cheerleading

I decided to try out when one of my best friend, Jane*, announced that she was thinking
about going out for the squad. This wasn�t something completely obscure. We had
watched Bring It On together countless times, confessed to each other how much we
adored the cute uniforms cheerleaders got to wear, and more. We even went to an
informational meeting about the school dance team. But we never actually did anything
about it. Jane, we agreed, could easily make the squad. Petite, atheletic and attractive, she
was �cheerleader material�.
I, on the other hand, was not. I was tall. Not just taller than the average person,
not just a few inches. I was 6�3�, the tallest girl in the school- as a freshman. Normally this
wouldn�t bother me, except when I was alone and people would snicker, or when people
made jokes about it. I was also...well, not thin. Not exactly fat, but definitely overweight. I
wasn�t flexible. The words �school pride� were never used seriously within my
vocabulary. I had no gymnastics skills. A somersault was beyond me, let alone a cartwheel
or a round off. Obviously, I was not a likely candidate for a cheerleader. Not the
�cheerleader type�. So I decided to try out for cheerleading squad.
Jane and I happily picked up forms from the main office. Then we both got a little
surprise. Teacher signatures and recommendations were required. This was definitely a
new policy. I was appalled. How would I explain this radical move to my teachers-
especially the ones I was close with? My French teacher, who hardly held me in hgh
regards- she would laugh in my face. I decided to prepare for the clinics by getting some
inside information on tryouts, dance routines, gossip, coaches, traditions, etc. There were
four clinics where we would learn the routines. Of course, during this time, the coaches
and judges would also be watching us. Then there would be the actual tryouts.
I considered the girls who had been on the squad the previous year. I decided to
contact Stacy, a freshman who had participated in cheerleading all year, and was also in
my gym class. On the internet, I explained my plan to her. Her reaction was subtle enough
for me to miss it, but she shared some interesting facts with me. �For one thing,� she said,
�the judging is all a load of shit. The coach picks the teams by hand.� Well, that was
something to keep in mind. Note to self: suck up to coach.
I also talked to some of my guy friends. �My opinion on cheerleading? If I wasn�t
so self-conscious about my legs, I�d be doing it right now,� said a very helpful boy.
Another one said that he considered cheerleading not as much a sport, but a hobby. He
declined to say more because some of his close friends actually are cheerleaders. �But I
don�t respect them. Thats why they�re my friends.� Another shrugged it off, saying �I
don�t know, it�s just cheerleading. Who cares?�
The day before clinics, I was talking to some girls in science. I told them my plans,
and they thought it was hysterically funny. That gave me quite a bit of encouragment; it
didn�t seem as bad. We had fun suggesting ways that I could cause a stir: wearing neon
bike shorts, dying my hair, pretending I was mute.
The night before the first clinic, I flew into a complete panic. I stayed up for hours
madly searching for the proper medical forms, looking for blue shorts that still fit, shaving
my legs, stretching, etc. I hardly got any sleep. I had to keep reminding myself that I
wasn�t going to take this seriously- otherwise I�d get a huge letdown when I didn�t really
make the squad. Besides, this was for pure journalistic purposes.
In school, Jane and I compared our teacher recommendations. My French teacher
hadn�t laughed in my face, but instead she raised her eyebrows delicately. I explained my
motives to my English teacher and my chorus teacher; I was close to both of them, and
knew they would understand. They laughed and gave me almost sarcastic
recommendations. �Very energetic student!!! Excellent and cooperative!!!�
We decided
that I shouldn�t tell anyone else who was trying out about my motives, otherwise I would
miss out on the real experiance. That made things harder for me. Whatever sort of
reputation I had managed to build up would come tumbling down if people saw me doing
something like cheerleading. Because, again, I was not �cheerleading material�.
The big day had finally arrived, and I was looking forward to it like nothing else.
Half an hour before they were supposed to start, Jane and I drove over to school and
entered the gym where a thousand girls were stretching, gossiping, etc. Well, not really a
thousand. But many. Maybe fifty to seventy- I�d try and find out later. We got in a long
registration line and started talking with a group of friends.
