The day the drumbeat stopped was the day I died a little on the inside. My first season was over, the last season with the seniors. The last season marching that show. The day we packed up the sousaphones, I died a little more. We moved the mellophones to the attic, returned our beloved uniforms. We all stood around for the next week or so on our designated practice days, wondering what we should do. Mondays became wind ensemble, Wednesdays became Winter Percussion, and Fridays were just hopeless. Guard took Tuesdays and Thursdays. Our marching band slowly disbanded into other after school activities. Some took on the play; others tried Guard, or Percussion. A few stuck around for our after school Wind Ensemble. We remembered the jokes, the friendships and how we all perfected our roll steps out in our beloved parking lot. I sat there looking at our snow covered parking lot, remembering all that we went through in that parking lot; the practices, the parade blocks, marching backwards into telephone poles. Marching Band had become my life, and I loved it.