I didn’t set out to write about my high school band director tonight, but here I am—nearly 26 years after I graduated, and 17 years after I first pinned a quote from Ira Glass to my bulletin board—still hearing two voices in my head: Ira’s and Mr. Milach’s.
The quote goes like this:
“Nobody tells this to people who are beginners. I wish someone told me. All of us who do creative work, we get into it because we have good taste. But there is this gap. For the first couple years you make stuff, it’s just not that good. It’s trying to be good, it has potential, but it’s not. But your taste, the thing that got you into the game, is still killer. And your taste is why your work disappoints you. Most people I know who do interesting, creative work went through years of this. The most important thing you can do is do a lot of work. It is only by going through a volume of work that you will close that gap, and your work will be as good as your ambitions. It’s gonna take awhile. It’s normal to take awhile. You’ve just gotta fight your way through.”
I’ve always loved that quote because it feels like someone handing you permission to be a beginner. To be messy. To struggle and still stay in the game.
I can’t tell you how many times it’s saved me—when I felt behind, unqualified, or like maybe I just wasn’t good enough to do what I was trying to do. It reminded me that the gap is normal. That staying in the game matters more than instant mastery. And every time I’ve needed a voice to tell me to stay in the game, I hear Mr. Milach’s.
Back in November of 2019, I had the pleasure of hearing the Canadian Brass play Carnival of Venice at Butler University. It’s one of those pieces that doesn’t ask for your attention—it demands it. Fast, brilliant, almost impossible. And as soon as the trumpet took off, my mind went straight to Mr. Milach.
Mark Milach, or “M2” as we called him, was my high school band director. My mentor. One of the people who saw something in me long before I ever saw it in myself. He passed away in December of 2015. It almost felt like the music was trying to tell me something that night. Like it had been holding something for me all this time, just waiting for the right moment to hand it back.
He loved Carnival of Venice. I can still picture him practicing it in the band room when I was his teacher’s aide. He had the kind of talent that could have taken him anywhere. But he chose to stay—with us—a bunch of teenagers, missed notes, dented music stands, and dreams we didn’t even know how to name yet.
I got to be one of the lucky ones. His “Band-Aid.” His drum major. His section leader. I even had a stint as one of his preferred substitute teachers when I came home from college. When he was sick and needed a day off, he trusted me to keep the band rehearsing. That meant a lot to me.
There are very few people who could have pushed me as hard as he did to do my very best. High school was rough. Life was rough. But that band room was steady. And he was steady…most of the time.
Of course, “steady” sometimes looked like him absolutely losing it when we pushed his patience to the limit. Someone goofing off. Someone not practicing. Someone trying to derail rehearsal just to get a rise out of him. Someone choosing to play the Meow Mix cat food jingle when he was trying to help us work through Carol of the Bells for our upcoming holiday concert.
And when that happened? You could count on the music stand getting whacked. You could count on a baton or drumstick breaking in half and flying through the air like a missile. I sat on the front row. I probably should’ve worn a helmet. His face would turn this brilliant shade of purple, and even then—even in the middle of a full meltdown—you could feel it. He cared. Deeply.
He had his sayings, the ones that still echo in my head:
- “Close only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades.”
- “Be prepared. Be flexible.”
- “If you’re on time, you’re late. If you’re early, you’re on time. If you’re late, you’re dead.”
- And my personal favorite: “Do I need to send you a personal invitation, or are you ready?”
When we played well, he’d grin and say we sounded “slicker than two eels in a bucket of snot.” Still one of the most disgusting compliments I’ve ever received. When we didn’t? It “sounded like death on a soda cracker.” Which made no sense, but you didn’t need a translator to know it wasn’t good.
I’ll never forget the day he found out someone had used a bunch of plumes to clean the spit out of their instrument. Hell hath no fury like M2 with a ruined plume or gum stuck in your mouthpiece. He even carried a can of black spray paint in his toolbox for those who accidentally showed up with the wrong color of socks to a marching band performance. You better believe he’d spray paint your ankles to make them match.
Mr. Milach wasn’t perfect. He wrestled with his own frustrations and his own battles—some of which we could see, and some we probably couldn’t. There were days when his anger boiled over, when the weight he carried showed up in purple-faced outbursts and flying drumsticks. But even then, even when it was messy or loud, he stayed.
