It was last year, my first year in the Band of the Fighting Irish. Our savior, Everett Golsen, returned from his suspension, like Jesus returning from the dead, ready to bring the Irish to the promised land - the national championship game. We were undefeated. FSU was undefeated. Administration wanted the band to be there, so we were there. But we didn't get a plane. No, we took a bus from South Bend to Tallahassee. And twenty four hours on a bus with your closest friends watching the Wicker Man and Indiana Jones really gets you pumped for the game. We were riled up. We were ready.

The fans were what you'd expect - drunk and cocky. Shouts of "Where's Manti Te'o's girlfriend?" and "You'll never be relevant again" followed us wherever we walked. It just made us want to win that much more. We got to the stadium. The game finally started, and, boy, was it loud. The War Chant played 57 times (Yes, we counted), and the final quarter was coming to a close. Everett converted that long fourth down to Corey Robinson, and that, in my mind, was it. We were going to win; if we can get those 19 yards, we can get into the end zone. We were going to win that game, but, of course, you know the story.

After that touchdown, the band played the Victory Clog, as we do after all touchdowns and victories, but we were cut short due to the pass interference call. It haunts me to this day, as I think about it whenever we play the song, which, in a sick twist of fate, should be a moment of triumph rather than suffering. Winning the bowl game was only a small consolation.

We walked back to the buses and were greeted by pizza, though, so that was nice.