Personal Narrative: Solo Competition

Hundreds of people crowd me, making it feel as if I can’t breathe. I can feel their nerves, through every page turn and warm up sound. Every note, hits me like a dagger. Every sound produced ricochets off the walls and slaps me in the face. My ears cringe with the sound of colliding notes and rhythms. The smell of valve oil and cork grease makes me feel like I need to throw up, but to find nothing will come out. People dressed in black make me feel as if I am attending my own funeral. Solo competition will be the death of me. I arrive at seven in the morning. Hearing people practice their solos on trombones, clarinets, and drums makes my whole body tense up and shake. My solo isn’t for another eight hours and my heart 's already pounding from the neverending feeling of the notes attacking me. My stomach is in my throat, while beads of sweat slowly make a stream down my face. Every tear down my face feels like a

My nerves departed me, and I was ready to show him what I have. I was born to be a tuba player, and most importantly, I deserve to be here and I deserve the highest ranking. As I begin, I evaluate the judge, and notice him writing every breath I take, every move I make, and every sound that flows evenly of my enormous brass machine. Every sound was perfect, and every rhythm was right where it needed to be. Everything was going perfect, until he said stop. At that moment I wanted to curl up in a ball and cry because I didn’t want to lose points for having too long of a

Knowing that, I was relaxed enough to answer his questions he had for me.
I left the area without knowing my final score, but I was lighthearted about the way I played. This experience is one that I will never forget. Next year I will face the wrath of solo competition once more. And like I did this year, I will show it who 's