Finding Confidence in the Crowd

It was early September of my freshman year—marching band season pulsing through our Fridays, with stand tunes and half‑time shows bringing vintage energy: Magnum P.I., Tequila, and “Gimme Some Lovin’.”

I’d just switched back to tenor sax after a year on flute—just three or four weeks in. The tenor sat low, bold, blending with low brass to serve as our groove, anchoring songs like a bass guitar. The sound-filled stadiums. It pulsed beneath us.

Then—three games in—my senior, my mentor, dropped out of one show. Just like that, I was the only tenor sax player. Freshman with shaky bottom Cs, reclaiming footing note by note, now solo in the groove.

The trickiest song: Gimme Some Lovin’. A single, repetitive low C—staccato, steady—and if I didn’t hit it loud enough, the whole rhythm failed. He always masked my wobbles. Not this time.

Bus ride to the stadium: my stomach roiled. Low brass buds surrounded me with cheer, even while I masked trembling pride. Top bleachers, lights ablaze—the weight of it all settled in. Trembling, but not alone.

Then—game lit, breathing in the crowd—and the call. The band director cued us in. Drum major counted off. I inhaled, pressed my note into breath and fear—and it held. Imperfect, repeated, but it rang steady. I was doing it.

Afterward: smiles, slaps on the back, whispered “You did it.” There it was, that moment of truth: courage carried by collective belief, not by perfect performance, but by the hum of belonging.

The music department became my sanctuary. We wove our individual notes into something braver together—joyful, messy, steadfast. I can’t remember the score from that game. But I carry that memory of support—simple, profound—every time I teach.

Because fear is easier to face when you feel held, belonging gives you something more profound than applause. It gives you confidence. Harmony. A place to stand tall—and play.