RIVER CITY JOURNAL: MARCHING TO SAME DRUMBEAT MAKES FOR REAL WINNERS

Mr. English, the band director, was right when he said at least we should all go the same direction in the big parade.

Marching bands, as far as I'm concerned, are like every bowl of chili I've ever eaten: I never met one I didn't like.

Most folks go to parades to see all the floats and costumes. I go to hear the marching bands. I don't care if the bands are from great big schools or teeny tiny schools. I love 'em. I don't care if they have snappy uniforms or just white shirts and dark slacks. I love 'em. I don't care if they win lots of contests with precision drills or barely manage to stumble down a straight street. I love 'em.

I'll admit it is thrilling to see a well-trained band compete in a football stadium, combining music with a stunning visual display. Cape Central High School's marching band has been on a streak this year, winning all the top prizes in competitions.

And let me echo the words of at least one band parent who pointed out that band members train as strenuously as any athlete. When our older son was in a marching band, he was up before dawn every school day and most weekends with before-school practice. Then the band would practice during the regular band period. And then the band would practice after school.

Hard work? You bet! I've seen the sweat pouring off the bodies of strong, young band members who managed to play an instrument while keeping up with the intricate patterns of competitive maneuvers these days. No more marching in straight lines with square corners. Nowadays band formations are free-flowing works of art.

Back when I was in high school -- which, boys and girls, was a long time ago -- I managed to hold on to a chair at the bottom of the trumpet section from the eighth grade all the way through high school.

While every other section followed the same general pattern -- as youngsters grew taller, they moved up toward the first chair of their instrument's section -- I just grew taller. And taller. I was the skinny, tall kid who was satisfactorily anchored in the last chair of the trumpets.

By the way, I played a B-flat cornet, but don't worry about that.

My high school band was under the baton of the late, great Joe English. I've mentioned him before, about what a role model he was and how he instilled so many fine values and qualities in his music students in a small Ozark high school.

Mr. English put me in the band in the eighth grade because I had been taking piano lessons and knew how to read music. With the help of Eddie Richardson's older brother one summer, I managed to learn to play a squeaky scale on the cornet Mr. English convinced my folks was "just right for your boy's lips." What a salesman he was. Most youngster's lips usually turned out to be just right for whatever instrument Mr. English needed most in the band.

My high school band was not -- let me emphasize the not -- a marching band. We preferred to be known as a concert band, and we gave a darn good band concert every spring that was the musical event of the year for my favorite hometown. Of course, the boys, girls and mixed choruses were there too, and Mr. English gave the singers as much attention as the band.

Once when I was in high school the band was asked to march right down Main Street -- straight as an arrow -- for some big event. I don't even remember what it was. The parade was on Saturday. On Friday Mr. English took the band out on the grade-school playground during band period and told us we were going to learn to march.

I always knew Mr. English had a lot of faith in his band members, but until then I didn't realize he believed in miracles. As the hour progressed, it became clearer and clearer we weren't going to be a crack marching unit by 10 o'clock the next morning.

Finally, Mr. English gave us the best advice he could under the circumstances. "Will you all at least try to go the same direction?"

You know what? If I had been there on the sidelines that Saturday morning, I wouldn't have cared that the band only had one hour of marching instruction. I wouldn't have cared that most of the band couldn't walk and play music at the same time. I wouldn't have cared that most of the band members didn't own music holders -- and they sure as heck hadn't memorized what we were playing, except maybe for P.J. Newsome who was a real whiz when it came to music.

No siree. I would have clapped and yelled for the high school band, because the band members deserved all the support they could get for showing their faces in that situation.

And Mr. English? He marched alongside, right down Main Street, keeping in step the whole way. He might just as well have been marching with Sousa's gang. He couldn't have looked prouder of his bunch if he had tried.

There are hundreds of former band members from my favorite hometown who will always remember the confidence Mr. English had in our musical abilities -- and in us. I can't say that any of us became great musicians. But I think we all became better people.

As far as this old cornet player is concerned, that's not all bad.

~R. Joe Sullivan is the editor of the Southeast Missourian.