A Turning Point Story
This is for all you jocks, coach dads, and soccer moms out there who never were in the band or had a kid in one. Other than my year of football futility, the primary point of my non-academic energy was spent in the band. And during football season, I got to wear the fuzzy hat. Yep, I was the drum major – the band’s field director during my junior and senior year.
The high point of marching season was traveling to either the Florida or Mississippi coast to participate in a regional band contest. Can you imagine the energy, the excitement that fills a stadium when more than 30 bands gather and perform, with no football team in sight for miles? Unlike football games, where half the crowd heads for the concession stands, at a contest people in the stands cheer loudly for every slick move, every powerful burst through the line. And did I mention that there isn’t a football team in sight?
It was cool.
When you go to a contest, you’ve practiced for weeks to perfect a show. Everybody gets a rating, from one to four. One is superior, and you get a trophy. Four means don’t come back next year. Two or three means nice try – maybe you can do better next time. And not only does the band get a rating, so does the drum major, the color guard, the auxiliaries, and the drum corps.
My junior year, we went to Fort Walton Beach, Florida, to a contest hosted by the Choctawhatchee High School Big Green Indians. There may be schools richer in tradition, but we were in awe with what we saw. They weren’t just a band – they were Stylemarchers. Huge. Loud. Each wore his own hand-made headdress. And could they ever march. Spread out, they covered an entire football field. Had their own fight song, too.
Holey moley! It’s a Big Green Indian!
Tell me, brother, have you seen him run?
Holey moley! it’s a Big Green Indian.
You can’t stop him with a rope, knife, or gun.
No, you can’t stop him with a rope, knife, or gun.
The climax of the evening came when all the bands had played. The Stylemarchers then came and put on a show-for-fun while the judges tabulated their results. Then representatives from each band came out and stood on the hash marks while the stadium announcer read each band’s ratings. If you got a one, you got a trophy. Anything else, you went home empty-handed.
Here it came: “W.P. Davidson High School, Mobile Alabama. Drum Major, Two.”
The band got a one. They rocked the stadium behind us. We all went up together to get the band’s trophy.
I got a two.
Everybody else was nice, and said all the right things. “Andy, you should have gotten a one.” Easy for them to say. They got a one. I got a two. I was disappointed.
We headed back to the buses. Five of them, I think, it took to get us all there. My sister and I shared a hanging bag, so I suggested she go ahead and change, and I told her I would wait.
So I waited. And waited. And waited and waited and waited. It was hot, and humid, and my uniform, which was already really heavy, probably weighed another 25 pounds. Everybody else had come back to the buses, but I didn’t see her anywhere.
Finally, on a whim, I checked her bus, and there she was - seated, clothed, and in her right mind. And there I stood, in my hot, heavy, sweaty, stinking, two-rated uniform.
“Where’s the hanging bag?” I asked, perturbed.
“It’s under the bus.” she replied, as if I should know that.
Only eternity can recall what came out of my mouth next. There before God and a fifth of the band, I let fly a tirade. I hollered. I cussed. I screamed. I made jaws drop. I made her feel really bad.
I happened to be dating a very godly girl at the time, who was standing there watching all this happen. I can still point to the place on my arm where Mary touched it and said, very gently, but very firmly: “If you’re a Christian, show it now.”
Have you ever poured cold water on a hot fire?
I just hissed and wilted as all that pent up steam just went away. I trudged alone to change. And think.
It wasn’t about a hanging bag, or the inconvenience of having to wait. It was about deferred responsibility. I made a two and was disappointed. I took it out on Deb. I humiliated and embarrassed her, and made an ass of myself by blaming her for my disappointment.
If you’re a Christian, show it now.
I know what it’s like to have financial pressure, when there’s too much month at the end of the money. But don’t take it out on your kids.
I understand what it’s like to face job stress, and the constant nagging feeling that whatever you do is never quite good enough. But don’t take it out on your spouse.
I know people who are headed for an unemployment line, pointing their finger the whole way. I have seen homes and families splintered, and it’s always somebody else’s fault. Wake up! If your relationship to Jesus hasn’t given you a way to deal with failure, or stress, or disappointment, then your relationship to Jesus hasn’t done much for you. If you’re a Christian, show it now.
The next year we went to contest on the Mississippi coast. The band made a one. I made a two. But I took responsibility for my own disappointments.
I took my own hanging bag, too.
(Oh, and those Stylemarchers? They’re still knockin’ it out, after all these years. Three-time state champions in the last four years.)