The air was hot and heavy as it is in all Julys and the folks who came hear us were of a fashion of their own.
Sweaty palms with white knuckles abound.
Others had played, come and gone
Now it was our chance to show what we were made of.
The opening was bright almost gleeful in a way but soon gave into darkness as we all realized the matter of the task before us.
The timpanis sounded. The brass blew loud and strong.
And I with my cello was trying to be heard, but to no avail.
The off-stage crew worked hard to bring the moment to its height.
Smoke and thunder filled the stage as it did quake below our feet. And I played on furiously, knowing no one would hear.
The strings sung out a shriek yet inspiring call. The brass rallied the force behind it all.
When it was over the sections all took a bow.
The brass, woodwinds, percussions and strings all stood and received the acclaim they deserved. But few will relate to the difficulty of trying to play the bottom of the ninth.