We reach the busses. The great yellow boxes of memories sit unknowing, but they are as much a part of our existence as our instruments. The director smiles from her perch on the bus hood. The words are enthusiastic. Our joy is unparalleled by any other.
Enemies embrace as brothers.
We realize that we were alone with only each other on the field, and the opinion of one who was not with us does not matter. There is no better feeling than that of a job well done and no greater treasure than these memories made along the way.