Battin High School - Red and White Yearbook (Elizabeth, NJ)

Page 28 text:

1. Qs., It was the day we had all been waiting for and working for. We would have our chance. One chance, that was all. It was the day of the try-outs for the All-State Band. I made my way through the crowds of anxious high school students to the desk with the neatly printed sign saying: Flutes, Oboesg Bass, Alto, and E flat Clarinets. I received my score sheet and number. I would be the fourteenth Hutist to try out. Oh, how could I wait that long? In the warm-up room, I saw many familiar faces. Dot, Carol, Iohnny, and I had been the flute section in the 1949 All-State Orchestra. I shall never forget Iohnny's piccolo solo and his expert flute playing. I had often wondered how I had captured third seat, while he was only fourth. Now we were each trying for a place again in the All-State Band. I could scarcely hear myself play, let alone think, in the warm-up room. All candidates, as we were impersonally called, were nervously replaying the scales and solos that we had practiced daily for the past months in preparation for this momentous day. Iohnny looked at me. I smiled, but he was intent on his music. I saw in his pocket the same solo that I was to play and knew then that he had made the same selection. A few scales later, I crossed the room and aslgd, Are you playing Mozart's Second Concerto, too? His mouth widened into a grin as he said he was. ' I waited outside in the hall. An atmosphere of anxiety enveloped us all. We experienced nervous giggles, icy Engers, and depressing feelings. I drew closer to the door to listen. johnny was inside, playing our concerto as I had never heard it played before. I felt good for him, but doubtful of myself. I wandered aimlessly down the corridor. At the corner, a boy with a stern, freckled face ordered me to my portion of the hall. He was obvi- ously proud of his responsible duty. I took my time in returning as the sparkling fountain was a temptation. I found Iohnny closing the door to the try-out room. His whole being, limp with fatigue, told his story. I saw the deep hurt in his eyes and drawn look on his face. He said only four words: I didn't make it.

Page 27 text:

f 1 r ' 4: 30 P.M. Pao 5: 30 4P.M. 7:00 P.M. ln 6:00 PM

Page 29 text:

I stood there, saying nothing, thinking of nothing I could say. He began to relate to me the events of his try-out. Twice they had made him play everything and then they said, You certainly need a lot more work on that instrument. He raised his eyes to mine, searching for the reason. My mouth was dry and all I could say was, Oh, Iohnny, I don't understand at all! He smiled a weak smile and walked stiffly down the hall. As I entered THAT ROOM, I looked from one judge to another. I cannot remember much about my try-out. I stood there, struggling my way through the solo. At least it was over! I came out, feeling defeated. Four hours later, they started to post the numbers of the flutes that had made it. Suddenly I somehow knew that mine would be there but Iohnny's would not. As mine was being written, I felt that his should be taking its place. A sense of great relief swept over me and I rushed to the registration desk to pay my membership fee. The man smiled at me, as if he knew how much I, and all of us, had gone through. I still couldn't believe I had made it! ' As I turned to leave, I saw Iohnny across the room, aimlessly watch- ing a bass-player packing his bull fiddle into its giant canvas cover. He came over to me. He smiled faintly. Congratulations! I'll have to be just the moral support of the flute section this time. I could not think of the right thing to say. I opened my mouth, closed hit, and then mumbled, Well, I'll be seeing you. I gathered up my belongings and headed hastily for the door. NANCY HOFFACKER, 'go ' MUSING Into a stream of water that was running down the drain, I just now pushed a small bug, no bigger than a fruit Hy. And then my thoughts went whirling, round and round like the water: If I were that bug, and my hand the hand of- fate, what then? How cruel we mortals be! JOAN ANDERSON, ' 50 27