The acidic taste of soda runs down my throat; it does nothing to soothe the hoarseness of my voice. The tape on my mallets is fraying, leaving sticky residue in the palm of my hand. The addicting scents of popcorn and candy waft through the air mixing with the saltiness of sweat. I hear the name of my small town being spelled out—chanted—to the tune of screams and whistles. The sea of blue and gold shifts—constantly moving—located directly behind the court of quickly moving, lithe bodies.
This is the last time I'll hear the whistle followed by a "1,2,3,UP!". This is the last time I'll flamboyantly cover my body in blue and gold. This is the last time I'll stagger up the cold, hard, bleachers under the weight of my drum. This is last time I'll feel exactly like this; this is last game I'll play at.