Alumnus Paul Deafenbaugh, 30, waits to march onto the football field at the 1982 Homecoming game with his bass drum and his son, Michael.

Paul Deafenbaugh wants to set something straight: “There’s a preconceived notion that marching band isn’t cool. I’m here to tell you that that notion is wrong.”

At the tender age of 6, his parents would treat him to excursions to College Park. He’d drive down Route 1 from his home in Beltsville to watch the marching band practice on the Memorial Chapel field. He’d sit on a brick wall, eating an ice cream cone from the campus dairy and daydreaming about the day that he’d march in the same band. Even at 6, Deafenbaugh was certain one day he’d proudly wear the marching band uniform.

“It was the coolest thing in the world,” he said.

He met his wife, Jean, in 1971 during the first week of marching band practice. He was a trumpet player; she played piccolo. Paul, 53, arranged the couple’s wedding music from the band’s pregame show, which was played by a group of 10 fellow marchers. Paul and Jean have made it to every home game so far this year to watch their daughter, Becky, a junior elementary education major, perform in the color guard.

“I mean, I met lots of people in the band people in the band who weren’t my wife. She was just particularly cute,” Paul said. “Marching band got us together.”

It’s been said that our most basic instinct is not for survival, but for family. Maybe that’s what’s kept this organization alive for 97 years. What started as a small mandolin band of about a dozen members has matured into a diverse musical family of 263.

Perhaps it’s the familial instincts that drive these young adults to practice four days a week for two hours, voluntarily trading tailgates and drunken college debauchery to sit in the sun behind the goal post sweating in polyester uniforms and standing up to play the fight song after each successful play.

“Many of these folks will get married and come back with babies and strollers to the Homecoming games,” said L. Richmond Sparks, director of bands. “They really learn to know themselves and each other.”

Someone once said, “Families are like fudge: mostly sweet with a few nuts.” In the Mighty Sound of Maryland, there is many a nut.

The Jeff Foxworthy enthusiast who can’t stop yelling “Git ‘er done!”

The lanky trombonist proudly bearing a T-shirt emblazoned with the words, “Got your tickets to the gun show?” in bold white type.

The cocky, shirtless trumpeter with his music stuck inside the top of his board shorts.

The proud family

Fifteen minutes ago, the Chapel fields were deserted. One could have easily heard the shuffling feet of religious observers as they filed out of Memorial Chapel. But slowly it takes on a new form.

Clarinetists wet their reeds as the cocky trumpeter plays a jazzy B-flat scale. The sharp tack of a snare drum reverberates across the flat field while red flags flap in the wind.

The black leather cases with the words “UMD BAND” spraypainted across the front litter the ground like ants at a picnic. They’re clumped in groups according to instrument.

It’s almost like revisiting the Old South. In Greensboro, N.C., in 1960, skin color divided a city. This afternoon in College Park, it’s instrumental preference.

Impromptu jam sessions pop up everywhere. For some, it’s casual. For others, it’s a warring sound-off.

Clarinets vs. trombones.

It’s on.

Fifteen minutes ago, this field was a barren abyss of brown, parched grass and faded football field yard lines. Now it’s the venue for a band that’s 263 members large.

Sept. 17 is Band Parents Day, which expands this already large nuclear family exponentially.

The Saturday morning of the band’s showdown with West Virginia, a small posse of groupies takes up shop along the fence line of the North Campus turf fields. Some brought blankets and coolers, and others, green Coleman lawn chairs with cupholders on each side. Nearly every one holds a camera – digital, video, disposable – to capture this precious moment when they get to stand in the presence of such celebrity: their ungodly talented children.

On this Friday afternoon, a woman with a small digital camera loiters around a white conversion van that stores equipment. She presses the little metal button too many times to count, each time at a slightly different angle, but essentially capturing the same shot.

“Are you taking notes for the band?” she asks inquisitively between takes.

Less than two minutes later, she’s divulged her daughter’s life story.

“My daughter’s a trombone player,” gushes Shari Pass, a Chicagoan and mother of two, who beams with pride as she explains how marching band helped her daughter “come out of her shell.”

“She’ll probably kill me for telling you this,” she says.

Even with their parents waiting on the sidelines, fawning over every staccato quarter note they play, Sparks expects every band member to do their part “for the band.”

At almost 5 feet 10 inches, the band director doesn’t look particularly intimidating. Sparks, who grew up in Mattoon, Ill., a small town south of Springfield, has a slight Southern drawl that could easily be the voice of the old man lounging in a rocking chair outside the local general store.

Don’t be deceived; he doesn’t tolerate slackers.

“Not yet trumpets, that’s what I just got done saying,” he shouts through the microphone headset. “Musically, trumpets, you’re just not into it. You guys are acting like it’s a Friday afternoon and it’s too hot to play. Tell you what, West Virginia doesn’t think it’s too hot to play.”

He plays multiple roles as the leader of the band.

As the blue tower lifts him up 30 feet into the thick September air, he raises his hands to the sky and looks down on his musical progeny. He’s the Godfather of this band, the powerful uncle who demands nothing less than perfection. “It’s harder work than anyone else on campus knows,” said Lou Tedesco, trumpet section leader. “We deserve some freaking respect,” the junior accounting and finance major said.

‘Like a fraternity’

For William Crosby, the social aspects of marching band help to alleviate some of the stress.

“Your section is like a fraternity,” the senior tuba player said. “We hang out and party together. Ride the buses.”

On long bus rides to away games, the drum line and tuba players host The Gauntlet. A primal initiation to the band, Gauntlet-goers must run from the opposite end of the bus back to their section while others try to tear off their clothes.

“The Gauntlet is just another example of spirit and unity, how the band can have a good time,” said Matt MacDonald, a senior music major and tuba section leader.

One could conceive it to be very similar to some aspects of fraternal brotherhood.

“Playing an instrument makes you cooler than everyone else,” says sophomore clarinetist Nikki Antoine.

An interesting thesis.

“It’s freaking awesome,” adds freshman clarinetist Sarah Hubbard. She cited the Hump Day Dance, an annual celebration that falls on the first Wednesday of marching band practice, as one of her favorite parts of being a member.

Another intriguing point.

“It’s like family,” said dancer Lisa Allen – a family that she says she considers herself part of, “but only during football season, obviously.”

At the end of the day, it’s the little things that suggest these folks would give their right arm for their musical compadres.

The clarinetist pulling aside a fellow section member to explain a complicated fingering.

A mellophonist filling up cups of water for her friends before she takes a drink.

It’s 15 minutes after 5 p.m., and this field is once again a barren abyss of brown, parched grass and faded football field yard lines. But the faint scent of sweat mixed with brotherhood lingers in the thick September air.

“Who’s the best band in the land?” the drum majors shout.

“Maryland, sir!” the 263-member band shouts back.

Contact reporter Brianna Bond at newsdesk@dbk.umd.edu.