.
 
In attendance were the seasoned upperclassmen and the fresh-faced drummer wannabees.
 
Keep in mind that Yuma High School is not the richest in the world. Our equipment had been donated by some university while I was still in elementary school. And yes, it was the same beat-up stuff we were using a decade later.
 
On top of the old equipment, the school couldn’t afford a full-time drum instructor. The best we got was a few weeks in August with a Yuma High alumnus who was nice enough to drill and train us.
 
We played for six to eight hours a day, five days a week. We started with repetitive exercises designed to strengthen our arms, and to bring us together as a group. 
 
After the basics came the fancy stuff, and then our few weeks of guidance were over, and our instructor headed back north to finish college.
 
We were on our own, and we had a reputation to fulfill. Our drum-line had been the best in our city for quite some time, and we knew that if we brought shame upon the line’s good name, there would be hell to pay.
 
The snare drum captain was Robbie Carrillo (Class of '04), and even though he was only a junior, he was definitely on top of his game. He took the rookies in his section and molded them into fine marching machines.
 
The bass-line captain was Jose "Josey Wales" Garcia (Class of '03), and he played the lead (and smallest) bass drum. Jose ruled over his section with an iron fist.
 
Of course, the drum-line couldn’t do its business without the cymbal line, and that year we had four talented young ladies up to the task.
 
Finally there was my section, the quad-drum section. If you don't know what quad-drums are, imagine four tom-style drums wrapped around the front of your body parallel to the ground.
 
That year there were two of us: my counterpart and friend Israel "Izzy" Trevino (Class of '03) and myself. Israel was a big gorilla of a man and could bench-press me above his head into the ceiling.
 
Being that we were both seniors, we worked together equally, and we were good.
 
Even though the line had lost its instructor, we still practiced for many hours after school and on weekends.
 
On Saturdays, we would get together at Smucker Park. Yes, that is Kofa King Territory, and yes, we were calling them out. Yet they never came.
 
The months went past, and as the halftime shows were conquered one by one, we perfected our art.
 
One other important aspect of my final season was that it was Mr. Dallabetta’s as well. Mr. Dallabetta was there for me in some of my roughest days. It’s not easy being lost in a "teenage wasteland," but he was always there for me.
 
He once pulled me into his office and told me that he had been just like me, all party all the time. He said that the only thing that changed his lifestyle was when his children were born.
 
At the time I scoffed at the idea and brushed it aside, but you know what, Mr. D., you were absolutely right.
 
The big day, Nov. 16, 2002, came at last. I remember standing rigidly at attention in that field in Phoenix. The only motion was the steady rhythmic breathing of my chest and the flurry of movement from my wrists down through my metal sticks into the drums and out in invisible waves upon the wind.
 
The sweat was pouring; there was a lot at stake for me this day. This was my last chance to shine, my last opportunity to outdo the seniors from the year before. This was the end of the line. I had been in many competitions over the course of four years, but this was the most important.
 
I could feel the pulse of the cadence we were hammering out. As I looked around at the white-and-blue uniforms of the other drumming Criminals, I could see the determination in their faces. Even though there was enough tension to twist steel, I felt strangely at ease.
 
The drum-major approached, white cape flowing behind him, and gave us the signal. It was time.
 
The band formed up, like a troop of soldiers preparing to charge into battle. It seemed as if the heat had increased tenfold in a matter of moments.
 
There we stood, facing an empty field, with white hashmarks chalking off distances for another foregone football season. Silence reigned supreme, and the wind made the white feather "birds" on our hats shiver and dance.
 
Across the field was an enormous grandstand packed to the rafters. It was disconcerting, to say the least.
 
And then it was as if electricity had been loosed upon us. It was a rush altogether frigid and hot at the same time, adrenaline unknown to most and infused into few.
 
"Clack! Clack! Clack! Clack! Clack! Clack!" Robbie’s snare drum called out, and we answered.
 
One hundred left feet stepped onto that well-trodden green field in perfect unison. The drum-line played loud, as if an artillery barrage of sound was exploding into our captive audience. We alone represented Yuma, and we wanted to rock those rich kids from the big cities.
 
There were four songs to play. The opener was some piece by Chuck Mangione. Izzy and I were in faultless harmony, like two pistons in a well-oiled engine. We dazzled and delighted, we surprised and astonished. Izzy and I moved like never before.
 
And finally, after the second song, it was our time to shine. The rest of the band stood at attention. The flag-line girls were perfectly still. And the entire drum-line approached the sidelines in close juxtaposition to the grandstands and the little white tables at which sat the onlooking judges. It was time for the drum show.
 
We were ready, the boom-boom of the bass drums, the rat-a-tat-tat of the snare line, the sizzle of the cymbals and the symphony of quad drums. Each section took a turn to solo. The snares came first, and then they passed the beat onto the quads.
 
Izzy and I did a wave and crossed our feet. We leaned forward so that the judges and the crowd could see our handiwork. And for 10 eternal seconds, thousands of eyes were on our whipping wrists and flashing fingers. Our performance was intrepid and supreme, and we knew it.
 
In the back of my mind there was sudden relief. I had faced my enemy, my own fear, and had survived triumphantly. However, I couldn’t relax for a moment. There was still the last song, and the entire band was counting on us. We were the feet, the heart and the pulse.
 
At last, we finished the final song and marched off the field. In my mind I was scolding myself for anything that might have gone wrong.
 
As we headed for our picture, I fretted over every aspect of my performance.
 
There we stood in front of the photographer; I was in the middle at the top with shoulder-length blond hair. We all worried about what the judges would say and whether the drum-line would get an award or not.
 
Afterwards we sat in the bleachers watching the other marching bands take their turns. It was a very different view from this side of the coin.
 
With the completion of the last band’s show, all of the separate drum-majors were called to the field.
 
One by one the categories were called out and the honors were awarded. It seemed like an endless assault of tedium until they came to the drum-lines' scores.
 
Now a knot formed in my belly, a different foreboding than what I had felt before marching onto that field.
 
And we had done it. The little underfunded drum-line from Yuma had succeeded. We had tied two other schools for first place. That meant that in the entire state from border to border, there was none better.
 
I will carry those days, and those comrades in sticks, in my heart for the rest of my days.