SYMPOSIUM ADDRESS: Dream Contest/Back Then... Autumn and Winter Mario P. Navetta Dream Contest Memories (Foreword) These are "impressions" that I've gathered from others, as well as those of my personal experiences. In the future, I'd like to compile the Dream Contest anecdotes of as many contributors as possible. Without trying to sound too melodramatic, I think that we need something more than an oral history of this legendary spectacle. With that in mind, I'd sincerely appreciate any offerings you might have. I hope that you will enjoy these first thoughts. ~Mario * For the record, while these apply specifically to the Roosevelt Stadium, Jersey City venue, it is hoped that the "new" Dream Contest will build on the traditions that made that contest "The Dream." Best of luck to Glen Johnson and his staff. ** I don't want to namedrop, but without the help of the following people. I couldn't have completed this. I debated including their names for the obvious, "Hey, I know (?) _____!" reasons, but to do so would be doubly wrong. Again, without false altruism, this is not solely my story. In alphabetical order: Ron Allard, Bob Bellarosa, Sam Buca, Tim Campbell, Jim Cossetti, Pete Foote, Charlie Hooper, Carol Hooton, John Keays, Andy Lisko, Jane Macey, Tim Merrill, Tom Peashey, Cozy Porch, Al Roff, Mike Siglow, Donnie Solinger, and my son Chris, who never played in drum corps, but who knows how to edit better than I do, and who figures that "Maybe if I help him write these stories, he'll stop forcing me to remember them!" Dream Memories Scalding Sunday sun... the Siren-coaxing sound of rehearsing horns and drums heard from a distance of three blocks before you reach the stadium... coughing monoxide fumes in the parking lots... symbiotically impassive mounted Jersey City police and their horses maneuvering orderliness and direction to wayward busses, cars, and people... jackets of every color and corps... impatiently squirming queues at the ticket windows... "Dream Contest programs! Get your Dream Contest programs!" ...the summer complementary mingled aroma of beer, hot dogs, and French fries that assails you from the shadowed food stands... your first vision of the green and brown and freshly painted whiteness of the legendary, elemental field... the rush to get to the best seats, only to discover that they are "officially" taken by the flock of black and white adorned nuns cerememoniously perched there... the indigenous, came-with-the-stadium flocks of pigeons that unceremoniously perch everywhere... the restlessness during the Star Spangled Banner... and... The so slow to come/so quick to end, once in a lifetime, pure joy of competing in your first Dream... the inexplicable reason for your uniform colors seeming to be brighter today... admiring, envious faces of kids in other corps who will never know this experience...the PA announcer proclaiming, "On the starting line, from _________. The_________!"... applause and cheers from the sun and smoke hazed crowd... the step-by-step adrenaline intensity that increases with each drum major-egotistical step... the first note/drumbeat... your leap of faith first step... more cheers... the last World War/Broadway/Hollywood color presentation that unseats the audience more by loyalty than habit... your concert piece that nearly everyone can sing or dance or clap or foot-tap to... the exit number that says goodbye to summer, farewell to love, you know who we are, please don't forget me, you know how I love you. See you next year... the last note... the standing ovation... the one-more-time. "From ________. The________!" ...and then trying futilely to relive the eye-blink performance that ended five minutes ago... Last-note waiting EMT volunteers who don't need to wait that long for a casualty...the in-between performances rush to the rest rooms... the last-drop-empty cans of Balllantine beer spilling over their corner hidden pails... a quick "Hello" here... a hurried, "Hey, good to see you!" there... "Damn! Wish the *&%$# line would at least move!"... "Was that thunder?"...a balding, chain smoking guy at the back of the field who never seems to stop pacing... a big guy on crutches at the front of the field who seems to be vigilantly watching him... and... The still-in-uniform trek through the stands--"Hey, nice job!"... "Good show!"... a quick waved, "Thanks!"