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.

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