I remembered reading a story about a young female gymnast. Before giving her a
spot on a highly elite gymnastics team, when she was about nine years old, the coach had
scheduled a meeting with her parents. It was August, and he purposely asked to meet
them in mid-afternoon so that they would wear light, loose-fitting clothing that allowed
him to observe the heriditary musculature- to make sure that the girl wouldn�t grow to
have the wrong body type. This story stuck in my head as girl after girl squatted down to
register with the coach, who was sitting on the ground.
�I don�t have my medical forms..� one girl said, looking extremely nervous. �And I
can�t do a Russian (a kind of jump)..� We nodded sympathetically. I teased Jane about her
clothes. She was wearing the suggested blue shorts and white shirt, but had a red hair
ribbon in her ponytail. Her hair looked suspiciously curled, though she denied it. That was
when I first realized how much she wanted to make the squad.
Then my good friend Carrie walked in. She�d been trying to decide whether or not to
come, and I was thrilled that she had. She would be good for the team; very tiny, she
would make a perfect flyer (someone who is tossed in the air). She looked sick with
nerves. Later we talked online- her thighs were just as sore as mine. �I had this feeling that
everyone looked at me and thought, why�s she trying out? I mean, no one said it- but I felt
that way.� I knew exactly what she meant. But I�d been expecting that. Carrie- tiny, cute,
friendly cheerleader-esque Carrie- she shouldn�t have felt like that. Maybe everyone did.
At clinics, we began by learning the required jumps. I found it very informative. I
actually enjoyed it quite a lot. The �toe touch� or �Russian� is when you jump in the air
and do a split, touching (or trying to touch) your toes. There were two more that I
couldn�t do at all, though I had a less-than pathetic toe touch. At first I paid more
attention to the girls than to the actual tryouts. Though the form suggested blue shorts and
a white shirt, lots of girls decided to entirely forgoe the advice. Purple, red, green shorts,
even jeans. Lots of tank tops- black, blue, pink, etc. Some of the tanks were so tight that
you could actually see the holes in the fibers in the material. The already short gym shorts
had been rolled up.
Suddenly a petite Asian girl fell down with a sprained ankle. She was half-carried
to the sidelines where she held a frozen Dunkin Donuts Coolatta to her ankle. I was on the
other side of the gym, so I didn�t find out much about the situation until our first water
break. The wounded girl had been on the squad the year before and was obviously well
liked. As Jane and I stood in line for the water fountain, I heard someone mourning her
injury. �Oh my God, I feel so bad, I lent her my shoes, and they were too big, and what if
it�s all my fault!� I couldn�t tell if it was genuine compassion, but she seemed upset. These
girls shared such a strong bond. What about the girls who just showed up? Like me?
When we started to learn the dance routine, I decided to start paying attention-
otherwise I wouldn�t get anywhere. It was an extremely fast routine to techno music. It
wasn�t that long, actually it was only thirty-two counts, but it sure felt longer. It consisted
of lots of hand motions, some kicking, and horse-like prancing. I was a little skeptical
about the validity of this routine. I mean, I�d watched them cheer. They never did any
dancing like this- not once. They jumped and clapped and shouted.
We went over the routine- and over it- and over it. I pulled something in my leg
and tried to take it easy, but I felt the coaches eyes watching me. I was completely
paranoid. The junior varsity came over and sat down right in front of Jane and I at one
point- we were both so flustered that it damaged our performance. I asked someone the
time, and realized that we only had a few minutes left. We kept going over the routine. I
was amazed by how seriously everyone was taking this. I tried to keep observing
everyone, but I had to focus too. I regreted not bringing a camera or something, but that
would have been suspicious and quite possibly against some sort of cheerleading bylaw.
I did notice some amusing things. The girl who hadn�t brought her medical forms
obviously hadn�t decided to stay quiet after her first mistake. �Uh, should we be smiling?�
The coach stared at her blankly before responding.
