Drill Team Dance
Tasseled boots land (almost) precisely on five-yard lines. With eight (somewhat) equal steps per five-yard line, we march down the football field in time with the drum cadence. Knees bob and gloved hands rhythmically sway with the beat as flag staffs rest in sharply crooked elbows and poms shimmer on hips. As drummers execute a final flourish, the drum major snaps both audience and band to attention. It’s another Friday night under the lights as the marching band half-time show is about to begin.
Such was the academic ritual of autumn.
Unlike our well-seasoned rivals across town, our brand new high school didn’t disappoint in our paucity of marching talent. Our haggard esprit de corp was led by a man who appeared an already elderly descendant of John Phillips Sousa. Attempting to span a few generation gaps, our director was determined to put a new show band on the city scene despite our seemingly lackluster talent and non-nonexistent marching skills. “Tryouts” were a misnomer: if you could fog a mirror, you were IN.
High school Fridays in the fall were therefore punctuated by illuminated fields, the anxious optimism of executing a halfway decent performance, and the ensuing headache in assisting a few wayward souls to reliably count to eight. I took this all too seriously. Someone had to lead the Ladies of the Field. I was up for the task — boots, naïveté, and all. And, since no good deed goes unpunished, I was crowned “captain.”
After all, what could possibly go wrong?
In essence, everything.
Our band sounded weak. Our flags and poms were scatterplots of effort as opposed to synchronized action. Many of the girls were more interested in impressing their friends than performing in unison. And while most of us were indeed committed to executing a solid routine, there were those who lacked rhythm of any sort.
Still, each halftime held the promise of a few more coordinated steps, flag twirls, and pom shakes. Despite a grueling schedule, we did not yield. We persevered. And despite the setbacks and humiliation, by basketball season, we exhibited some semblance of cohesion and a smattering of real pride.
It would be easy enough to attribute this new sense of accomplishment and unity to the gift of air conditioning inside the gym. And while the AC was a welcomed alternative to the humidity of an outdoor Florida fall, it was our season-spanning time as a group that allowed us to untangle the knots of temperament and talent.
Those frustrating early days were not all for naught.
Bold stadium lights illuminate strong personalities along with their missteps. As such, interpersonal and leadership skills, as well as dance moves, were unforgivingly on display and remarkably honed throughout the season. Most importantly, my would-be husband was the lucky sot sporting the long staff and high drum major hat leading that first field of misfits down the gridiron. Far from being an item at the time, it was our musical connection that would eventually seal our serendipitous fate as a couple in years to come.
Coming across those old boots with their homemade tassels, the white gloves, and brilliant metallic poms, brought a warm trip down memory lane and a smile to my face. To this day, every time I hear a drum line, I yearn to fall in step with those on the field. With a daughter studying at a Big Ten university, and the gift of technology, YouTube satisfies my itch to live vicariously through every musical measure and calibrated step of meticulously crafted routines. It’s a guilty pleasure, and one that represents a large part of my formative teenage years.
I still dance, just not in drill team boots. And those poms? Well, they swing a bit lower each passing year. My vintage paraphernalia have been humorous fodder for my daughters during their occasional “80s Night” gatherings. Despite their peals of laughter, I have politely informed them that I had it ALL GOIN’ ON at the time, complete with aviator shades and varsity letter sweater bedazzled with chenille and brass adornments of accomplishment. Their skepticism was replaced with smug pride when their peers commented on the accuracy of their “costumes.” Go figure.
While I have gotten rid of many possessions over the years, I have been unable to part with this well-worn footwear and fluffy bling. They still tug at my heartstrings. Their sparkle still lights me up. Indeed, there will come a time when we part ways, but not yet. These artifacts echo the joy of camaraderie, combined perseverance in putting our best feet forward, and the pride that came with hard work and a job (eventually) well done. And despite what we may have looked like on the field, at least we crushed it in the yearbook pictures!
