I hate playing the piccolo. Its timbre is jarring and unrefined, and for all the technical ability it requires, it remains unheard in almost every ensemble. “Piccolo,” I have to tell people, when they ask what I play. “The little flute.”

I am, first and foremost, a flute player. Having started in third grade, freshly eight years old and always looking for something shiny to get my hands on, I've played flute for more years than I haven't. It became three years of band in middle school, and another four after that. My last two years of high school, I was a drum major. Every Friday night was spent watching mediocre football and conducting 200 teenage musicians through the same four tunes. I continued to perform on flute, however, learning artistry in concert halls and leadership on AstroTurf.

The University of Georgia's Redcoat Marching Band and I, at first, did not see eye to eye; one unavoidable condition of membership was that I march piccolo rather than flute. Piccolo is (incrementally) louder and easier to correct from a visual standpoint. Months passed where I saw red at every rehearsal, trying to master an instrument that was impossible to tune and insufferable to listen to. Music became a surprisingly smaller part of my life as a result. I love Redcoats and the opportunities they provide--flying to L.A. in the Patriots' team plane and spending New Year's Eve in Miami, to name a few--but what I most appreciate is the realization that I will not play flute (or piccolo) forever. My trajectory as a musician may end with the instrument I hate, but I'm honored to be given the chance to watch slightly better football with indescribable people in indescribable cities around the country.