�Of course! A Cheerleader always smiles!� You could hear her pronouncing the
capital C. Her opening speech was of a similar vein. �Don�t be discouraged, because I
know that every one of you can be a cheerleader! But it�s gotta be in your heart. It�s gotta
ooze out of you.� She even had me feeling a little emotional. She seemed so genuine.
When the clinic was nearly over, the coach asked if anyone who could tumble
would please come to the back of the gym. The rest of us could continue practicing the
dance routine. We all watched as the nimble atheletes sprung around the gym casually, and
the coaches nodded and smiled and encouraged. I saw more than one girl�s face crumble
on my side of the gym. But anyone who�s been part of a team knows that it takes all
different kinds of people to make a successful group. In cheerleading, I figured they would
need some tumblers, as well as some light flyers- and- hopefully- some stockier girls to
hold up stunts. I was counting on that, my loud voice, and my mediocre acting skills to get
me through the first few cuts.
Later, Jane and I discussed the tryouts- dance, jumps, and gossip. �That dance is
so gay!� she exclaimed. I agreed. I asked her if she had any more respect for cheerleaders
now that she�d sort of been one. �Not really, because they never do any real dances on the
field. They just cheer.� Would she be more disappointed if she didn�t make it after seeing
the competition? �Hell no. Less disappointed. I mean, its ok, and its kinda fun, and there�s
always the perks of being automatically popular and wearing the uniform, but frankly, field
hockey is more fun, and its a real sport that requires athletics.� I couldn�t have said it
better. But, clinics were hardly over. And she had to admit that �if I made it, I would do
it.� So would I. The uniforms! I adored those cute little red and white uniforms.
All through school, I recognized girls from the tryout and blushed. They had seen
me attempting those ridiculous jumps. I hate to feel vulnerable- and this was definitely a
hot spot. The most popular girls in school, competing against me in something that
required atheletic skill. What was I getting myself into? Three more days of clinics and
tryouts would get me even deeper into the situation. I was enjoying testing myself- almost.
Despite all of that (and the aching legs- I couldn�t walk up or down stairs for days)
I had a lot of fun. It was only the first day, but it was fascinating to see how different
people reacted in this highly competitive setting. You were being judged every second.
You never knew who was watching you. Rolling your eyes once could cost you a place on
the squad. I knew nothing about cheerleading, had never even considered joining up, and I
was supposed to have an equal chance with girls who had cheered competitively since they
would walk?
There was a week between the first and second clinics. I practiced a little- once or
twice a day I half-heartedly did the routine and a few jumps- but not extensively.
I had had
a lot of fun, though- so I was really looking forward to the next clinic. It was a wonderful
energy release. All through the halls at school girls were practicing the hand motions; I
almost wanted to join them.
The second clinic was, for me, harder than the first. People always joke about
cheerleading, saying how it�s so hard to jump and yell at the same time. But the routines
are slightly more complicated than just jumping, and you have to actually remember what
words to �yell�. I made stupid mistakes all afternoon, using my right arm instead of left,
skipping a verse or forgetting where to jump. I was alarmed by my own disappointment. I
felt, however, that overall I was improving. My Russian jumps were getting drastically
better (though they were still embarassingly low) and a smile never left my face.
At the second clinic we had to make some very important decisions. Did we want
to cheer for Varsity or Junior Varsity? Did we want to cheer for the spring, winter or fall,
or all three? I checked off every box. On the off chance that I made any squad, for any
season, I wanted to grab that chance. Off course, I wouldn�t make the squad. It was as if
the coaches had already hand-picked the girls that they wanted. It was very depressing.
The coaches were already friendly with last years squad; where did that leave Jane and I?
