The time of year has come again in the part of the world where I live for high school football. To be fair, the past couple of weeks have seen scrimmage games in my area, the local schools playing games to test themselves but not worry (so much) about season standings, but scrimmages do not get a whole lot of attention. The accoutrements that go along with high school games–the cheerleaders, the bands, and the stands filled with those groups’ parents and much of the broader community–are not on display for what amount to extended practices, although there are certainly some die-hards who attend them and watch as new players start to settle into their roles and teams begin to see how they function when they’re not playing against their own teammates.

Photo by John Sullivan on Pexels.com
This week, at least here where I live, is the start of the regular football season. My local high school has an away game, and I’ll be attending it; the band program, of which I am a proponent and for which I do some boosting, has asked me to announce them at halftime once again, and I am pleased to do so. It’s a privilege to be asked, and to be asked again; it’s a privilege, too, to have the kind of flexibility of schedule as allows me to say “yes” to the request. I’m mindful of those privileges, mindful that they need not be mine, and I am mindful, too, that I have the opportunity to do some other good for the kids in the band than calling out over the loudspeaker that they are taking the field.
Last year, when I volunteered with the program, I did a fair bit to help the woodwinds in the stands. Reeds needed trimmed and replaced, keys and linkages needed adjustments and repairs, and tuning needed doing–all of which I was happy to help address. And, because the directors asked me to do it, I looked with such eyes as I have at how the students performed on and off of the field, making notes that I think were of some help to the program. They were able to pull off a superior performance at regional contest and gave a good showing at area (the next level up, for those not conversant in Texas marching band competitions), and I flatter myself that I had some small hand in it. Certainly I cheered for them as they entered and left the field, and I congratulated them when announcements came of how they fared.
Even if they didn’t advance, they gave a good showing, and that’s something of which to be proud.
I watch the games, themselves, of course. If nothing else, I know that how the local team does will be the subject of a great many conversations in town, and I do need to be able to talk to people hereabouts. But I am not at the game for the game; I’m there because I believe in the band program, and not only because my daughter is in it and looks forward to her own marching band days. I’m one of the many for whom band was a bright spot; I’m one of the many who has delighted in having a horn in hand, sitting among others and winding it to the joy of ourselves and others. I’m one of the many who has seen greatness emerge from behind flip-folders, and I want to see more of it happen in the world around me.
I do not think I can be faulted for it.
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