Let me tell you a story about what the Pope Band has meant to our family.

We moved from Minnesota to Georgia when our son was in eighth grade. He was in the middle school band, and we were contacted at the end of his eighth grade and asked to join the band booster club. We have always been the type of parents that volunteered for anything involving our son, so we joined. After selling beer at Fulton County Stadium, we were asked to chaperon band camp. Sure, how hard could that be! We had a meeting at the high school about what we would be doing, and then a meeting at the band camp to pass out assignments. There were about 20 chaperones, and everyone else was getting an assignment. I had done enough volunteering to know that the later you got your assignment, the more challenging the assignment was going to be. When it got down to five people without assignments, I started to get really concerned. When there were just two of us, I knew it was going to be a really interesting week. The other guy got his assignment, and I heard, “Steve, you have the cymbal boys.” I was about to ask who the cymbal boys were when the room cleared out like a bomb went off. I knew I was holding the wrong end of the stick.

I went up to where the band was forming, and I saw four pairs of cymbals on the ground with no owners in site. After looking around a little, I saw one young man at the bottom of the hill, and three other young men laughing at him. I said, “What are you doing down there?” “They threw my gum down here”, he replied. “He dropped it.”, the others argued.  “All of you get in position”, I told them. I soon learned that cymbal boys were young men (and it was always young men) who someone thought would benefit by being in the band. At the time it was a mystery to me why they would think that. These four young men did not know how to play any instrument. Counting was somewhat of a struggle for them. Reading music was out of the question. However, they all had folders full of creative and extensive behavior interventions. As the rest of the band marched down to the practice field, these four young walked along, none of them anywhere close to being in step.

Watching their first practice was like watching a rehearsal of the four stooges. They were constantly running into each other. They were never in the correct position. They were frequently pushing each other when things went wrong. They were not listening to instructions. It was a total disaster.  At the end of practice when everyone else headed back for lunch, the lead snare pulled my four cymbal boys over to the far corner of the field for what I later learned was the time honored practice of providing these young men with some extra-curricular motivational instruction.  I stayed on the far side of the field about 125 yards away from this extra-curricular instruction, so I did not hear exactly what was going on. The few words that I did pick up was this week was not about them; it was about the band. They needed to straighten up, or this would be a week they would never forget. There were some push ups, and laps around the field, followed by an intense lesson on how to march all the way back to the dining hall. I was extremely impressed that the lead snare got them back to the dining hall just in time for my cymbal boys to fall in line right as the last person was going through the line.

This special instruction continued through the rest of band camp, and you could see real improvement. By the end of the week, they were actually marching with the rest of the band, and they ended up in the correct position on the field more often than not. When we got back to Marietta, the band always does a band camp show. One of my cymbal boys disappeared, never to be seen at band again. The other three boys were there, and did a great job. They convinced their parents to get them private instructors, and to buy them better instruments. By the middle of the season, they were actually playing their cymbals. They even played them at the right time.  In the winter, they joined the drum line. They tried out for district band, but they did not make it. When the results of tryouts for next year’s positions were announced, one of my cymbal boys was on the quads, and the other two were on the base drum line.

During their sophomore year they showed continuous improvement. They moved up from Concert Band to Sym II. They all played quads in the winter drumline. Their first instructors told them that they needed more challenging instructors, so they got more challenging instructors. They tried out and made district band. One of my cymbal boys even made All-State as a sophomore. When the results of tryouts for next year’s positions were announced, all three of my cymbal boys were on the snare drum line, and one was a section leader.

During the junior year they really started to shine. Two of my cymbal boys were in Sym I. They all joined city-wide bands. They had solos in the winter drumline. All three made district band and All-State band. When the results of tryouts for next year’s positions were announced, all three of my cymbal boys were on the snare drumline, and one was the lead snare.

I watched with great interest as my cymbal boy turned lead snare conducted his own extra-curricular motivational instruction with his cymbal boys. Just like every other year the cymbal boys marched into that first lunch right at the end of the line. It was like clockwork every year. (Note: I gave the freshman dad put in charge of cymbal boys a few tips on how to survive his first band camp.)  At the first home game I had moved up to taking videos, so I positioned myself so I could get a close-up of my cymbal boy turned lead snare giving the rim shots to lead the band on to the field. The goose bumps were just running wild as the sound of those rim shots cut through that Georgia night. As the band went onto the field, I looked over and saw my cymbal boys lead snare from his freshman year standing on the sideline. He was now the lead snare in the University of Georgia marching band, and supposedly he was there to see his little sister who was a freshman in the band. But he wasn’t standing where he could see his sister. He was watching his cymbal now turned lead snare. It was a night game, and the lights had been turned on. There was no need for lights. The smile on that young man’s face was lighting up half the county.

I was about to lose it, so I turned away. When I did, I saw his mother. She wasn’t watching her daughter. She was watching her son watching his cymbal boy. The smile on her face was lighting up the other half of the county.  When the band finished playing the National Anthem, I walked over to the mom. I not sure why, but I nodded towards her son, and asked, “He was a cymbal boy, wasn’t he?”. Her eyes just welled up with tears, and all she could do was nod her head yes. We gave each other a big old band parent hug. It is amazing what can be accomplished with love and discipline.

Now like I said, this is a story. And a good story teller never lets facts get in the way of the truth. However, let me tell you some facts that also illustrate the truth. We moved to Georgia when our son was in eighth grade. He was physically abused by another student in eighth grade. This did not make for a good ninth grade. He was in the lowest band in ninth grade. He did not make district band in ninth grade. However, the love and discipline of the Pope Band was beginning to take effect. By his sophomore year, he had moved up to Sym I. He made both district, and All-State Band. By his junior year, he was a section leader of the trumpet section, in Sym I, and a in a city-wide band at Emory University. He made both district and All-State Band. By his Senior year he was a section leader of the trumpet section, a soloist in the marching band show, in Sym I, and a in a city-wide band at Emory University. He made both district and All-State Band. He was also in the Band of America National Honor Band. He learned that he had earned a five year, full tuition scholarship to Vanderbilt University, which he completed in five years. He married his college sweetheart, and they now live in Albuquerque, New Mexico with our three granddaughters where he teaches music at an inner city middle school. None of these facts would be facts if had not been for the truly magical program that Gary Gribble has created at Pope High.  Gary, we can never thank you enough.