The Ballad of an 80s Band Kid
Hours spent rehearsing under a relentless sun,
the asphalt shimmering like an antechamber to hell,
searing its presence into every footstep.
We learned how to truly breathe—
through furious 32nd-note runs in 2/4 time at a frantic 120 beats per minute—
without once losing track of which foot went forward first.
Relentlessly, we chased perfection:
our designated dot on the field, the geometry of our drill, and every diagonal.
Shoulders squared. Instruments held high.
Intervals? Exact.
Formations? Impeccable.
Field coverage? Flawless.
Even if the stands emptied before the first note—
concession lines calling their name—
we carried on.
Because we didn’t play for them.
We played for the electric jolt of getting it right,
for that moment of glorious synchronicity,
when the entire ensemble moved like thunder across the 50-yard line.
Competition Days
We rose before dawn—still smudged with yesterday’s eyeliner—
to coax one more run-through out of exhausted lungs and tired legs.
Hours on a school bus just to perform for fifteen minutes,
surrounded by the lingering smell of last night’s football gear:
that unmistakable fusion of mildew and testosterone
lodging itself in our sinuses for the foreseeable future.
We discovered, often too late, that marching band is a contact sport.
The Uniform (Ugh)
High-waisted wool pants clinging like a corset of shame,
poly-blend jackets trapping heat—and every second thought.
And the shako—that absurd marching cap
turning us all into towering, uncertain Q-tips.
Yet we wore it with defiant pride.
We had earned our ugly.
A Caffeine-Fueled Machine
We were no mere background noise.
We were a finely tuned, slightly frenzied machine.
Driven by blisters, caffeine, junk food, and an unbreakable resolve.
In marching band, there’s no second string.
There’s no substitute to tap in when you’re worn down.
The show must—and does—go on.
Nine Minutes of Magic
Halftime or no time, rain or shine.
Tens of thousands of dollars in show design, distilled into nine minutes.
Nine minutes that demanded everything we had.
It was the electricity of stadium lights,
the collective inhalation before the opening downbeat.
Sunburned and sprained, we pressed forward—
because we knew the alchemy that happened when it all came together.
It was magic.
After the Music
These days, we rarely connect—
maybe a stray birthday wish or a halfhearted emoji on social media.
But when weddings, funerals, or reunions pull us together,
we slip seamlessly back into formation,
recalling the laughter, the frantic count-offs, the adrenaline,
and that profound sense of belonging.
What Marching Band Really Built
We didn’t just make music; we forged identities.
Marching band took the awkward, the anxious, the misfits—
and gave us a place to be seen, challenged, and proud.
We learned:
- How to show up when no one is watching.
- How to lead without applause.
- How to persevere for something greater than ourselves.
“Practice doesn’t make perfect. It makes possible.”
And sometimes, the moments that shape you the most
happen in a suffocating uniform
on a field forever etched in memory,
alongside the people who taught your heart how to keep time.
Tag Your Band Family
If you know, you know.
Call out your section.
Send this to the friend who never hit their mark.
Let them know: we remember the show—always.