Reading my friend Teri’s blog post about how colleges should broadcast the entire halftime show during football games took me on a trip down memory lane—to my high school marching band days.
During Christmas break in 1987, our small-town Ohio high school band had the incredible opportunity to travel to Orlando, Florida, to compete in the Citrus Bowl Parade and Marching Band Competition. It was a huge honor for us—and thrilling, of course—but it came with a hefty price tag. To make it happen, we found ourselves raising money in all kinds of creative ways. We sold everything from light bulbs and oranges to discount booklets for the local Ponderosa Steakhouse, just to fund our journey and bring our tubas, clarinets, and piccolos all the way to Florida.
One memory stands out vividly all these years later: light bulbs. Yes, light bulbs.
We didn’t sell them from a catalog, either—we went door-to-door, in the middle of a monsoon, which just happened to line up with my senior homecoming dance. So while most of my classmates were getting ready for the big night, there we were, trudging through the mud, selling General Electric light bulbs to support our trip. It was far from glamorous, but somehow, it made the whole experience that much more memorable.
Meanwhile, our band director was whipping us into a frenzy by delivering buzz words like:
TELEVISED!
SUNSHINE!
NO PARENTS!
For all 94 of us, this trip was a big deal. It was our first major band trip in the four years I’d been in high school—a fitting way to close out our high school marching band career.
Every summer, our band would take an hour-long drive out to a secluded church camp for a week of sleep-away band camp. On the bus, we’d joke that the reason it was so far out was so no one could hear our screams! Band camp was intense—five days, ten hours each, under the summer sun, where we’d learn the entire show and form close bonds with each other and our instructors.
That week was just the beginning. For six months, we practiced five days a week, rain or shine. On Fridays, we performed at halftime for both home and away games, and every Saturday from September to November, we traveled to competitions all over Ohio. By the time we earned our place at the Citrus Bowl, we had outperformed hundreds of other bands across the country—a thrill that I think even our parents might not have fully realized.
We felt like celebrities when we found out the parade we’d be marching in would be broadcast on television. As I started daydreaming about potential Nike and Wheaties endorsements, our band director brought us back to Earth: “The parade’s only airing in Orlando.”
So, our entire hometown wouldn’t actually see our big moment until we got back from Florida.
On the public access channel.
When we finally arrived in Orlando, it was not exactly the dream getaway we’d been picturing. Our hotel room? Let’s just say “clean” wasn’t the word that came to mind. Food wrappers, beer bottles, and, yes, an array of used condoms. Even Motley Crue might have looked at it and cringed.
As we split off to find our rooms, one of my friends took a sniff and made a remark I’ll never forget: “It smells like sex in there.” Naturally, this sent me into a fit of giggles—which, unfortunately, led to an unexpected little… fart. To this day, I’m mildly annoyed that the fart got more laughs than her line, but hey, what can you do?
After they left, I took a sniff myself, curiosity getting the better of me. For those who’ve never wondered, here’s a little spoiler: it does not smell good.
Once our room was finally ready and the sex smell had faded to something a little less… “memorable,” we unpacked and eagerly anticipated some pool time.
But no.
Instead, we got to go to—drumroll—band practice!
Only we Ohioans would kick off a trip to sunny Orlando with more practice. I don’t remember much about the day-to-day grind, but one memory stands out: The Olive Garden.
Back in 1987, Ohio hadn’t yet been blessed with an Olive Garden, but Orlando had one. And this wasn’t just any Olive Garden; this one served breakfast.
Yes, you heard that right. Breakfast.
Every single morning in Orlando, we started our day with a breakfast buffet at Olive Garden—and honestly? It was delicious!
Of course, I should note that at the time, I had no idea what sex smelled like, so take my opinion with a grain of salt.
I almost forgot to share a highlight from our time in Orlando! Our band was featured on the local newscast during the Citrus Bowl Competition. I’m still not sure how our band director pulled that off, but it was definitely a cool moment!