I left that clinic feeling excited. We had a whole week to review everything before
first cuts; I had some relatively easy cheers and chants to practice. I talked to the mother
of a girl who had been on the Varsity squad. �Oh, the coach is horrible!� she said. I was a
little surprised. I didn�t think she was that bad. �She�ll act all sweet, but really she�s
insensitive and immature. She probably has the IQ of a paper clip. Last year she let one
girl wear a bracelet even though it was against the rules, and someone�s face accidently
got cut.�
All through school I joked around about cheerleading. In choir I showed all of the
cheers to the class, and they loved it. I did some jumps, and taught some girls the dance
routine. In French class my teacher approached me. �You�re trying out for cheerleading?
How can I contact the coach? I signed a girls recommendation sheet and the next day I
found her writing the answers to a test on her hand.� This was intriguing. For one thing,
writing answers on a body part is the stupidest way to cheat. Secondly, that was on girl off
the squad. Maybe she was one of the better girls. Maybe the coach wouldn�t care.
I was exhausted from the clinic but had school and rehearsal to deal with before
the next one came around. Third clinic- we�d learned everything necassary for the tryouts.
We just practiced- and practiced. I was ready to fall over. They put us into four groups
(there were roughly 100 girls there) and let us practice alone. I was in the weakest group.
It was mostly younger girls, and no real leader shone through. I started calling cheers.
�Big D!� �Red and White!� �Go Fight Win!� Lovely, original, captivating cheers.
After about twenty minutes without a pause we were exhausted. During that time,
both coaches came over to critisize us. �You need to be much slower.� �Everything needs
to be sharper.� �You- bring your hand up- no, no, by your ear.� They didn�t tell us to take
a water break, but one by one the other groups stopped cheering and either sat down or
got a drink. Finally, we called a water break for ourselves. Our faces were alarmingly red
and our hair and shirts were plastered to us- hardly attractive.
I ran off to get some water- but nobody followed me. It was a little thing, but I
needed water. I felt almost dizzy because of the heat in the gym. I felt the coach�s eyes on
my back and instantly cursed myself for being so stupid. I should have just waited until she
called a water break or something. The other girls survived without constant liquid! Why
couldn�t I?
Obviously I was too incompetent to be a cheerleader.
Then we got into ten rows with ten people each. We did all of the jumps for the
judges. I felt so stupid. I could barely get my legs up at all. I kept wondering why it
mattered so much to me in the first place. Was it just me, and my need to be successful at
everything I tried to do? Or did everyone feel the same way? Undoubtedly there were
several girls there who would go home sobbing hysterically if they made a simple mistake.
(A side hurdler instead of a front- or heaven forbid- a blade clap instead of a clasp!) But I
could suddenly understand why being a cheerleader was so important. I still can�t explain
why.
We had two more days of tryouts that were basically review days. They both
passed in a blur. I couldn�t stand the tension. I had the feeling the coaches had already
chosen the squads and the rest of the tryouts would be pure shams. Jane agreed. It was all
a setup meant to embarass vulnerable cheerleading-wannabe�s like us who had made the
mistake of not trying out as freshman. We definitely had the disadvantage.
It was announced that on Thursday- the fifth day of tryouts- the first cuts would be
held. There would be lists posted, and if your name wasn�t on one, thanks a lot for
showing up, don�t call us, we�ll call you. My heart sank. What kind of social experiment
had this been? I would be cut and I had learned nothing about social systems, cheerleading
or myself. Besides, it had been horribly embarassing.
All throughout Thursday�s clinic, everyone was extra careful. Obviously, everyone
watching- everyone meaning the coaches and the college girls who were there to help with
learning the material. We all started solemnly as girls practiced the jumps and the routine
in groups of five and six. I personally tried my hardest. My arms ached, and so did my jaw,
but I put everything in it. I kept telling myself that I need to make it past the first cuts at
least. I wasn�t going to fail at this. This wasn�t a joke, this wasn�t a dare. I needed to take
this seriously. I had worked myself up to a point where I honestly wanted to be a
cheerleader. I wanted it more than I�ve wanted anything in a long time. Strange,
considering that I�d never done anything that even moderately resembled cheerleading,
and I went into this with a careless attitude.
