The first time my band director, the nicest of the two, gave me the “You’re not ready yet” speech was late on the final day of band camp, when we were to perform the show for our parents. As we celebrated the conclusion of band camp with ice cream sandwiches and cans of Pepsi, the man approached me, and immediately I was terrified. He pulled me away from my friends, and sat me down on the bleachers.

“I know you’ve been working very, very hard this week, but unfortunately you haven’t improved as quickly as we would’ve hoped,” he told me. I wasn’t fazed. I knew I wasn’t very good at marching. “You don’t know all your dots yet, do you?” I shook my head. I remembered movement four – Heavy Metal, my favorite – and that was only because we’d learned it yesterday. Movement one was now gone from my memory, I recalled movement two as no more than a twelve-set follow-the-leader, and the slow, strenuous backwards marching of movement three was all that I remembered of it. He was right. “Unfortunately, you won’t be able to march tonight for the parents.” I’d already given up this opportunity to my alternate, who, ironically, shared the same name as I. “You’re improving, but you’re just not ready yet.” The statement stung that time. I liked it more when not marching that evening was my idea, when I willingly relinquished my dot. I nodded. “Stand at the sideline next to the pit, like you do when you’re not on the dot. But don’t mark time; just stand at parade rest. Look professional.” So I did. I stood at the sideline, my feet shoulder-width apart, back straight, hands folded tightly over the trumpet, clutching it to my stomach. The director told me I did well, and even though I didn’t march that night, I beamed with pride. He promised me I would be ready to march at the first football game in three weeks.

I wasn’t ready in three weeks. I knew it before he asked to see me privately following Thursday drill. I was getting better. I had a better grasp of the movements than I had previously, and though I didn’t have the exact coordinates memorized, I could explain the relative location of each. What troubled me was the marching aspect. He gave me practically the same speech, word for word, as he had three weeks earlier, and again assured me that I was getting there. As I left, the trumpet section instructor patted me on the shoulder and told me he was proud of me. I wasn’t upset this time. I saw it coming a mile away. Ironically, for better or for worse, that first game was rained out. We spent six hours on a bus in the parking lot of Edison High School rather than blasting band stand music from the bleachers.

Next week, I felt ready. For the first time since band camp, I knew exactly where I was going at all times. I nailed the visuals (Even that cheesy one in Cool Metal) and, at least while forward marching, I was always in time. On Thursday evening, at back to school night, I asked him if I was going to get to march the next day. I already was sure of his answer, and I was eager to actually hear him say it. Nothing could’ve prepared me for what he said.

“No.” That was it. Plain, simple, blunt. No “You’re getting there” speech. He proceeded to tell me that I hadn’t improved at all since band camp, and that we needed to schedule a meeting to discuss this. Stunned, overwhelmed, I hurried out of the band room, my jaw hung open. When I returned home, I locked myself in my room and sat there, staring at the walls silently. All that talk of my improvement was no more than a lie, fabricated to make me feel better about myself. Instead of telling me my ability remained stagnant, so I knew I had to work harder, he lied. Over and over again. He’d been lying for the past month and a half. I hated that I wasn’t improving, I hated that he didn’t tell me that, and I hated that I (delusionally) thought I was.

Needless to say, I did not march the next night. We arrived late to the football game and missed our pre-game show. At least I got to experience the thrill of the band stand, and I immediately fell in love with it, as I had all other aspects of marching band. Even though the upper-classmen around me found it amusing to use my helmet like a drum, and I lost my hearing to the trombone section, it was one of the greatest nights of my life.

It was also my final football game. We had the meeting the following Tuesday. It was odd. We just sat in their office, on the same fold-up chairs I sit on in concert band. Both directors were present. The tone of the meeting was coarse, to the point. The more intimidating of the two started.

“Unfortunately, you just haven’t improved to a satisfactory level yet. We can’t have you on the field. You’re a danger to every other kid out there,” he stated. “You understand that, right?” I nodded automatically, terrified of what the meeting had in store for me. Much of the meeting passed exactly like that sentence. They would say I wasn’t good enough, explain away why I couldn’t march, and ask if I understood. And then, finally, the nicer one said:

“Scott, you have to understand, this is your fault.” I stared down at the floor, and covered my mouth with my palm so they couldn’t see me glare at them.