-- then to the outfield bleachers to catch a few corps before retreat... the names of the once great, near great, now great, that you hear in blaring, public announcements, and privileged, personal pronouncements... the litany of: Blessed Sacrament, Holy Name, St. Vincent, St. Kevin, St. Joseph, St. Andrew, St. Ignatius, St. Patrick, St. Mary, more Saints, Our Lady of Grace, Our Lady of Loretto... semi-secular Knights, Crusaders, Lancers, Musketeers, Cavaliers... a Royal Brigade, Royal Airs, Imperials, Princemen... ethnical Kilties, Caballeros, Matadors, and young Muchachos... warring Troopers, Crossmen, Rockets, a Squadron, and more Cadets... recalcitrant Raiders, Rebels, and discrete Diplomats... spectacular Sunrisers, devastating Hurricanes, and follow the North Star ... unusual Blue Rocks, and whimsical Lampligters followed by a band of Brewers... soaring Skyliners... delightful, but dangerous Bonbons... and a Thing. The capricious August thunderstorm that did/did not appear this year... the self-created marktime march dirt clouds the corps mystically move through as they assemble for retreat in the dying, humidity drenched remnants of this nearly-end-of-the-season summer day... another, "I want to thank... we owe so much to... if it hadn't been for... " speech... the chemically-conditioned Jersey City/Newark Bay sky gaudily flaunting ethereal twilight spectrums... a solitary "To the Colors" ...and... "In fourth place, with a score of___, point___ ,the___________!" ... "And, in second place with a score of___, point 886, the __________!" "What?!?! How the hell?" ...the wait 'til-next-year-if-they-invite- us- back- concealed tear... and then a tale of "lasts:" the illusory this-will-last-forever joy... the last song before you leave the field... the last cheers and applause from the... "We gotta get goin'. You know how this Jersey traffic is!" crowd... more bus fumes, police, and horses... Damned Jersey drivers! ...and New York drivers! ...and Pennsylvania drivers! ...and, "Go back to Illanoyz!" The silent/noisy bus ride home... elation/sadness... and "Jeez! We were in The Dream!" ~ Mario Back Then... Autumn and Winter (Foreword) "Back Then" ...a place in our drum corps lives that will never exist again. ~Mario Back Then... Autumn and Winter It all seemed to happen too quickly. One minute you were on the bus making a fool of yourself with stupid pranks, daringly (or so you thought) singing semi-suggestive songs, trying to sleep, losing what little money you had in a card game that you weren't supposed to be playing, and maybe-- just maybe-- sitting next to the girl in the color guard who seemed to be paying a little more attention to you now than she did when the season started back in May (or so you thought.) And then, there were no more contests, except if you were lucky enough to get to Nationals that year. High school football teams, and people with saxophones, and flutes were on the field where we almost beat___________ except for the __________ that was lost in ____________ (You can fill in the blanks from this point on) More and more you looked dumber and dumber, as you pretended not to be colder and colder in the shorts and cut-off tee shirt that you lived in all summer long. "Nah, I'm okay. You know Italians are hot-blooded." Yeah, right! It was the "I got homework! / The holidays are coming, and my boss wants me to work late!" season. Getting to, and enduring rehearsals, called for genuine commitment. Drill practices were especially tough. Invariably, they were held in glacial, vacuous armories that always seemed to be located in neighborhoods that might better be abandoned or bombed in time of war. Music sessions, although meeting in only half as cold church basements, or more modern split-screen-Bingo venues, ("B4!" "I did play Bb!") were often filled with the emptiness of a missing French horn section, or a delinquent (as in, "He'll be away for awhile.") bass drummer. It wasn't easy. And for "city corps" in particular, this was the wondering, winter wish that might or might not come true in spring. For those of us who weren't fortunate enough to be "Blessed," a "Saint," or have a "Holy Name," this was a time of serious uncertainty. The "warm body pool," of the neighborhood, let alone the "musically genetic puddle" was finite. You prayed for corps to fold. "Hey, I heard that the _________ are gonna break up. They got that snare drummer who came out second at those individuals last year. Maybe we should go talk to him. Whaddaya think?" Or, "Whaddabout your cousin? How old's he now? Ya gotta talk to