Although I was showing my support for the team with my presence, to tell you the truth, I probably wouldn't have gone to the game on my own time.

It's not that I don't enjoy watching my peers get sweaty. Most of the time, I just forget a game is even taking place. I know, I know, I must be a real nerd.

The Islander pep band vociferously and dutifully makes its appearance at every boys and girls basketball game, volleyball game or football game. On this particular Friday night, though, I came to the distinct realization of the parallel between my life and my tuba.

While I can't say that the tuba and I have a lot in common size-wise, for whatever reason, we have become friends.

The story of my tuba is neither lengthy nor complex; it all started when I was Mr. Kordik's teacher aide sophomore year. I thought he'd go easy on me and let me sit around and do my homework, but I was wrong. For some odd reason, we decided that I should learn to play the tuba. No, no, let me rephrase that: The tuba decided to grace me with its elegant sounds.

We'd sit down a few times a week, and eventually I could plunk out notes along with the rest of the bandies. It just so happened that, during second semester, the period I was teacher aiding was also the period for freshman band. Imagine my surprise when I, a lofty sophomore, was instructed to play with the ninth-graders. Needless to say, I probably should have started playing with the fifth-graders.

When our first marching band practice came around during the summer, I was terrified. Those tuba players were mammoth, frightening and, worst of all, they actually knew how to play their instruments.

That first night, I swear I almost quit right then and there. A 35-pound hunk of metal on my shoulder was not going to fly; my skin was red and my back was aching all over. The second night, circumstances were a little better, but my muscles would still yell if I left the tuba on for more than 60 seconds.

Finally, by band camp, the tuba and I were beginning to form a strange relationship: I loved its powerful sound and exterior; it loved to sit on my shoulder like an overgrown baby.

Every time I know I'm going to play pep band, I get a little excited because I enjoy the games. But once I get there, the tables turn. The honker is massive. I wonder what my classmates must think of me as they see me in my faded purple polo, standing in front of them with a golden sousaphone shining in all its glory. The worst part is when the ball goes out of play and rolls right into the gaping hole at the top of my brass whale.

My self-esteem begins to flounder, and by the beginning of the fourth quarter, I'm usually glad to be getting out of there. All of the guys I've yet to meet probably think I'm some sort of band geek.

So as I stood there playing the school song Friday night, I finally came to the realization that, hey, I am a band geek. While my tuba probably wouldn't win over any guys if I took it on a date with me, it will help to weed out the shallow ones right away. We are a team, my tuba and I, and I know it will always be there to squash anyone who tries to get fresh.

The moral of my story? Indeed, bigger is always better, and it's never too late to teach an old dog new tricks.