I watched the marching band form patterns and spell out words during halftime.
Oh, I wanted to be in the marching band so much, but I couldn’t play a musical instrument. Nor could I twirl a baton worth a damn.
“Play the triangle,” suggested my mother.
So, I did. And I tried out for band.
Along with every other kid who couldn’t play an instrument worth a damn. Which was every other kid.
We were a marching band that consisted solely of triangles.
By the end of the football season, everyone was either deaf or had severe ringing in their ears.