In the end, what truly matters is that my French braid made it onto the five o’clock news!
That’s my braid on the right—famous in Orlando! Want my autograph?
The Citrus Bowl Parade took place the next evening.
To be honest, the parade was enjoyable but tiring. We marched in darkness for the majority of it because it was held at night.
WHO HOLDS A NIGHT PARADE?
Florida, that’s who.
The televised segment was the only part of the parade that was illuminated.
But the rest of the parade was pitch black.
Our band director didn’t want us to get tired, so we marched in silence to the cadence of our drumline for the majority of the parade.
In the dead of night.
For a distance of ten miles.
That was our Citrus Bowl Parade experience.
They had staff on hand whose job was to guide the bands into the televised area, making sure everything flowed smoothly and preventing the bands and floats from piling up on camera like a sad parade traffic jam.
One exciting surprise was learning that Spuds Mackenzie was in the parade with us! Of course, we never actually saw him—thanks to the complete darkness.
But hey, I’m not bitter. Not at all!
We finally made it to the part where we were in the spotlight, and it was thrilling.
The lights and cheers from everyone were incredible. Our band director had instructed us ahead of time to continue playing the song we had rehearsed for this occasion, Wade in the Water.
On both sides of the street, bleachers lined up with large crowds, floodlights, and a sense of confusion all around. Just as quickly as we entered the spotlight, we were back in the dark. I remember marching through intersections, hearing random cheers from the crowd, and when we found ourselves in quieter moments, I chatted and laughed quietly with my bandmates.
A few days later, we visited Disney World, soaking in all the magic before embarking on a long, non-stop bus ride back to Ohio.
As we returned from Florida, the newspaper was at school, capturing our excitement. And guess what? My braid was making its grand appearance once again!
A few weeks later, we gathered one winter evening for the much-anticipated Citrus Bowl Parade viewing party. We left the public access channel on, letting it tape all afternoon—even though it wasn’t set to air until seven o’clock that evening—just in case it started playing unexpectedly.
So that night, we huddled around our small TV in the family room, eagerly waiting for it to finally come on.
We danced along with the Clemson University Marching Band, reminiscing about our experience as we marched behind them in the parade. It was a joy to relive our time in Florida with my family.
As we watched, we noticed that all the marching bands had their names announced, along with their band directors, and we enjoyed the anecdotes the broadcasters shared about each group.
THAT WILL BE US SOON!
After months of anticipation, I spotted a familiar marching band banner rising to the top of our television screen.
“HERE WE COME!!” I probably screeched a little too loudly.
I could see our hats marching in unison, our cadence ringing loud and clear. I felt an overwhelming sense of pride for all of us.
We looked stunning!
The first red flag came when the announcer mistakenly said we were from a different town in Ohio—two hours south of ours—just adding “New” to our town’s name.
As we registered our confusion, they cut to commercial just as our band was about to come into full view on the screen. To say this felt like a punch in the gut is an understatement.
They gave more airtime to a dog pretending to drink malt liquor than to our marching band—teenagers who had dedicated countless hours preparing for this trip to Florida.
I know we didn’t work hard just to be on TV, but it would have been a nice bonus.
We held our breath during the commercial, hoping they might show us afterward, but no such luck.
That night, I cried so hard, and when we gathered in the band room the next day, we all shared our tears. I believe our band director shed some tears as well.
We were the only marching band in that parade completely ignored by the camera.
For a long time, I held a grudge against Florida. I still do, albeit quietly. Whenever I see an orange or anything citrus-related on television or in the grocery store, I can’t help but give it the side eye.
So, the next time you’re at a football game, will you clap a little louder for the marching band? And if you ever spot me stomping a citrus fruit furiously at the grocery store? Just look away. Nothing to see here. Nothing to see.
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I wasn’t in our high school band but I heard many stories about their trips to Florida; which from CT meant a very long train ride sitting up the whole way… I was usually quite glad I didn’t have the chance to go with them! LOL.
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I think I am still recovering from that trip. 😂
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