It’s a long-standing tradition in my college marching band to fawningly taunt the other team as they approach our stadium. Typical insults cover the player’s hygiene, his team’s ability and his mother’s fidelity.
Rarely is the taunt particularly clever. Because the purpose is more often to get attention from other bandsmen and boost band morale, an enthusiastically childish, “You smell,” usually does the trick.
Alas, as in recent years, the athletic department and band directors have somewhat castrated the practice, as they tend to fear our opponent’s litigious redshirt freshmen.
Fortunately, there’s a bit of a loophole: At homecoming, band alumni get to come along with the band, and band alumni get to say whatever they want. So when the jeers at our homecoming game opened with a disproportionately loud and flamboyant, “Good luck, darling,” directed at the other team’s kicker, it quickly devolved into immaturity from there.
One male alum was overheard, shouting at the top of his lungs during a lull in anyone else’s jeers.
See you tonight, honey.
You guys are so cute — I love a man in uniform.
You guys are totally gonna win, because I know you know all the positions. Field positions, I mean.
King jeer of the night took the form of political silliness:
Hey, No. 7, don’t forget: No on 8.
I’m already practicing for next year.