In high school, my “team” wasn’t a sport at all.
It was the marching band.
I played marching marimba, which is exactly as awkward to explain as it sounds. Picture a xylophone’s bigger, heavier cousin—about 55 pounds—strapped to your body while you march, turn, stop, start, and somehow play actual music. My back would like this officially entered into evidence. Explaining it to anyone outside band culture usually felt like giving a TED Talk no one asked for.
Quick—what’s the last song you heard with a marimba solo?
I’ll wait.
(If you’re stuck: Ed Sheeran’s “Shape of You.” And there’s also the one-hit wonder, “Moonlight Feels Right” by Starbuck. You’re welcome.)
But here’s the thing: the band was a sport, in every way that mattered. We rehearsed endlessly in the heat, traveled together, wore uniforms, competed, and performed live under bright lights with no margin for error. And we were literally placed next to sports—halftime shows during football games meant sharing the field, the pressure, and the expectations.
This wasn’t some casual after-school club, either. We were competitive—nationally competitive. During my first two years at Choctawhatchee High School in Fort Walton Beach, our band won our region of the Tropicana Music Bowl and qualified for nationals. In my senior year, after transferring to Riverview High School in Sarasota, we earned the honor of marching in President Reagan’s second inaugural parade. That’s not a sideline activity—that’s a team operating at an elite level, just with more choreography and significantly fewer shoulder pads.
Both bands even had their own distinctive uniforms. At Choctawhatchee, that meant homemade Indian headdresses—mine looked less “regal” and more like a dead chicken. At Riverview, it was full Scottish regalia, including a kilt. No explanation required—just team identity, taken seriously.
As I got older, my sports life shifted into more traditional territory. Baseball was clearly no longer an option, but softball filled that gap nicely. I played several seasons and loved it—the competition, the rhythm, the feeling of still being part of something. But adult sports come with adult problems, and teams have a way of disappearing when sponsorships dry up and logistics get complicated.
Looking back, the common thread isn’t whether there was a ball involved. It’s the team environment—the shared discipline, the collective goal, the quiet understanding that everyone has to do their part for it to work. Whether I was hauling an absurdly heavy marimba across a football field, chasing a fly ball in softball, or later standing on a sideline with a whistle, I’ve always gravitated toward sports—and sport-adjacent worlds—that tell stories and build community.
Sometimes the uniform is pads and cleats.
Sometimes it’s a band jacket and a harness.
And sometimes it requires explaining, for the thousandth time, that yes…
it really was heavy.
Copyright © 2026 Doug DeBolt.