“How is it my fault?” I asked, innocently enough. He didn’t even have to contemplate the question. He answered immediately.

“You didn’t try hard enough.” So helpful.

“But, how? What did I do wrong – or what didn’t I do?”

“You didn’t focus. You didn’t pay attention. You didn’t follow directions,” he stated. I gripped my water bottle tighter, until my knuckles turned white. Not being able to pay attention isn’t something I could help. I’d suspected I had ADHD for almost a year then. Unfortunately, I wasn’t actually diagnosed until afterward.

I didn’t say anything more. It wasn’t worth it. I wasn’t going to convince them that, perhaps, the fact that I spent half of my time on the sideline, without any form of compensatory help, was why I was behind. I wasn’t going to convince them that they should’ve provided extra help, like they promised they would, and like they did last year when there were fourteen alternates.

“Basically, your choice is, stay or quit. Just know you’ll never get to march at a game or competition this year,” they finally concluded. It was a hard decision. I wanted to stay so badly. I wanted to prove them wrong. As they left, the nicer one added: “I would’ve quit if I were in this position.” I bit my lip to keep from shouting obscenities at him. I was, effectively, being thrown out of a non-exclusive marching band. They offered to give me the next day off from drill, if I needed it.

I wasn’t sure I was going to attend drill the next day after school even after the bell rung. I tasked my friend, a sophomore, to convince me to stay as I walked to my locker to get my sneakers. By the time I was done, he had convinced me of nothing, and my bus had already left, so I was forced to stay. Before I could even enter the room, one of the band directors confronted me, asked if I had made a decision.

“No,” I admitted. “I wasn’t even sure if I was going to come today.” With a nod, he ushered me into the band room, and I gathered my things and headed outside with the rest of the band.

I spent the first five minutes of drill on the dot, my alternate shadowing behind me. At the directors’ request, he took to the dot and I shadowed him. That lasted for another ten minutes. Then they told me to stand on the sideline and mark time, and I did so for the entire remaining two hours of drill. By the time they told us drill was over, I had made a decision.

Perhaps it was a bit rash, a bit out of frustration from being forced to stand on the sideline the entire time, but I was eager to give the directors my opinion. I packed my trumpet away, grabbed a late bus pass, and made my way to the only available director, the nicer one, the one that taught concert band and I would have to endure for the entire year.

“Yes?” he asked as I approached him.


“I’ve made a decision,” I said. “I quit. I’m no longer being given the chance to improve.” It felt good, having said it, strongly and securely. I quit.

“Okay,” he said.

“I’d be willing to attend Friday’s game and the festival on Satur—”

“No. You quit. You’re done.”

“Alright. You clearly don’t want me, so I don’t want you.” As I turned around and walked (Or, rather pathetically, roll stepped) away, he called after me:

“Stay in band!” As if I had a choice. I was stuck with concert band for the rest of the year; it was a class. Or was I? It was still early in the year. I asked my counselor if I could opt into a different class.

I only remain in concert band now because they didn’t offer public speaking at the same time as band, and I didn’t wish to rearrange my schedule. And I must say I’m glad it turned out that way. I nearly allowed them to end my musical career for me.

It later occurred to me that we play original shows every year. Shows that are tailor-made for the number of kids in band each year. There were a lot of alternates last year because they played an unoriginal show that year. Which clearly means that somehow, my alternate, who didn’t show up for a single Tuesday rehearsal all summer and magically appeared at band camp, signed up wrong or signed up late. And instead of turning him down, telling him to try it next year, I lost my freshman year of marching band to him. Which is funny, really, because he’s said that he won’t do it again next year.

But that’s alright. I’ll try again next year. As much as I whine that it won’t be the same, that I’ll have my first time at Metlife stadium and my first home game, but never my freshman time at Metlife and my freshman home game, it will be the same. It’ll be just as magical, only it’ll mean so much more to me. It’ll be better. I’ll try again next year. I’ll do better next year. And even if I don’t, I’ll keep trying. Even if I don’t get to march until I’m a senior. They got me to quit once, but I’ll be damned if they get me to quit again.