Band Aid

The August sun beat down unmercifully as I marched and played. The humidity had to be close to 100% and I felt a little sick. A faint rumbling from the west heralded the afternoon South Florida thunderstorms, which rolled in from the Everglades around 3:00 pm.

Suddenly, the hated squawk of Mr. Banim’s bullhorn interrupted things.

He pushed the button from alarm to talk. “No, no, no!” He yelled in irritation. “Low brass, you’re still playing too slowly! And woodwinds! How many times do we need to go over this?? Back to the sidelines.”

All 96 members of the Boca High marching band slumped their shoulders in defeat. We’d lost track of how many times we’d done this same dumb song, and there were two others after it. Up in the shade of the press box, Mr. Banim reclined on his elbows in the bleachers with his bullhorn. 

It was gonna be a long afternoon.

It was my freshman year and I was in the Bobcat marching band. In addition to kids playing instruments, we had girls waving flags, twirling rifles, shaking pompoms, and carrying wooden shields with letters that spelled out Boca Raton. A practice session…usually two hours… was a complex affair. 

The players were organized into squads of four kids, each kid playing the same instrument. Upperclassmen were squad leaders and responsible for making sure their team knew the routine and the music. Our squad leader was a charmer named Donald Lemons.

At our first practice, he had us line up at attention. He was a short guy with a big ego, and his dad was a wealthy mucky muck on the city council. He walked up and down the line, looking at us critically.

“I’m Donald Lemons,” he said loudly. “I’ll be your squad leader. You will listen to me and follow my orders.” He looked at the other side of field where Mr. Banim was reviewing some choreography stuff with his assistant. He lowered his voice.

“Now you step outta line, and Mr. Banim will give you a demerit. You’ll have to do extra marching. But I have my OWN system.” He paused for effect. “You step outta line with me, and you know what you’ll get?” We shook our heads and he looked over his shoulder again. Then he frog punched my friend Kevin on his bicep.

“Oww!” Kevin said, rubbing his arm and looking angry. I jumped to Kevin’s defense. “Hey!” I said. “You can’t—Oww!” as I got the same thing. Kevin and I, friends since fourth grade, looked at each other. Who does this $@#% think he is?

Every practice brought fresh misery, either from the weather, Donald Lemons, or Mr. Banim and his bullhorn. The slightest infraction would bring more frog punches: Not knowing the song. Not marching properly. Not lining up straight. Or just because Donald felt like it.

The first game of the season arrived; it was a home game, and we had our music and marching pretty well down. However, a new agony awaited: The pre-game inspection by Mr. Banim.

In a cloak room were over a hundred heavy wool marching jackets in every size from S to XXL. They were stiff and smelly from being worn by kids who probably graduated a generation before us. We put them on and lined up on the west side of the building in straight rows.

The sun had baked the west brick wall of the band room all afternoon and now… with temperatures and humidity in the high 90s…the wall re-radiated that heat in our faces. Within seconds, I was swimming in sweat inside my uniform as Mr. Banim slowly walked up and down the rows like a Company Commander. A few kids got sick. Mr. Banim was finally satisfied and we began marching in formation to the football stadium, accompanied by a drum cadence. 

It was fun watching my first high school game surrounded by over 200 other band kids. Halfway through the second quarter, we assembled on the far side of the field for the halftime show. 

Donald looked at us menacingly and gave us a final bit of encouragement. “Any of you guys f— up and I’ll make it up to you later.” He showed us a fist with the middle knuckle extended, then waved it in our faces. Lovely.

The show went well, and afterwards we loosened our uniforms in relief. The band officers… one of whom was Donald…stayed on the sidelines to greet the band officers from the other school. Donald handed me his trumpet. “Here, hold this,” he ordered.

During practice, he used a standard brass trumpet, but tonight he used his good one. It was beautiful; silver, gleaming, an expensive brand. And even though we all wore white gloves, I noticed him polishing it almost nonstop before the show. He held up the frog punch fist. Yep, got it. 

I carefully climbed back into the stands with both my trumpet and his. I felt like I was carrying nitroglycerin. I carefully took my seat near the top of the stands, sitting with his stupid trumpet in my lap. The other kids horsed around a little. Two kids over, someone shoved Kevin, who roughly banged into me. Donald’s trumpet fell.

It hit the metal foot rest, denting the bell. Then it fell backwards, under the stands.

I watched it with a strange detached interest; Nah, this isn’t really happening. As it fell through the maze of steel bracing, it tumbled end over end, this way, then that. It fell randomly, like a ball in a pachinko machine, each impact making a dull clanging sound. Finally, it landed on the sand under the bleachers.

I looked at Kevin. His eyes were wide. Without a word, we both climbed down to assess the damage. Maybe it wasn’t that bad.

It was that bad. Worse. There wasn’t a part of it that wasn’t scratched, dented or bent. Kevin took it and tried to depress the keys. They had sand in them and went down with difficulty, making a gritty sound. He looked at me in horror. We both climbed back up through the metal bracing with the trumpet.

Donald walked up into the stands, grinning; apparently his meet and greet with his peers went well. He was still smiling when he worked his way down our row. I handed him his trumpet and tried to read his expression. There were so many flashes of so many emotions, it was impossible. He finally settled on disbelief. 

He looked at me as though I was playing a joke, as though some other white-gloved band kid was holding his instrument and this dented, sandy piece of twisted rubbish was something I had made just to tease him. When he realized it wasn’t, his face became dark, dangerous. He looked at me though slitted eyes. “You… are… so … dead,” he slowly intoned.

During the second half, as we played fight songs, he just sat there. He tried to play the first one, but quickly realized the absurdity. He couldn’t even blow through it. As he sat there with his ruined trumpet in his lap, I felt the heat coming off him like the brick wall during inspection.

In the following weeks, he vented his spleen on me. I was black and blue on my arms, my neck, my back. On away games, he sat behind me in the bus, giving me continual, painful flicks on the ear and head. He told Mr. Banim that I wasn’t marching or playing right, who glared at me. I had to march off demerits.

Kevin and my other friends, seeing the prudence in avoiding Donald, kept their distance. I was a pariah, a leper, shunned and bullied. No Country for Kids Who Cross Donald Lemons.

Three years later, Kevin and I were both Seniors and squad leaders. Our squads were like puppies: awkward, excited, clueless. 

I went over to Kevin and shook the frog fist in his face and we both laughed. The freshmen looked at us with confusion and at each other with anxiety. They probably assumed the worst: Uh oh.

But they needn’t have worried; Kevin and I sat them down on the chalky field and explained it all to them. We payed it forward that Fall and gave them kindness and help instead of frog punches.

I only hope when their turn came, they did, too 🙂