FIGS COMMUNICATIONS

The first time he heard the band play,
he wanted to join in the march.
He knew he could visit anytime
and walk the grounds that beckoned
his small feet to celebrate the tradition
that never graduates.

When he’s there, he’s Irish.
Pictures will do it little justice,
at least that’s what he says.
You have to be there.
His mind is set on where
he’ll be eight years from now.

“Practice does NOT make perfect”
you’ll hear him mumble,
“PERFECT practice makes perfect.”
With that, he’ll resume,
the melody blasting twice
more from the trumpet.
He’ll march sooner
than he realizes.

Then he’s there, his eyes
on the battlefield watching
the tiny figures shed
sweat and blood
of blue and gold.
Voices like thunder
from the student section.
Booming. Echoing.
Overwhelming emotion
strikes like lightning.

Abrupt rhythm of the tuba
in sync with his heartbeat.
They all held their breaths;
drumsticks pointed
to Jesus in the end zone.
Brass glistened as the sun
peeked from behind
the autumn clouds.

He took it all in,
his senses heightened.
He looked up at the musicians,
both aware and completely
unaware of the hard work
ahead of him on the road
to being in the greatest
collegiate band.

Victory March.
Four-hour drive home
from the place he’d soon
call home for four years.
Even now, far from the place,
when he closes his eyes
he can see the sun creating
an aura about her figure,
standing proud atop
her throne: The Golden Dome.
She is his guide.

It’s at this moment that his
goal appeared as an HD
surround-sound film:
the picture sharp and clear,
the music engulfing him.
He’d follow in his father’s
footsteps singing,
“And our hearts forever
love thee Notre Dame.”