Finally Thursday�s clinic was over and the lists where going to be posted. I placed
myself closest to the door, in a slightly crouched position. I was pathetically eager to see
the cut lists. �Oh...girls.� The coach stared at us smiling. �I wish all of you could be in this
squad- and I mean, all of you have improved so dramatically.�
For one thing, coaches and directors almost always �wish� they could cast
everyone. Thats a load of shit. Not everyone is good enough to have the role, or to make
the team. Thats why they hold the tryouts. And of course everyone had improved
dramatically. The first day when we learned the dance, everyone was horrible. On
Thursday we had all had two weeks to practice the routine. Who wouldn�t have improved
in that time? Isn�t that a given?
After listening to her reminisce for ten minutes about cheerleading, I was ready to
explode. �My mother was a cheerleader...my daughters were cheerleaders...my daughter
made Varsity at her school last week and I wet my pants, I was just so excited!� I wanted
to take the frosted flake and shove her right down the garbage disposal. Finally she let us
go, and I dove for the door.
There it was at the top of the list, the first name written down. �Marie Coyle�. I
started laughing with relief and found Jane�s name. All of the other girls were crowding
around me so I backed off. It seemed like very few people had been cut, but I wasn�t
worried- at least I had made it, and so had Jane. I had to leave with another girl to go to
rehearsal for a play, but the entire evening, I was walking on air.
The next day was tryouts; the final cut. At school I told everyone that I had made
it. It seemed like such a big deal to me. It definitely got my hopes up. My friends were
excited for me, but a lot of people seemed cool and sarcastic. I understood their attitude
towards me. What if I made the squad? There were girls who really wanted to make it that
didn�t make the first cut. That would be horribly unfair to them.
Jane and I showed up at tryouts together to find crowds of girls swarming in the
little hallway. We would try out in pairs, and many pairs had dressed alike- red shorts,
white tank, blue hair ribbon, etc. Jane and I, well, we just showed up. We stretched out
and gathered with some of our friends. We were numbers 45 and 46, which meant we had
a long, long wait. We grew more anxious by the second. It was horrible.
At first we practiced the cheers, chants and the dance and jumps. I got tired of it
after awhile and just wanted to sit. I thought that maybe resting would be the better idea.
Over the course of the two and a half hour wait, though, we ran all over the school-
practicing in the spacious and empty student commons, getting drinks of water, going to
the bathroom. I was already tired and I knew I wouldn�t do very well.
Finally we were called. There were four women sitting at the judges table. Actually
I don�t remember how many there were exactly, but I remember four. The Varsity coach,
aka frosted flake, was there, of course, and so was the Junior Varsity coach. The nice
blond college cheerleader was there; she had helped us at the clinics. There was a petite
Asian woman that I didn�t know, and there might have been someone else. I don�t
remember; my head was spinning. Tryouts always make me nervous, even if I don�t really
care about making it.
But this time, I wanted to make it. I had put so much time and effort into
perfecting the motions and words. It had become important to me that I make the squad.
It would have been fantastic to walk into school in September wearing the little uniform.
The sensible side of me knew that I couldn�t make it. I was too big, too obnoxious, not
flexible, not a good dancer, not genuinely into it, not experianced. But making first cuts
had given me hope, which was dangerous. I wanted to make it, to be more popular, more
accepted, and also to show everyone that I could do it. The coach waxed lyrical that
everyone could be a cheerleader. Wasn�t I part of the massive �everyone�?
We stood there until they told us to �take the floor�. I felt like an idiot, but I ran
out there, waving my arms, gesturing �number one� with my index finder, shouting �Go
Wootton! Yeah, Patriots! Come on, guys, go Patriots! Yeah, Wootton!� I think at that
moment I realized how ridiculous this thing really was. There were girls outside, crying in
the hallway, worrying about being able to do...this?
I felt like a complete fake- which of course, I was.

There is nothing more worth writing about, except that I didn't make the team. It's a good thing, because I got to do some excellent plays instead. Cheerleaders are really cool. Also, my dentist's assistant's mom is the coach. Woah.