After forgetting to wear sunglasses to so many morning rehearsals, you’d think by now I’d be used to marching blind. But as I stand in my opening set, I can see bright sunlight radiating from behind the stands, and I know that as soon as I move…

The show starts. I explode backwards, desperate to make my spot, and instantly I get a facefull of sunset-bright light. The only field I see now is at the edges of my vision–everything else is orange.

I can hardly see the people around me, but this is a contest performance. The show must go on, so on I go. By the end I will have no idea how well I performed, but I keep going.

There’s always some sort of obstacle in every performance. Marching half-time in the rain. Warming up for contest in the searing heat of late morning. Huddling shivering outside the gates right before Area finals in the bone-chilling wind and drizzle. (I couldn’t feel my feet until halfway through the show on that night.) After so many they all begin to blend together.

Every single obstacle had prepared me for this.

Well through our half-time show, I stand at the front of a small circle of other wind players–one of many “pods” scattered over the field. The stadium lights dance at the edges of my vision, making the whole field so incredibly bright in contrast to the richly dark night sky. I hear the second movement start–time for our pod to move. I’m marching backwards when a deafening crack in my ear and sudden loss of left peripheral vision almost makes me miss a step.

I’ve been hit by a color guard flag. I’m not injured, but my hat is skewed to the left, blocking my vision in that direction. I finish the move, pulling into a halt where I’m supposed to. Shaking and breathing hard from the shock, I assess my options.

I can’t leave the field. I can’t just stand here all performance. I can’t make a move to fix my hat. I can’t do anything.

There is no quitting in marching band. Not really. For that matter, there’s no quitting in life, either. Your only real option is to recollect yourself and keep going.

I march the entire show with my hat caved in over the left side of my head, my plume jutting out at an angle. I don’t know if I’m in line with any people to the left of me, but I keep going the best I can.

And after we’ve returned to the stands and a band parent has fixed my dented hat, I finally begin to relax, the fear dissipating, the crisis passed.

My dad had taken a video of the show from the stands that night. If you watch closely you can see my lopsided plume, and hear the crack when the flag hits. It’s become something we like to show to guests. The story is one I like to recount to my friends.

Funny, how it’s sometimes the tougher challenges that become our best memories.