your aunt. Tell her it'll be good for him. Ya know, fresh air, learn music, travel, goin't'church. Ya know, all that good stuff." The truth was that the drummer only came out second among three others, and your cousin was one little pain in ass punk who was always grubbing money from you, and threatening "...to tell Aunt Sadie that you_________." But desperate times called for... you know the rest. Christmas. Hope returned. The corps party was something to be remembered. Everybody was there-- even the bass drummer (see above). The corps director gave us ID bracelets: Comeback Year. You danced with her. You walked her home. And, for what was left of that frigid December night, so filled with multi-colored lights, waving Santas, and plastic reindeer, you almost forgot about drum corps. Almost *** January... the snowstorm that keeps you out of school for two days has nothing to do with rehearsal--that was school. This is drum corps! For "city corps," the subway is always running. The precarious trek to the corner station under the shadowy glare of incandescent streetlights half-hiding the emerging, weary faces of the daily subterranean communicants, means little more than the possibility of finding an abandoned seat for yourself and your horn case-- drumsticks are much easier to conceal. The long-ago memorized station names appear and vanish in tempo with the drowsy, dwindling denizens. Not far beyond the screeching wrench of metal wheels now freed from the confining tunnels, lies the approaching snow maze of the "El." Standing at the soon to be open doors, the forgotten remnants of Christmas lights are errant, colored dots on the black and white nightscape. The church bell summoning the faithful to evening prayer is an unnecessary, but still welcome beacon to the devoted in the adjoining church basement who will offer their musical prayers for late spring and summer judgment. There are always the faithful faithful and pseudo-faithful who, whether by resolute conviction, or for lack of anywhere else to go, or anything else to do, are invariably early, and never miss rehearsal. Everyone else must be waited for. Paradoxically, it is especially on snowful, school-less nights, that there is an almost visceral need for gathering. Everyone is here. Perhaps it is a desire for a communal ritual of freedom that only the young can be a part of. Whatever it is, it is that special night when everything seems to follow a divine plan that must seemingly be credited as much to our nearness to the supplicating voices in the next building, as it is to the skill of our instructors and our own unsophisticated, yet masterfully manipulated talents. For seconds at a time, we are mesmerized within ingenuous, child-like trances as we wonder to ourselves and, half-covertly with our eyes, to each other, how, and why this is happening to us. Lead sopranos are hitting upper register extremes with a clarity and brilliance that ignores the fact that this is the culmination of a night begun more than three hours ago with a new exit piece that calls for intricate dynamics that may not be realizable so late in the show. Baritones and lower voices are defiant now, then reticently placid. French horns soar seductively in a coquettish challenge to any voice that would dare approach them. Tonight the drum line is a wayward, multi-personality Broadway /New York Philharmonic ensemble. And we hear far more than we hear, and believe more than we've ever believed. And then it ends. The unwilling or willing suspension of disbelief yields to a Cinderella -reality, and we are once again a muddle of city kids realizing that it is late, and that there may be school tomorrow. There are quick words about a next rehearsal, and unpaid dues, but these are ignored. It is time to go home. Outside, the recollection of the night's magic is little more than a vagrant thought that feebly warms the icy wait on the exposed "El" platform. The train, like the indifferent inner city darkness that dispassionately embraces it, is nearly lifeless now. Sprawled at random intervals are the triaged odds and ends of its self-engrossed community searching for solace, sanctuary, or eventual escape from the depths. There is a last desperate stare at the haphazardly glistening snow-track labyrinth before all is consumed by blackness and tunnel clamor. For a short lived instant, in yet another paradox, the pandemonium contradictorily conjures the night's magic. January...back then.