His belief in the work—and in us—ran deeper than the hard days. And maybe that’s why the lessons stuck. They didn’t come from some polished, perfect place. They came from someone who had wrestled, endured, and still chose to show up for it all—the good days, the baton-breaking meltdowns, the small wins, the deep conversations. He believed in us long before we knew how to believe in ourselves.
I cried more tears in that band room than I can count—frustration, grief, relief, joy. And every single time, he’d meet my eyes, steady and sure, and say: “Try it again. I know you can do this, kiddo.”
Those words stitched themselves into my bones. Even now—parenting, marriage, work, life—when I hit a wall, I hear him.
Try it again. I know you can do this.
Because it’s not “practice makes perfect.” It’s practice makes permanent. Whatever you practice—patience, courage, showing up, stubborn hope—becomes who you are.
And maybe that’s the bigger thing he gave me. Not just a love of music. Not just a career starter, even though I’m no longer in the Music Ed world. But a steady, stubborn belief in the slow, messy, holy work of trying again.
I didn’t always see it that way. There were days I felt like he expected too much. Like he was too harsh, too rigid, too impossible to please. I wanted to hide behind my clarinet and music stand or avoid eye contact altogether when I hadn’t practiced. I resented how much he pushed us sometimes—how deeply he cared, even when it came out sideways.
But now, all these years later, I understand the gift of being seen as someone who could rise to the challenge. Who had more in her. Who could grow into something bigger than she believed at the time. And I needed that reminder again recently.
Maybe it’s the season I’m in—stretching into new normals, leading through uncertainty, trying to show up for people when I still feel like I’m figuring things out myself. I’ve been bumping into my own self-doubt again. Questioning whether I’m doing enough, being enough. Whether the work I’m putting into the world really matters.
And then—out of nowhere—I’ll hear him.
“Try it again. I know you can do this.”
And it brings me back to myself every time.
He wasn’t a saint. He had a temper. He got frustrated. There were days he yelled more than he meant to, expected more than we thought we could give, or let the weight he carried show up in ways we didn’t always understand.
Later, I learned some of that weight came from his time as an Army medic in the Vietnam War—things he saw, carried, and never completely set down. And I respected him—not in spite of those things, but alongside them.
Because he stayed.
Because he showed up.
Because he fought for us and with us even when he was clearly fighting his own stress and struggles, too.
And that kind of messy, imperfect showing up? It teaches you something. It taught me that leadership doesn’t require perfection. It requires presence. And he was present.
He gave me the words I still use—
When my kids are overwhelmed.
When my team is stuck.
When my own self-doubt gets loud and bossy.
Try it again. I know you can do this.
So that night at Butler, as the trumpet soared and the room held its breath, I cried. Quiet tears. Gratitude tears. Because Mr. Milach may be gone, but the lessons—the muscle memory, the mindset, the mantra—they’re still with me.
He’s in the way I lead. The way I teach my kids to keep going when it’s hard. The way I practice love and grit and joy—on the days when it’s beautiful, and the days when it’s just plain work. He taught me how to show up. For the music. For the work. For the people. For myself.
Because the truth is, that gap Ira Glass talks about—that painful space between what you see and what you can do? Mr. Milach stood in that gap with us. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t walk away. He believed—loudly, stubbornly, and sometimes with flying drumsticks—until we could believe too. He taught us how to fight our way through.
And now?
Now I carry the baton. Not as perfectly. Not with as much volume or flair. Not with anyone having to duck out of the way (most days). I understand the weight of the responsibility. And when someone I love hits that wall of frustration or fear or “not good enough,” I offer them the same words:
Try it again. I know you can do this, kiddo.
If someone ever stood in the gap for you—maybe today’s a good day to thank them. And if you’re the one holding the baton now?
Stay.
Believe.
Say the words.
Because the people you’re leading? They may forget the notes. But they’ll remember how it felt to be believed in. And if you say the words enough times, they won’t just carry them—they’ll echo them forward.
That’s how legacy works. It ripples. It repeats. It outlives you.
Rachel L. Richard is a small-town farm girl turned suburbanite, a delightfully irreverent optimist, Mrs & Mama, floppy dog ear scratcher, lifelong learner, channel surfer, wanderer, believer, occasional creative, out-of-practice musician, cupcake addict, book devourer, and lover of all people.
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