A Band Geek's Uprising

Some of you saw us marching band members in the same light as Jim Rome does – and probably still do. If you weren’t out there in the summer heat practicing fully laden – instruments, flags, auxiliaries, etc. – or sloshing around on muddy high school and college fields every Friday night or Saturday, then you may need to read this. Even our athletes who played on Friday nights picked up their sticks and horns to fall into cadence! Keep in mind this upbraiding does not include the hours, I mean YEARS of practice time to perfect our craft in front of 7-10,000 people who largely cheered our labor. Those of you who loved us, supported us even in those dark hours (or in my case, sophomore year in high school – I wasn’t part of the Showband of Arkansas at Henderson), or shared in the bandsman’s struggles to practice or play with our victories in competition, this is for you.

Today's #SitYoAssDown award winner is @jimrome for this offensive nugget. I was a band geek once upon a time! pic.twitter.com/Cb2UT8UL6B

— A. Cedric Armstrong (@cedteaches) January 3, 2015

Why does the band dork insult still live in this day and age?

Far more of us were impacted by choosing an instrument as preteens and joining the marching band than could possibly step out on the gridiron. Why would the coaches want a then-runt (I barely weighed 100 lbs. in the eighth grade, when athletics seemed to matter more) who strained to hoist a water cooler when I could easily join an organization that valued my talents, heart, and effort? For me, playing the trumpet was twofold:  I would blow like the great jazz icon Louis Armstrong; and the State Farm Battle of the Bands between Grambling State and Southern University held annually in New Orleans the day after Thanksgiving. It would be years later when sadly, I finally acknowledged that my feet would not cooperate with the rest of my body. Yeah, I have no rhythm. That year, I honestly wanted to quit – and I think everybody knew it. How could the remaining six periods of the day go so well for me when first period was such a hellish experience? Admittedly it did erode my confidence. I could play all of the notes to their corresponding tempos sitting still or in the stands, yet when it came to moving and playing at the same time, there was an inexplicable disconnect with my feet and my mind. Could it have been a result of growing so quickly (seven inches one summer) that I had no control of the body regarding its direction? Any count, I felt the searing glares of every angry eye and heard every snide comment about and toward me every time we stopped practice. Did it sting? Yeah, but I made it through the year. In addition to the twenty pounds of homework I was already working through on a nightly basis, I had to march at home for half an hour to get to a place of not being such an embarrassment to the organization. Like Cathy and Elmo back in 1994, Jim Rome’s snarky comment in one to belittle the contributions band members bring to the table. It nearly worked then, but not now.

Being a band dork (Rome’s words, not mine) afforded me a number of advantages that would have been unrealized otherwise.

·         Travel. Everyone circled the road trip dates because they were the ones we were released early from class. In the old days of AAAA-Central, we were assured of shows in El Dorado, Mountain Home, and Rogers along with that dastardly town called Russellville and the Little Rock schools; if the football team qualified for the playoffs, there was always the possibility of hitting the highway to another city.

·         Camaraderie. Even then, I always walked to a different beat – ask my Day One brothers Justin or Brandon. Although all 150+ of us came from different worlds and past experiences, there was always someone to share conversation, homework, valve oil, slide grease, music folders (no mouthpieces – keep your own germs to yourself) with as well as the fun times and relationships away. If no one else legitimately had the hook-up at the Taco Bell on 3^rd and Oak streets in the mid-90s, I will tell you the Wampus Cat band did.

·         Discipline. To make the formations and have a successful season, marching band members needed to be disciplined. I don’t mean getting chewed out daily, but you knew your role to keep the show moving without a hitch. In our arena, that meant paying attention to not only the directors and drum majors, but also the person next to you; not doing so would leave you in the wrong position. If we were stuck behind the horses during the Christmas parade and their fresh manure, we trekked through it albeit very carefully; those uniforms have to go to the cleaners sometime. Why else would we spend seven or more years of our lives practicing for that great moment? To fall flat? Band members understand that there is no NFL for us after college – and for me, high school was my high-water moment musically – yet keeping a steely-eyed focus on our best effort is what we aimed for. Sidebar: Over 90% of our band maintained a 3.0 GPA my senior year in some very difficult courses and circumstances. How would a shock jock claim such brilliance?

·         Serious effin’ life skills. While some people became high school band directors, professional musicians, etc., being a band geek has led the majority of us to become far more aware of the world and eventually productive adults. While not being an “official” section leader, my intangibles over the years went way beyond where my two left feet would take me. For example, one of the greatest concepts I understood is to live in the moment yet be prepared to enjoy the fruits of the labor. During contests, you watched – if you were able – and even hooted for the competing band because you wanted that treatment reciprocated. Upon the sweetness of victory (we were first division all three years in All-Region and won the UAM Invitational in ’94) to the bitterness of defeat (not getting to repeat at Monticello the following year, and finishing after Mountain Home twice); keeping it all in perspective was the greatest takeaway for me. Even not retaliating against the racist Cabot fans who threw cigarette butts at us marked a character-defining moment that we would not back down from anyone.

Being a band dork, Mr. Rome, has shaped me into a pretty well-rounded, balanced gentleman. While I was never able to bench press my own weight or make Sportscenter-worthy bone-jarring hits, I would like to think the world was perhaps made a little bit better by an scrawny black trumpet player with two left feet hidden somewhere around the 30 yard line overcoming stage fright and shrugging derision from the bell of my horn.