Editor’s note: Wallace Wade was probably never intimidating, but, hey, it’s a decent title.
A home Duke football game should be loud, hostile, and, if we’re doing it correctly, a minor circle of hell for the opponent. So why, in the name of Manny Diaz, does our marching band insist on serenading the other team with their fight song before kickoff?
The usual explanation goes something like this: “Erm, well, the visiting band couldn’t make the trip, so it’s only polite to play their song.” Polite? Since when is football polite? Yes, players shake hands after the game, and some even swap jerseys, but there’s a difference between sportsmanship and self-debasement. Courtesy has its place, but blasting the opponent’s fight song in your own stadium isn’t courtesy, it’s capitulation. Whatever the line is between respect and self-sabotage, this lands miles beyond it.
Among its many flaws, the most concerning issue with playing the opponent’s fight song is that it fundamentally misunderstands the nature of the sport and its culture. Game day is not about balance, pleasantries, nuance, or perspective; it is about sacred devotion to your team. College football is neither a time for enlightened administrators to quibble about whether their team is “actually” the best nor an opportunity to make their opponent feel “at home.” On Saturdays, the home team is the best. They have to be. That conviction isn’t optional. It’s the lifeblood that sustains the entire ritual of college football. It requires every fan, every sound, every gesture to reinforce not only that the home team will win, but that they deserve to win. College football thrives on a kind of fabricated moral conviction, a collective spell in which we bewitch ourselves into believing that our side is good and the opponent is bad. Playing the opponent’s fight song shatters that illusion. This isn’t a “how much respect do they deserve” question; it’s a “we do not negotiate with terrorists” question. To play their song is to acknowledge their legitimacy and celebrate their quest for valor, unraveling the moral clarity of the pregame atmosphere. It weakens the collective sense of dominance with a meekness that has no place on the gridiron. Our band should not be in the business of appeasement. They should, to borrow the words of NFL legend and Skittles connoisseur Marshawn Lynch, “run through a motherf****r’s face.”
None of this should come as a shock. After all, football glorifies sanctioned violence at its best and verges on modern gladiatorial spectacle at its worst. Our players, clad in gleaming helmets, burst out of the tunnel through walls of flame to thunderous cheers, psyching themselves up to flatten the opposition for the next 60 minutes. Famed comedian George Carlin once described the hilarious bellicosity of it all: “the quarterback, otherwise known as the field general, launches an aerial assault, riddling the defense with deadly accuracy in spite of the blitz, even if he has to use the shotgun.” Offenses do not tiptoe across the goal line with their opponent’s permission; “they march into enemy territory.” All of this is the language of war. And yet Duke insists on bringing a kind of limp-wristed docility to the battlefield by courteously honoring the other side’s anthem of triumph pre-game.
The moments before kickoff ought to be a crescendo of intimidation as our band blasts our fight song, our fans cheer, our players storm the field, and our stadium transforms into an inferno of sound and color. That buildup is fragile, and it works best only if every element points in one direction, toward the home team. The second we let the opponent’s music fill the air, the illusion shatters. Anyone who has attended one of these home games knows the eerie discomfort of that moment. The home crowd’s roar softens, the visiting fans begin to rise, and suddenly Wallace Wade feels less like the opponent’s personal hell and more like a polite neutral-site bowl game sponsored by some third-rate regional retail chain.
And, lest one believe this is where the problem ends, what might seem like a small gesture appears to expose a larger fault in Duke’s athletic thinking: the belief that money can buy culture. The university has invested millions in gleaming facilities, lured top-tier coaches, and forked over millions to sign talented recruits. All of that matters, but none of it substitutes for identity. Culture is not purchased; it is cultivated over years through winning, yes, but also through rituals, symbols, and an intimate understanding of the sport’s character. Duke can hire consultants to invent new hand gestures or slogans all it wants, but no amount of money can sustain attendance, loyalty, or fear in the stands unless a football culture grows organically, from the bottom up. A single misstep, like politely playing the opponent’s anthem, reveals just how far Duke still has to go.
Ultimately, this unfortunate habit is a bat signal to the rest of the college football world that Duke wants you to walk into our house, put your shoes on the table, and make yourself a sandwich. And for what? Whose respect do we gain by doing this? Do you think NC State would ever play our music in Carter-Finley? Or that C****l H**l would pipe our anthem through Kenan before kickoff? Not a chance. They understand that football is war, not a wine-and-cheese reception. This is a lesson Duke would do well to learn.
The solution to this contrived quandary is brutally simple. Let the opponent miss their band. Will some of their fans be disappointed? Of course, womp womp. Let the silence sting. Save politeness for postgame handshakes and the Washington Duke Inn because, on Saturdays in Wallace Wade, Duke should be no one’s gracious host.
Go Duke.
By Sherman Criner
